A Shrine of Murders (Kathryn Swinbrooke Mysteries, Book 1) by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780755395613
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2013-06-06T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

Kathryn and Colum moved farther down the Mercery, where the houses of the rich and poor stood cheek by jowl. The cottages of the artisans were nothing more than wooden huts with roofs of straw or rushes, low squat buildings with overhanging roofs which continually dripped water. The mansions of the rich, however, were built of stout beams and plaster, their roofs supported by columns formed into grotesque figures of goblins or grinning monsters and covered with knots, scrolls and other bizarre designs. Colum stared up at the narrow wedge of blue sky between the houses.

‘I have never liked the city,’ he muttered. He was still restless and kept his hand on his dagger. He peered down the narrow gloomy lanes which ran off the Mercery, so dark that, even during the day, lantern-horns had been lit and placed on hooks outside the doors. At last they entered the Lion. The taproom was hot and sweltering; at the far end a great fire roared beneath three or four spits which were being turned by grimy-faced lads. Kathryn and Colum took a table near the window. A sweat-soaked slattern served them pork from pigs fed on the tenderest of acorns, and slices of carp, sharp in their tangy sauce, as well as watered wine in wooden bowls. Down the middle of the tavern was a great grease-covered table where the rest of the customers, most of them pilgrims, waited for the cook to bring down the meat on the spit so they could cut off slices. Colum watched this for a while. Now and again he glanced at Kathryn, noticing how deftly and delicately she cut her meat and popped small morsels into her mouth, afterwards washing her fingers daintily in a bowl of water and dabbing them on a napkin. She would do well at court, Colum thought. Kathryn looked up.

‘What are you thinking about, Irishman?’

‘I am sorry I lost my temper over Brantam.’ Colum sipped from his wine-bowl. ‘I must remember I am not in camp.’ He stared at her. ‘I am inconsiderate; it must be difficult being a woman physician. I mean with people like Cotterell!’

‘Such people have the difficulty. I have none at all.’

‘Why did you forsake your husband’s name?’

Kathryn shrugged. ‘Why does everyone ask me that?’ She stared down the tavern, where two cats were fighting over a rat they had caught. ‘My husband’s gone. I am a widow.’ Kathryn sighed. ‘Well, to all intents and purposes, I am.’

‘Though his body has never been found?’

Kathryn looked at him and Colum knew he had touched her to the quick, for her eyes were guarded.

‘Let’s leave that matter, Colum,’ she replied.

‘The business at the Guildhall,’ Colum continued, so as to hide his embarrassment. ‘Do you have any suspicions?’

Kathryn leaned back against the wall. She felt hot and tired. She wanted to return to Ottemelle Lane rather than sit in this sweltering tavern, with the cloth of her gown clinging to her body.

‘The murderer is an educated man,’ she said, ‘who knows Canterbury and has a grievance against the shrine.

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