The Witch Hunter's Tale (13 page)

“Thank you,” I said. I knew she wanted me to add
Mrs. Wright,
but I would not do her that honor, no matter how much we needed her help. “Once again, it is tragedy that brings me to your door, and I can only hope that you will be as helpful as you were last summer.”

“I assume you are here about Mr. Breary’s murder.”

“We are,” I said. “We have heard…” I paused. “We have reason to believe that Mr. Breary…” I stopped again. I could not defame my friend to such a woman.

“Mr. Breary had a mistress,” Martha blurted out. “And since he never brought her to his home, we thought he might have rented a room from you. We need to find her.”

Helen nodded. “You don’t think the Justices will find her on their own?”

“They don’t know she exists,” Martha replied. “And even if they did, they would hesitate before parading his sins before all the city.”

“Fair enough,” Helen conceded. “And you have indeed come to the right place. Mr. Breary had a head for government and an eye for business, but his pillock led him nowhere but astray.”

I stared at Helen for a moment, surprised by her forthrightness—I’d expected minutes, if not hours, of denials. I could not help wondering what her motive might be.

“You know who his mistress was?” I asked.

“Aye,” she said, the smile returning to her face. “I rented him a room from time to time, and had Stephen watch his comings and goings. He saw her regularly.”

“And you’ll tell us?” I could not help worrying that Helen was simply toying with me or that she would announce some new and extravagant demand in exchange for the woman’s name.

“Aye, I’ll tell you,” she said. “She’s Agnes Greenbury, the Lord Mayor’s wife.”

Chapter 10

“Agnes Greenbury,” I repeated. My mind worked furiously to make sense of Helen’s words. “She is but a girl.”

Will could hardly hide his smile. “She might be a girl, but she’s as comely as any in the city.” Martha stared daggers at him, but he paid her no mind. “When she came to York, the alehouses would talk of little else. Many of the lads wondered how long it would be until she wandered away from that old toad, but none thought it would be so soon.”

“Or that she’d choose yet another ancient,” Martha remarked.

As distasteful as it was to consider, I had to admit that Will’s memory matched my own. When Matthew Greenbury, the Lord Mayor, had been widowed two summers before, the whole town assumed he would remarry within a few months; it was the way of the world. But, led by his pintle rather than common sense, Greenbury had chosen a girl of no more than seventeen years, younger even than several of his grandchildren. So strange was the match that when Agnes first appeared at his side, many took her for his stepdaughter rather than his betrothed. The Lord Mayor showered his bride with the finest silks and jewelry, and soon became the town laughingstock. But behind the laughter was envy, for every man in York wished that
he
were the one bedding down with Agnes each night.

“Why are you telling us this?” Martha’s eyes narrowed and bore into Helen’s. I recognized the look—it was the one she gave to bastard-bearers whom she suspected of lying about the true father of their child. “You don’t make a habit of announcing your clients’ business to the world.”

“A valid point,” Helen conceded. “If you had asked about nearly anyone else, I would have told you to pike off. But today our interests coincide.”

“You haven’t answered the question,” Martha replied. “And you’ll have to explain yourself before we go charging into the Lord Mayor’s parlor accusing his wife of adultery, and perhaps of murder.”

A look of annoyance passed across Helen’s face, and I counted it as a small victory. After a moment she replied. “Since last summer’s killings, the beadles and Justices have been nothing but a hair in my neck. They’ve arrested my doxies and closed my alehouses. As if my girls were the cause of all the trouble! Things cannot get much worse for my business, and if you bring down the Lord Mayor they might get better. Besides, I’ve never had much use for that miserly old cuff.”

I wasn’t entirely convinced that Helen had told us the truth, but at least we had a name. We managed to take our leave without further exchange of insults (no small achievement there), and began the journey back through Micklegate to our side of the city. We now walked into the wind, and our cloaks billowed behind us.

“Why should we believe her?” I asked as we passed through the bar and into the city. I was being peevish, but I could not help myself.

“Aunt Bridget, if you weren’t going to accept her answer, why did we come all this way?” Will demanded.

“She admitted that she wanted to see the Lord Mayor fall,” I replied. “And she would have no problem lying if it would serve her needs.”

“You asked her who Mr. Breary’s mistress was, and she told us,” Martha cried. She could not hide her exasperation with me any better than Will. “We should follow the scent and see where it takes us. If for some reason Helen Wright has deceived us, so be it. We discover Agnes’s innocence and move on.”

I knew I could not allow my antipathy for Helen to obstruct my better judgment and grumbled my agreement.

“Why don’t we call on her right now?” Martha asked. “They’re on this side of the river, aren’t they?”

“They’re on the same street as my brother’s house,” Will replied. “And if Agnes is innocent, we could pop in at my brother’s for dinner and ask Mark Preston whether
he
murdered Mr. Breary.”

I smiled a little at the image and said a prayer of thanks that Will could attempt such a jest. For some time after his father’s death Will was loath to even mention his brother. I agreed with the plan, and we turned toward the Lord Mayor’s home.

“How will you get her to see you?” Will asked. “She’s not one of your clients.”

He was right, of course. Why would a newly married girl want to meet with a midwife? I considered the question and felt a smile play across my lips. “I think I have the answer for that.” By the time we arrived at the Greenbury’s home, my plan was complete.

The Lord Mayor’s footman bowed when we approached and admitted us to the entry hall where another servant greeted us. He was dressed in fine silks that announced the Lord Mayor’s wealth, and he had a haughty air about him. As soon as I laid eyes on him, I knew my plan would work.

“Lady Hodgson, how are you this morning?” he asked. “I am afraid the Lord Mayor is not in. Would you like to leave him a message? I will be sure that he receives it today.”

“Thank you, but I am here to see Mrs. Greenbury,” I replied. “It concerns … a private matter.” I allowed my voice to trail off and cast my eyes to the floor.

“I’m afraid it is impossible,” he replied. “Mrs. Greenbury does not like unexpected visitors. Perhaps you would tell me what this concerns.”

“Very well,” I said. “Please tell her that I have come to discuss her menstrual discharges, and the best course for retention or restoration.”

In a welcome irony, the blood drained from the servant’s face and he stared at me, mouth open but unable to speak.

I smiled and waited as his Adam’s morsel bobbed up and down.

“I will see if she will speak to you,” he said at last. “I will take you to the drawing room and have her meet you there. Your gentleman will have to wait here, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

Will looked annoyed, but he could hardly object. A man could not be a part of the conversation I’d proposed.

Martha smiled approvingly as we followed the servant into the drawing room, and why not? I’d learned such tricks from her, after all. It seemed strange how naturally deception came to me, but we lived in strange times.

Agnes Greenbury flew into the drawing room, a tornado of silk, lace, hair, and fury. She strode past Martha without a glance in her direction and stopped with her face mere inches from mine. Despite, or perhaps because of, the fury that burst from every pore, I could see why Matthew Greenbury had risked universal scorn to marry this girl. She was astonishingly beautiful, and she exuded so much energy that even I found it a bit unnerving. What man—especially one nearing the end of his life—could refuse such a combination? Marrying this girl would be akin to seizing lightning in his hand.

“You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I have you thrown into the street, you whore.” Her dress was made from the richest silk and cut in the latest fashion, but her voice shouted of the northern moors. I doubted if she’d seen a paved road before she came to York. Where had the Lord Mayor found such a girl, and what must she make of her new life?

Such coarse language from so gorgeous a creature left me speechless, but as so often happened, Martha came to my rescue.

“George Breary,” she said.

Agnes’s face twitched, and I knew that Martha’s shot had found its mark.

“I don’t know who that is,” Agnes said to Martha, though her eyes never left mine.

“Of course you do,” Martha replied, circling behind Agnes. She knew she’d found one crack in Agnes’s armor, and now she sought another. “You’ve been jumbling him for God knows how long. It’s the talk of all the town, or it will be soon enough.”

Agnes looked briefly in Martha’s direction before returning her eyes to me. A thin sheen of sweat had appeared on her forehead. Though she’d only been in the Lord Mayor’s house for a few months, she’d learned how to get her way. She could not understand why her fit of ill humor had not convinced us to leave her be.

“What do you want?” she asked at last. “Why are you here?”

“Last night George Breary was murdered,” I replied.

She didn’t even blink.

“What, no tears for your paramour?” I asked. “He was beaten and left to die in an alley, and you have nothing to say?”

“They brought the news last night,” she replied. “I knew he was dead before you did.”

“I doubt it.” I could tell that the scorn I felt for this girl had crept into my voice, and to put her on her heels I decided to give it free rein. “I doubt you know half so much as you think. You haven’t the slightest grasp of the world around you, or of what the future holds for light-skirted queans like you. If you did, you’d not play the harlot so thoughtlessly.”

“Not that you’ll be playing that role for long.” Martha continued as if we were one. “Your future holds naught but the hangman’s rope.”

Agnes’s eyes flashed in Martha’s direction again, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She did not answer.

“We don’t think you killed him yourself,” I said. “But surely a girl like you would have no trouble finding some fool to do it on your behalf.”

“But why would she bother, Lady Bridget?” asked Martha. “If he was a mere dalliance, he’d hardly be worth the trouble.”

“Ah, but what if
he
had fallen in love with
her
?” I said. “Tell me Agnes, was he trying to convince you to abandon your husband? Perhaps Mr. Breary threatened to tell him about your wanton ways, and you killed him to keep your secrets.”

“No!” The word burst from Agnes’s lips, and her regret was both immediate and clear.

“You’d have no trouble at all finding someone to commit murder,” I said. “If you made the right promises and lifted your skirts at just the right time, you could convince a man to do nearly anything. Was it one of your servants? A soldier from the garrison? Who did this for you?”

For a moment it seemed as if Agnes intended to answer, to confess that we were right, that she had arranged George’s murder. But without warning she broke my gaze and started for the door. Martha blocked her path. With no way out, she turned to face me.

“I’ll scream,” she said. “The servants will be here in moments.”

“Yes, they would,” I agreed. “And what would you tell them? That a gentlewoman detained you in your own house and accused you of murder?”

“Not even your gossips would believe such gabbing,” Martha said. “Then you’d be counted a foul slattern
and
a lunatic.”

Tears sprang to Agnes’s eyes. I imagine she hoped they would melt my heart, but they did no such thing. I had little doubt she kept tears at the ready in the way a sentry keeps his pistol charged. Where bluster and flirtation failed, weeping might find a way.

“I did nothing wrong,” she cried.

Martha barked with laughter.

“Nothing wrong?” I cried, joining in the derision. “You could not even remain faithful to your husband for half a year!”

“But I did not kill anyone,” she said.

“How does your husband feel about your shameless living?” Martha asked. “Surely he expected better of you.”

Agnes’s eyes became hard and, as if by impulse, she cradled her forearm.

Agnes cried out in surprise when I stepped toward her and pulled up her sleeve. I knew what I would find before I saw it: Bruises covered her arm from wrist to elbow.

“Take your hands off me,” she hissed as she pulled her sleeve back in place. But the damage had been done.

“Your husband did that?” Martha asked. “Not so surprising, I suppose. He can’t have been happy to learn you’d cuckolded him with one of his Aldermen.”

“Or perhaps he found out that you plotted to kill Mr. Breary,” I said. “If you’re merely a wanton strumpet, he’d be mocked throughout the city. If you’re a murderess, he’d find himself expelled from the council.”

“Which is it, girl? Are you a whore or a killer?” Martha had crept up behind Agnes, and hissed these last words in her ear. “Or are you both?” For a moment I regretted our cruelty, but I knew that we had little choice, and that she deserved little better.

Then the tears began again, this time in earnest, and Agnes Greenbury collapsed against me. As if by their own volition, my arms wrapped around her. The scornful expression on Martha’s face made clear that she was having none of it.

“He is so cruel,” Agnes gasped at last. “You must help me.”

“You have to tell me the truth,” I replied. Martha disguised her snort of disgust as a cough, but I could read her expression well enough.

“You are right,” the girl—and at that moment she did seem to be a girl—moaned into my chest. “You are right about everything. My husband found out about George and did this to me. He said that he’d not be made a fool of by so fresh a whore, and that George would suffer for debauching me.
He
must have done it.”