The Witch Hunter (27 page)

‘We’ll have no more trouble from him, he has just died,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way.

The other woman stared at her with some unease, as the old hag had not set foot off the marsh that day, so how could she know? She herself had only heard of Walter’s murder half an hour ago, from the gossip on the streets as she was on her way here. But she returned to the big problem.

‘Be careful for yourself, Lucy. There have been efforts to deal with you before this, as you well know. We are all at risk until this danger passes, as pass it must.’

The crone opened her eyes and nodded. ‘I care little for myself, it is the fate of the younger women that distresses me. Poor Jolenta of Ide, she was the most promising of those with the gift. And she is young and comely, yet you say they are going to hang her, along with Alice?’

‘Yes – and the mob strung Theophania from a sconce on the Snail Tower today. False witness was given against them all, but we do not know where it came from. The sheriff and the bishop are against us too, so they say.’

‘Have we no just men who will speak up for us?’

‘I hear that the coroner, Sir John de Wolfe, is an even-handed man. He has a reputation for being stern but honest, which is more than can be said for most of them.’

Lucy nodded. ‘I have had dealings before with the crowner and his leman. Maybe I will go to see him tomorrow.’

They talked a little longer, until the approach of dusk made Avelina concerned that she would be unable to navigate the treacherous paths across the marsh. She left in the twilight, leaving the bearded old woman still sitting with her chin on her hands, staring at the ground as if she could see visions in the mud.

With the sheriff away, as well as Gwyn and Thomas being absent, John had a difficult few days ahead, though thankfully there were no sudden deaths, rapes, fires or catches of royal fish for the rest of the week. Even Matilda could find no excuse to nag him about being absent for most of the time and their routine settled into a dull round of silent mealtimes and even more silent bedtimes. Each evening he made his usual excuse of taking Brutus for a long walk through the city, which both of them had tacitly come to accept as a euphemism for visiting Nesta at the Bush. However, there was no chance of his snatching a night with the buxom Welsh woman, which he could sometimes manage when he had been travelling outside the city.

He was uneasy about a number of matters, though the heat seemed to have gone out of the witch-hunting, at least until the sheriff came back to hold the court that would send them to the gallows. But he was concerned about the treasure trove, as Richard de Revelle’s sudden departure with the box of gold and silver was very suspicious. This was one thing he was not going to let his brother-in-law get away with this time. On several previous occasions, Matilda’s intercession on behalf of her brother had persuaded John to save him from disgrace and perhaps even execution, but enough was enough. If anything was missing from the chest when it arrived at Winchester, then he knew who to blame.

On Wednesday, the day after the killings of the apothecary and the wise man of Fore Street, he held inquests on the bodies. He could not rely on Brother Rufus to act as his clerk this time, though no doubt the big monk would have been happy to do so if his other duties allowed. Instead, de Wolfe recruited Elphin, a reliable clerk from the castle, one of the literate men in lower clerical orders who kept the records in the county court. With Ralph Morin’s consent, he also appropriated Sergeant Gabriel and one of his men-at-arms. They began at the ninth hour at Rougemont, where one of the cart-sheds against the wall of the inner ward was acting as a temporary mortuary. Here the corpses of Walter Winstone and Elias Trempole were lying side by side under a canvas sheet alongside the massive solid wheel of an ox-cart. Earlier that morning, Gabriel and his man had rounded up a number of men and boys from Fore Street and Waterbeer Street to act as juries, in the hope that some of them might have information about the killings.

The coroner took over the empty shire courthouse for the proceedings, the few people present rattling around in the bare building. On the raised dais, John sat in the sheriff’s chair and Elphin, an intense young man with a bad hare-lip, spread his parchment and inks on a trestle behind him.

Without Gwyn to act as coroner’s officer, John dispensed with the formalities, such as the opening declaration and the presentment of Englishry. Although neither of the deceased was Saxon, he had no village to lay the murdrum fine upon, so again he preferred to ignore the matter. The first inquest was on Elias Trempole, and Gabriel sent the soldier to bring the corpse from the cart-shed, so that the jury could view it. It arrived lying stiffly on a plank laid across a large wheelbarrow, with the canvas thrown over it during its short journey. The dead man’s brother and his weeping widow both confirmed the identity of Elias, then John stood at the edge of the platform and directed the dozen men and lads to file past it and look at the large wound in the head.

‘Does anyone here recognise what weapon might have caused that?’ he demanded. Twenty years’ experience in bloody campaigns in Ireland, France and the Holy Land had made him an expert in fatal injuries, but though he suspected what had caused these deep punctures, it was not a military weapon and he wanted confirmation from the locals.

A tall man wearing a long leather apron spotted with bloodstains spoke up. ‘I know what did it, Crowner – and I know who did it!’ he said laconically.

There was a buzz of agreement amongst some of the jurymen picked for both cases and another older man spoke up from the back. ‘No doubt who did this one, Sir John – the same fellow that slew the apothecary with the same implement.’

De Wolfe looked around the group of men in some astonishment, then gave one of his rare grins. ‘Looks as if these will be the shortest inquests I’ve ever held – and the most helpful!’ He motioned to the man in the stained apron. ‘Come on, then, tell us all about it.’

The tall fellow pointed a finger at the crater in Elias’s almost bald head. It formed a narrow cone, going deeply into the skull, with fragments of bone crushed around the edges.

‘Could only be a pole-axe, sir. I know because I use one every day.’

John nodded, as he had come to the same conclusion, unless there was some unusual foreign foot-soldier’s pike loose in Exeter. ‘Agreed, you can tell that from the wound. But how do you tell who did it, from looking at the wound?’

The butcher rubbed his long nose before replying. ‘I can’t tell from the wound, Crowner. But I know it was Hugh Furrel that did it, for I saw him in Fore Street that night – and now he’s disappeared, along with one of the pole-axes from our killing shed.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the other jurymen and again someone else spoke up. ‘And I saw him on the corner of Waterbeer Street and Goldsmith’s Lane that night, carrying a hessian bag that had something damned heavy in it, for it banged against my leg as we passed.’

De Wolfe rubbed his black stubble with his fingers as he considered this. ‘We all walk the streets of the city, as we live here,’ he objected. ‘Doesn’t make us all killers, though I admit it seems he was in the right places at the right times. But you say he’s vanished?’

The slaughterman nodded. ‘He lived down in Rack Lane with a doxy, but he’s run off. His woman came to the sheds today to ask after him. She said he came back home last night drunk, bragging about how much money he’d made. No one has seen him since, except the porter on the South Gate, who said he went out of the city as soon as it opened at dawn today.’

The next inquest, on Walter Winstone, lasted but a few moments, as the evidence was the same. There were no relatives to identify him, but Richard Lustcote, the nominal master of the city apothecaries, was present to confirm his name and agree that the cost of burial would be borne by their guild. There was no alternative but to order the jury to agree to a verdict of murder by persons unknown, even though it seemed evident that Hugh Furrel was the perpetrator of both crimes.

Amid much muttering at the unsatisfactory outcome, the court was dissolved and the jurors and the few spectators drifted away. The coroner shared in the general discontent, as it was frustrating that a double murder had occurred and that the culprit was generally known but beyond retribution. However, his main concern was the motivation for the murders, which had occurred so close in time and by the same hand. There must be some common thread linking them, especially as it seemed that robbery was not the reason. As he sat alone in his chamber afterwards, missing the company of Thomas and Gwyn, he pondered the fact that it was unusual for someone like an apothecary to be slain. Most murders occurred during drunken brawls or in robberies with violence, when they were not domestic disputes within families. But for a professional man to be murdered in his own premises, with nothing stolen from his treasure chest, was a very peculiar situation.

Drumming his fingers irritably on the trestle table, John turned the matter over in his mind for a while, then got up and went out into the city in search of some explanation. He knew that the few apothecaries in Exeter looked to Richard Lustcote as their father figure. He was a man he had met several times at guild banquets and festivals, as well as when he attended Winstone’s inquest. Making his way to Lustcote’s shop in Northgate Street, he found the man upstairs, grinding some special salve for the wife of one of the burgesses, who suffered from weeping ulceration of her lower legs.

Lustcote greeted him civilly and put away his pestle and mortar to pour them both a cup of wine, while he listened to the coroner’s questions.

‘As both were slain by the same hand, the very same day, I find it hard to find a link between a lowly labourer who dabbles in charms and a respectable apothecary, a trained and educated man,’ John explained.

The chubby pill-purveyor nodded sagely, glad to be of help to the law officer. ‘There is a connection, Crowner. Now that poor Walter is dead, I feel I have no reason not to divulge some of his confidences. He came to me recently, complaining bitterly about the cunning men and women in and around the city, who he felt were taking some of his trade away.’ Lustcote sipped his wine before continuing. ‘Truth to tell, Walter Winstone was very keen on his money. If it were not speaking too much ill of the dead, I might say that he was a mean man, obsessed with squeezing every last ha’penny from life, even though he lived like a destitute monk.’

De Wolfe’s black brows came together in puzzlement. ‘But why should that lead to his death? If he was so much against witches and wizards, he would be more likely to do them violence, rather than the other way round.’

Richard shrugged his rounded shoulders. ‘There you have me, Sir John. Again, though I should not say this, though I am no priest in the confessional, but Winstone’s reputation as an apothecary was not unblemished. He came here under rather dubious circumstances and the whisper is that he was suspected of some unprofessional practices in his former town of Southampton. Nothing was proved and I declined to pursue the matter when he came to Exeter, but it is possible that he made some enemies here – though how on earth that could tie in with the death of a cunning man, I have no idea.’

John grunted into his cup. ‘Unprofessional practices, you say? Can I take that to mean ridding unfortunate women of the unwanted burden of their husband’s lust?’

‘That at least – and possibly relieving unwanted persons of their lives!’

‘You are being very frank with me, Richard,’ said John, in some surprise.

‘Only because Walter Winstone is now beyond the retribution of us all, except Almighty God. We can do him no harm now and he has no family upon whom any stigma might fall.’

The coroner fell silent for a moment as he sipped the excellent wine, but his mind was working methodically. ‘Tell me, what methods might an unscrupulous apothecary employ to secretly get rid of such an unwanted person?’

‘There are many poisons which could be incorporated into pills, draughts and potions. Some are from certain herbs and plants, others are mineral in origin. Why do you ask?’

‘To be successful in a slow, secret poisoning, the victim would have to be a patient of that apothecary?’

Lustcote nodded. ‘It would be very difficult to administer the poison otherwise. Most have a hellish taste and so could not be added to food or drink by the one who commissioned the deed. But as medicines are supposed to function better the nastier they are, then almost any foul-tasting substance can be given under the guise of a medicament.’

The germ of an idea began forming in de Wolfe’s mind. ‘Tell me, are there any particular signs that would suggest that someone was slowly being poisoned?’

The master apothecary sighed. ‘You ask a question with a very long answer, Crowner. All kinds of symptoms may appear, but none are very specific. Wasting, belly-cramps, purging, vomiting, the yellow jaundice, bleeding spots in the skin and eyes – the list is long, but so many mimic natural disease.’

‘Would fouling and darkening of the gums with loose teeth suggest anything?’

‘So many people have terrible mouths and most lose their teeth eventually. It could be scurvy in those who are starved – but you say darkening as well?’

‘Yes, virtually black, an inky line along the roots of the teeth.’

Richard rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘That could be plumbism, of course. The administration of sugar of lead –
Plumbum acetas
– over a period can do that. It’s an effective poison which has no obnoxious taste and can fatally weaken the heart and brain if allowed to build up in the body.’

John elaborated no more on the matter to the apothecary, but he now fitted some more facts into place: Winstone was de Pridias’s physician, the man had blackened gums after death, and his widow Cecilia vehemently claimed that he had been done to death by the intervention of a cunning man or woman. He had no means of proving it, but as he walked back to Martin’s Lane the coroner wondered whether Henry de Hocforde also fitted into the pattern he was constructing in his mind.