The Witch Hunter Read online

  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.

  Late in the afternoon of the following Monday, a small cavalcade clattered across the drawbridge at Rougemont and passed under the arch of the gatehouse. The sleepy sentry snapped to attention and saluted with his pikestaff, for the first rider was Sir Richard de Revelle, the county sheriff and nominally his lord and master. He was followed by a couple of his clerks, his steward and four men-at-arms who had escorted him on his journey to Winchester. The guard noticed that the sheriff’s thin face, never much disposed towards amiability, was darkened by a scowl as he trotted his horse into the inner ward and made for the keep on the other side. A trumpet-blast from one of the soldiers caused a flurry of activity around the wooden stairs that led to the entrance on the upper floor. A pair of ostlers scurried out from the undercroft below and several servants burst out of the main door to stand waiting on the platform at the top of the steps. As an ostler grabbed his stallion’s head, Richard slid from the saddle and stalked without a word to the keep. Ignoring the greetings of his servants, he stamped up the stairs and marched into the hall, pulling off his riding gloves and slapping them irritably against his thigh. Inside, he turned left around the screens to go towards his chambers, but then stopped dead as he saw who was sitting at a nearby table, drinking ale with the castle constable.

  ‘De Wolfe, damn you! I want to talk to you – now!’

  His high-pitched voice was vibrant with anger as he glared across at the coroner, who stared back with infuriating calmness. ‘And a very good day to you, brother-in-law!’ he replied sarcastically, not moving from his bench.

  De Revelle wheeled around and strode to his quarters, slamming the door behind him in the face of his apprehensive clerks, who had followed him into the hall.

  John rose languidly from the table, picking up his ale-pot and leisurely finishing the contents. ‘I’d better see what the bloody man wants,’ he muttered to his friend, the fork-bearded Ralph Morin, who had watched the little scene with interest.

  ‘Is it what you think might have happened, John?’

  The coroner tugged his sword-belt to a more comfortable position. ‘It may be – but almost everything upsets that man these days! I’ve been waiting for him to come back, as I’ve a few matters to tax him with myself.’

  He loped across the rush-covered flagstones, aware of a sudden hush as a score of curious faces watched him, wondering what had put the sheriff into such a foul temper. Walking in past an anxious-looking guard posted outside, he was met with a further furious command. ‘Shut that damned door behind you! I don’t want every nosy swine in the castle listening to what I’ve got to say to you!’

  De Wolfe kicked the door back with his heel so that it slammed into its frame. ‘You seem out of sorts today, brother-in-law,’ he said mildly. ‘Is your arse sore with all that riding?’

  ‘Never mind my arse! What do you mean by trying to have me humiliated before the exchequer in Winchester?’

  John stared at the sheriff as the realisation that what he suspected may have happened had actually come to pass. It had been a possibility all along and de Wolfe was now thankful that he had taken precautions against it. He let his breath out slowly as he tried to anticipate where this revelation might lead. ‘So, Richard, I was right in sending my officer and clerk to follow you to Winchester!’

  ‘Officer and clerk? Whoreson liars and troublemakers, more like! But now you actually confess your involvement in this scandal?’ Standing behind his table, his foxy face pale with rage, the sheriff flung his gloves down and shook his fist at his wife’s husband. ‘That great Cornish oaf of yours and that disgusting weasel of a disgraced priest had the temerity to go squealing to the chief clerk of the treasury with some bloody list of what should have been in that treasure box. And then the clerk complained that it didn’t tally with the contents of the chest – virtually accusing me of stealing it!’

  ‘So did you steal it, Richard?’ asked John stonily.

  The pallor of the sheriff’s face suddenly flushed to an alarming shade of red. ‘Damn you, John! I’ll not be spoken to like that! The list was patently false, a tissue of lies! You’ve done this to trap me – you’ve been plotting my downfall for months. But this time, you’ve gone too far. I’ll have you thrown out of office for this – or worse!’

  De Wolfe advanced to the table and stooped to lean his fists on the edge, bending forward to come face to face with the now-incandescent sheriff, who stood a head shorter than the coroner. ‘Be careful what you say about being thrown out of office, Richard. You may have sailed too close to the wind once too often this time.’

  Revel
le beat his fists on the boards in a raging temper tinged with fear. ‘Thanks to those God-accursed servants of yours, the chief clerk to the treasury came and alleged that there was a difference between the coinage in the box and what was alleged to be on that damned parchment that your mealy-mouth clerk brought with him. Asked me for an explanation, blast him! A mere scribbler, questioning the integrity of the sheriff of one of the biggest counties in England!’ He wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth before continuing to rant at his brother-in-law. ‘And anyway, the bloody treasure is mine by rights, being found on my land. Only your spiteful interference deprived me of it!’

  John straightened up and sighed. ‘We’ve been through all this before – the inquest rightly decided that treasure trove belongs to the King. So taking any part of it is not only theft, but treason!’ He paused and then asked, ‘How much of it did the clerk say was missing?’

  The sheriff’s features were by now dangerously purple. ‘Nothing was missing, damn you! Your so-called inventory was obviously deliberately falsified by you, to discredit me!’

  It was de Wolfe’s turn to become annoyed at this blatant insult. He reached across the table and grabbed Richard by the neck of his embroidered tunic. ‘I falsified nothing! It was specifically to stop you embezzling any of this gold and silver that I had the contents of the chest carefully checked.’ He let go of the tunic and pushed the sheriff away contemptuously. ‘Every coin in that box was carefully counted and the witnesses included the priest at Cadbury, my clerk, the reeve and even the manor-lord, who was able to sign his own name on that list. Do you really think that all those would conspire to perjure themselves, just to discomfort you?’

  Richard jerked his garments straight again after being manhandled. ‘Then the treasure could only have been pilfered between Cadbury and Exeter,’ he brayed triumphantly. ‘And the only man who had care of it during the journey was that shambling giant of yours, that Cornishman Gwyn!’

  ‘Are you now trying to shift the blame by accusing my officer?’ roared John, flaring into anger again at this slur against his oldest friend.

  Now that the idea had taken root in his mind, de Revelle nurtured it enthusiastically. ‘Of course I am! The bastard obviously couldn’t resist dipping his hand into the box as soon as he was out of sight of Cadbury.’

  ‘Nonsense, you’re just trying to cover up your own dishonesty!’ raged the coroner, now furious at himself for failing to foresee this loophole that his crafty brother-in-law had seized upon. He should have had the treasure recounted when it arrived at Rougemont to save Gwyn from this now all-too-obvious accusation.

  Richard sensed John’s unease and immediately capitalised upon it. ‘Yes, by Christ’s knuckles, that’s the only explanation!’ he exulted, seeing a chance to turn the tables on what could have been a disastrous situation. ‘And I’ll have that whoreson thief as soon as he returns from his disgraceful escapade in Winchester. He’ll be arrested the moment he sets foot in the city – and I’ll see that he’s hanged for it!’

  De Wolfe slammed the table-top with his fist. ‘Don’t be so damned foolish, Richard, you’ve not a scrap of proof that he stole anything!’

  The pointed beard of the sheriff jutted defiantly out at the coroner. ‘You produced the proof yourself with the claim that the inventory was correct. If the contents were so grandly certified in Cadbury and some was missing by the time it reached Winchester, then only that bloody officer of ours had the opportunity to pilfer it, as the rest of the time it was in my care!’

  ‘Exactly – and it was in your care a great deal longer!’ retorted John, bitterly.

  The sheriff, now feeling quite on top of the situation, sneered back at him. ‘Either you withdraw your claim that the list was accurate, or I’ll have that officer of yours, John. With a body as heavy as his, his neck will stretch delightfully on the gallows!’

  De Wolfe knew that the vindictive sheriff would be as good as his word when it came to taking his revenge on Gwyn and cursed himself again for not being more careful. What had been an impending disaster for de Revelle a few moments ago was rapidly turning into a triumph for the devious sheriff.

  ‘I’ll see you in hell first!’ retorted the coroner, but his tone betrayed his lack of conviction. The word of a servant would be of little avail against that of a knight and county sheriff. Either John had to withdraw his accusation that there had been a shortfall in the amount of treasure or risk Gwyn’s neck. Although Richard might be in real jeopardy if the theft was eventually brought home to him, the delay in toppling him would be of little use if the sheriff’s county court declared Gwyn a felon the following week. But John’s iron sense of justice was totally against this scheming villain getting away with it yet again.

  ‘Five pairs of eyes counted that money, damn you!’ he shouted across the table. ‘They couldn’t all be blind – and I’ve no doubt that what’s missing is not ten paces from where we stand!’

  Richard de Revelle glared back at him. ‘Then if you persist in this insulting accusation, John, that red-haired villain will be arrested the moment he shows his face in Exeter. In fact, I’ll give strict orders to the constable and the guards to throw him into Stigand’s tender care as soon as he appears!’ He sat down and leered up at his brother-in-law. ‘So make up your mind, John. Is it to be me – or him?’

  The guard at the top of the drawbridge at Rougemont rarely had occasion to defend the castle against intruders. Apart from a few urchins and pedlars who now and then tried to get in, the last time the drawbridge had been raised and the portcullis lowered for defence had been over fifty years ago during the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda. This morning, the day after the sheriff returned from Winchester, was no exception and the only event to keep the man-at-arms awake after the previous heavy night’s drinking was the appearance of a walking scarecrow on the ramp that crossed the wide ditch of dirty water that was the moat. She was halfway up, stumbling slowly as she hoisted herself painfully along with the aid of a stick, when the sentry yelled at her to clear off.

  Although his voice was not too unkind, she stopped and scowled at him. If he had been nearer, he may have been discomfited by the angry glint in her eyes and flinched under her oddly penetrating gaze. ‘I must speak to the crowner, boy!’ she called, in a voice that was unexpectedly deep and strong, coming from such a decrepit frame.

  ‘He’s not here, mother – and even if he was, I couldn’t let you in.’

  There was no real reason why he should keep her out, as the inner ward contained St Mary’s chapel, the courthouse and a number of lean-to dwellings built against the curtain walls for a few military families, though most lived in the larger outer bailey. However, he had standing orders to keep out vagrants, vagabonds, pedlars and beggars. The old woman’s ragged clothing and frightening facial hair seemed to put her in one of those categories and he advanced to the centre of the archway to emphasise the prohibition.

  Bearded Lucy stared at him for a moment, as if contemplating putting a curse on him, but as the soldier seemed emphatic that the coroner was not there, she shrugged her rounded shoulders and stumped slowly back down towards Castle Hill, her stick tapping on the hard ground. The guard watched her go, uneasy at that final look she had given him – if he had been Thomas de Peyne, he would have crossed himself.

  The old woman knew that Sir John lived in Martin’s Lane and slowly made her way there through the crowded high street, indifferent to the rude comments and occasional jeers of passers-by, especially those who came too close downwind of her unwashed body and filthy clothing. Even in a community where bathing was an eccentric perversion, the odours that came from old Lucy were unusual in their intensity.

  At the corner of the narrow lane which led through to the cathedral Close, she hesitated, uncertain of what to do next. She was well aware that she would be unwelcome in any decent dwelling, but she had an overriding need to speak to Sir John. In her previous dealings with the coroner, she had found
him to be a dour and rather forbidding man, but one who was unusually honest and compassionate, a rare quality in the Norman aristocracy, who were more likely to use their whip on her than a civil tongue. Peering down the alley, she saw the three tall, narrow houses on the right, the furthest one being that of the coroner. It was opposite the entrance to a livery stable that lay behind the Golden Hind tavern, which fronted on to the high street.

  She began shuffling down the lane, still uncertain as to how she could get to speak to him, when her problem was unexpectedly solved by the appearance of two men from the stables. One wore the leather apron of a farrier, scarred with scorch marks from fitting hot shoes, but the other was John de Wolfe himself. She hobbled forward and accosted him as deferentially as her stubborn nature would allow.

  ‘Sir John, please! Can you spare an old woman a moment?’

  The farrier gave her a contemptuous look and vanished back into his stable yard, leaving de Wolfe to deal with this untidy apparition.

  ‘Do you remember me, Crowner?’ she asked. ‘I have had dealings in the past with the landlady of the Bush.’

  John knew very well who she was and nodded gravely. ‘You are the lady from Exe Island, I believe.’

  It was a very long time since anyone had called her ‘lady’ and her faith in this man was strengthened further. She moved closer and was gratified to see that he did not flinch. ‘Can I speak frankly to you, sir? There is no one else in this city that I would trust.’

  In spite of himself, John gave a furtive glance at the front of his house, to make sure that Matilda was not standing on the doorstep. The only window-opening was shuttered and anyway, at this time of day, his wife was still probably dozing up in her solar.

  ‘What is it, Lucy? Are you in trouble of some sort?’ He had a suspicion of the nature of her problem, but waited to hear it from her own mouth, which twisted wryly at his question.

  ‘Trouble? We are all in trouble, we cunning women. We are being persecuted and it will surprise me if I live to see the end of this month, along with some of my sisters.’