The Deadliest Sin (43 page)

‘A scrawled hand, I suspect to disguise the penmanship,’ muttered the sheriff. ‘It reads, “Look to the killer in he who woos the lady.”’

‘And what in Hell’s name might that mean?’ growled the coroner, as the effort of thinking seemed to make his headache worse.

‘It’s blatantly obvious,’ said the sheriff impatiently. ‘Someone is claiming that Eleanor Giffard had a lover who wished to rid her of the encumbrance of a
husband.’

The mayor had already worked this out for himself and the dangerous significance of it was not lost upon him. ‘We would be entering hazardous waters if we took any notice of this foul
accusation. It is obviously nothing but some evil libel made up by some malicious enemy.’

Nicholas Cheyney was inclined to agree. ‘Even if only a breath of such scandal were to become common knowledge, Maurice, Earl of Berkeley, and his powerful retinue would descend upon us
like avenging angels, to defend the honour of their kinswoman.’

‘To say nothing of the fitz Hamon family, if they became embroiled in this foul defamation,’ growled the coroner, the flashing lights in his eye becoming more aggravating.

‘Why should they be involved, for God’s sake?’ demanded the mayor.

Fitz Urse turned to his officer. ‘Tell them what we saw at the Giffard house yesterday, William.’

Rather reluctantly, Hangfield related how they had called upon the widow and found her closeted alone in her solar with Jordan fitz Hamon, the lady’s chaperone having been banished
outside.

The sheriff, to whom this revelation was new, looked thunderous, while the mayor slammed his hand on the table and jumped to his feet.

‘I knew this would lead to trouble!’ he bellowed. ‘This must not be made public knowledge, whatever happens! Imagine the scandal if the son of our most prosperous ship owner
– and most generous benefactor to the city – was suspected of murder.’

‘And even more if he was tried at the Eyre of Assize and hanged,’ added the sheriff, with grim satisfaction.

The coroner overcame his headache to add fuel to the flames of anxiety. ‘You are assuming that it is a man who is the culprit . . . but what if the wife wanted to be free to marry a
younger man? Would it not be an even greater calamity if the daughter of Maurice of Berkeley was found guilty of poisoning her husband?’

The sheriff held up his hand for quiet. ‘Before we begin to rant and rave about the calamity that might happen, had we not better decide whether this scrap of parchment has any shred of
truth in it? And if not, then let us forget it.’

His rational approach calmed the other two men.

‘If true, it is a serious allegation,’ said the mayor heavily. ‘For a man to be alone with a married woman, especially if her handmaiden has been sent out of the room, can only
suggest some impropriety.’

‘So can we talk about who might have sent it – and why?’ agreed the coroner. ‘Either he has some knowledge of the poisoning – or is falsely trying to lay the blame
for it on to another person.’

‘With what object?’ blustered the mayor. ‘Could it just be spite – or perhaps he is just a deranged madman, out of his wits?’

‘You keep saying “man”, but it could equally well be a woman,’ objected the sheriff. ‘They are well known for both their devious cunning and for being fond of
poison for their murderous deeds.’

There was a silence as the men digested these alternatives, until William Hangfield ventured to enter the discussion.

‘You asked why he sent this missive, sirs,’ he said respectfully. ‘Surely, another motive might have been to divert suspicion from himself by falsely blaming others?’

His master, Richard fitz Urse, supported his officer’s remark. ‘It is certainly something to bear in mind. I suppose we have no notion at all who may have sent this?’

The sheriff looked at the creased strip of parchment again.

‘It looks as if it was torn from a larger document, but nothing remains of that to assist us. The writing is in ordinary black ink and the penmanship is very irregular, though individual
letters seem well-formed.’

‘And what does all that tell us?’ demanded the mayor aggressively, partly because, being illiterate, he was suspicious of anything to do with pen and ink.

‘At least that he was educated enough to be able to write this, and was not some gutter-cleaner or wharf-labourer,’ retorted the sheriff, restraining his desire to add ‘or a
mayor’ to his list.

‘Most merchants’ clerks, clerics and even many choirboys can read and write to some extent,’ countered Richard de Tilly irritably.

The others ignored him as the coroner addressed the sheriff.

‘And you suggested that he – or she – disguised their handwriting?’ Nicholas Cheyney waved the scrap of parchment.

‘It seems strange that though the lines of writing are uneven and ill-spaced, most of the individual letters are well-formed.’

‘Are you suggesting that we search a city of fifteen thousand people to find someone whose letters match these?’ demanded the mayor.

The sheriff shook his head emphatically. ‘That would not only be futile, but impossible! I suggest that we lock away this scurrilous note somewhere safe, but bear its allegation in mind in
case any other evidence comes to light.’

The coroner looked dubious. ‘I feel I must at least make some very discreet enquiries about the relationship between the younger fitz Hamon and Eleanor Giffard,’ he said. ‘What
other motive can we imagine for this death? It is useless us sitting here, pontificating about it like a bunch of priests arguing about how many angels can sit on the point of a needle!’

He turned to his officer, who sat patiently waiting for someone to talk some sense.

‘William, we need you to question those damned servants more rigorously. They must know something – possibly about the widow and Jordan fitz Hamon. And get a decent apothecary to
look at the contents of the late doctor’s pharmacy, to see if anything is there that might have caused the symptoms from which Giffard suffered.’

‘And maybe a good look at the kitchen, the larder and the storeroom might reveal something,’ added the sheriff.

A bell began tolling to summon the faithful to the castle chapel, and with some relief William rose and waited for the other men to leave, before they could find him even more tasks to perform.
As they filed out to attend the early Mass, he wondered if there would ever come a time when murders were investigated by more than one coroner’s officer in a city the size of Bristol.

William Hangfield was a devout man and he was bringing up his small son, Nicholas, to be the same, the family attending their local church of St Mary-le-Port every Sunday.
However, at the castle chapel that morning, his mind was more on the tasks the coroner had given him, rather than on his devotions. As soon as the Mass was over, he hurried down Corn Street to the
shop of Bristol’s best-known apothecary, Matthew Herbert.

The coroner’s officer entered his shop, which opened directly on to the street, the shutter of the front window hinging down to provide a counter for the public display of pots of salve,
bunches of herbs and bottles of lotions. Within the large room behind, several journeymen and apprentices sat at counters, busy grinding powders and mixing ointments. The walls were lined with
shelves and rows of small drawers, each with a Latin name or cabbalistic sign painted on them to mark the contents. Bunches of herbs and even dried reptiles hung from the ceiling, and at the back
of the shop, at a high desk set on a raised plinth, was the apothecary himself.

He was a grey-haired man in his mid-fifties, the most respected of his profession in the city. Matthew was the leader of the small apothecary group in the Bristol lodge of the Guild of
Pepperers, which, through its monopoly of the spice trade, also embraced the purveyors of drugs and medicines.

William had met him several times, usually when he required some cure for his wife or son. Most of the city’s inhabitants went to an apothecary when they were ill, as doctors were too
expensive. Probably, yet more people sought the help of ‘wise women’ than even an apothecary – and in the countryside, this was universal, as there was usually no one else in a
village, other than some widow or midwife, who could deal with ill health.

Matthew Herbert recognised the coroner’s officer and came down from his high chair to greet him. When he discovered that William was there in his official capacity, rather than as a
patient, he took him into a more private back room, which was a store filled with boxes, jars and bales, redolent with the aromatic scents of herbs.

‘You have no doubt heard of the sad demise of Robert Giffard?’ began William. ‘The coroner would be grateful for your professional assistance in the matter.’

Matthew’s bushy grey eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘I have heard of the untimely loss of our best physician, but how can I be of any help in that?’

The coroner’s officer explained the problem, leaving out any hint as to possible suspects in the case. ‘We have no idea what poison was used nor how it was given, but we wish to know
if it might have been some substance already within the household, as naturally a physician will hold his own stock of healing drugs and potions.’

The apothecary was an intelligent and perceptive man.

‘You wish to know if some evil person within the household might have been responsible – or whether the vile act came from outside?’

William agreed that this was the general idea, but Matthew was not optimistic about a useful result.

‘I know that Robert Giffard held a wide variety of medicaments, as I have provided some of his patients with repeat prescriptions. Every physician will have a range of such materials to
hand, as they tend to dispense themselves, rather than send their patients to an apothecary.’

He said this without any rancour, though William knew that it meant competition for his own trade.

‘If that infirmarian from Keynsham, of whom I have heard glowing reports, did not know what killed Giffard, I doubt that I can do any better,’ he continued. ‘But I am willing
to look through his stock to see if anything fits the symptoms he suffered. Having said that, many substances in a doctor’s house can be lethal, just as the contents of this shop could kill
half of Bristol if used improperly.’

He swept his hand around the room to make his point, as William wondered if he knew anything about Edward Stogursey.

‘The mainstay of that household appears to be a man who acted not only as a servant, but as the physician’s dispenser and even medical assistant. Mistress Giffard has indicated that
she wishes this man to carry on dealing with their patients until a new physician can be found, which seems very irregular.’

The apothecary shook his head sadly. ‘You meant that fellow Stogursey? We in the Guild have been concerned about him, as he is usurping our professional status in the city. And to hear
that he has also been “acting the physician” is even more disturbing.’

‘Can nothing be done about it?’

‘It is difficult since he is not – and could not be – a member of the Guild, as he is unqualified and has served no apprenticeship. Thus there is no way of disciplining him,
other than by physical violence and ejection from the city. As far as the physicians are concerned, they have no professional organisation, being so small in numbers outside London. So there is no
one to say him nay!’

The coroner’s officer arranged with Matthew to go down to the Giffard house in an hour’s time, giving William the opportunity to speak further with the servants before he arrived. As
he arrived at the physician’s home, he saw a fine horse with an expensively decorated harness standing in the yard that led to the stable behind the house. It was being tended by a groom, who
had his own pony tethered a few yards away, and William guessed that a man of substance was visiting the house. Was this person going to be the subject of the anonymous note, he wondered. As a
lowly public servant, he felt he could hardly tackle Jordan fitz Hamon, the heir to the richest fortune in Somerset, to ask him whether he had been committing adultery with the dead man’s
widow. He walked over to the groom, who wore a smart uniform, rather than the usual nondescript tunic and breeches.

‘That’s a fine mare. Does he belong to Jordan fitz Hamon?’ he asked bluntly.

The man, seeing the small badge bearing a crown on the jacket of Hangfield’s jerkin that denoted a King’s servant, touched his forelock.

‘No, sir, it’s his father’s steed. My master is Ranulf fitz Hamon.’

Surprised, William gave a grunt and moved on rapidly. What was the significance of this, he wondered. He must tread carefully, as he had no wish to be caught up in some inter-family intrigue
amongst the upper echelons of Bristol society.

Going into the house through the servants’ door at the back, he came across Henry, the young boot-boy, who was struggling to drag a large bundle of clothing tied up in twine. As the lad
was a thin, weedy weakling, who looked as if a substantial meal would do him good, William picked up the bundle for him, conscious that the lad was only a few years older than his own son,
Nicholas.

‘And where were you trying to take this, Henry?’ he asked amiably.

‘Outside the back door, sir. It is to be collected by someone from St James’s, as clothing to be given to the poor.’

The coroner’s serjeant hefted the bundle back to the entrance and as he dropped it outside, noticed that the clothing appeared to be of the best quality with no signs of wear.

‘Good stuff to be given away so readily,’ he remarked.

‘That is the last bundle, sir. The mistress is getting rid of all my dead master’s clothing. No doubt it reminds her too much of the great loss she has suffered.’ William felt
that it might also be a token of ridding herself of the last vestiges of someone she wished to replace. If so, she had acted quickly, as her husband had only died on the previous day. Then he
chided himself for his cynical thoughts, as Henry might have been correct with his more charitable version of Mistress Giffard’s motives.

‘Is she ridding the house of all of his belongings?’ he asked, knowing that he may well get better information from the more lowly servants than the likes of Stogursey or Hamelin the
bottler.