by Sam Thomas
“Yes, that’s it,” Martha said. “Well done.”
Edward straightened up, crossed to the doorway, and looked back and forth between the kitchen and the bedchamber. “So Jennet and … Mr. Jones were in here on the bed, and the killer came in through the front door.”
“Mr. Jones leaped up, and ran to the door, hoping to escape,” I said. “Or perhaps in the hope of securing the door.”
“But he was too late,” Martha said. “The murderer got in the house.”
“Then he picked up the poker,” I said, “and hit … Mr. Jones in the head.”
“Mr. Jones fell back, breaking the bed frame,” Edward concluded. “That all makes sense.”
“But then what?” Martha asked. “The killer didn’t cut his throat in there. He took the body into the bedchamber and then did it.” The three of us looked about the room in search of answers. What had the killer done to them, and why?
We crossed the room and stood over the bodies as if they would stand up and speak. The front of Mr. Jones’s shirt was soaked with blood, which seemed to have flowed more from the wound to his throat than from the one in his belly. Jennet’s bodice was similarly stained, which was hardly surprising, given that he’d been lying on top of her. But when I looked more closely, I realized something was missing.
“What killed her?” I asked. Martha reached down and lifted Jennet’s chin. Her neck was covered in blood, but bore no marks of violence.
“Here,” she said, pointing to Jennet’s stomach. She had been stabbed once.
Edward peered at the wound. “This didn’t kill her,” he said. “It might have eventually, but it would have taken days.” He gazed at her body, no less puzzled than I was.
I looked down at Jennet’s skirts and noticed that they, too, were soaked with blood. I pointed it out to Martha.
“Could it be her monthly courses?” Edward asked. Martha looked at him as if he were an idiot but held her tongue. The skirts were soaked through.
“It’s unlikely she would bleed so much,” I said with as much patience as I could muster. To think the man had been married twice! “I should examine her.”
I reached down and closed Jennet’s eyes for the last time. She did not deserve to see this final violation of her body. Full of trepidation, I pulled up Jennet’s skirts. I stared at her privities, unable to comprehend the horror before me. I tried to speak, but found no ready words. Rather I pointed, and Edward and Martha came to look. The murderer had cut deeply into both her thighs, slashing again and again until he found an artery, and she’d bled to death from there. Uncontent with mere murder, the killer also cut into her privities, disfiguring them with a viciousness that could not fail to astound. What fury drove the killer to such lengths? If Jennet had been alive when the killer had done this, the pain would have driven her mad. I pulled her skirts down, covering the bloody scene as best I could.
“The murderer cut her and then threw them together,” I said.
“They lay together and bled to death,” said Edward. He took a deep breath and made a decision. “Wipe your hands before you go. I’ll make sure they get a Christian burial.”
I looked at him in shock. “That is all? You are dismissing us?” I cried.
“There is nothing else to be done. We know what happened to these poor souls. I brought you here for your keen eyes and mind, and I was right to do so. It is now the city’s responsibility to find the murderer and see him hanged. And I’ll remind you to keep to yourselves everything you saw here today.”
“What about questioning the whores? What of Helen Wright? That was part of why you brought me here, was it not?”
“The situation has changed,” he said. “That will not be necessary.” I knew Edward was not telling me the entire truth.
“You’re not even going to raise the hue and cry, are you?” I asked. “What is your plan?”
He took my arm and guided me toward the door, trusting that Martha would follow. I pulled free and stopped to look him in the eye.
“Edward, I can tell that you are hiding something from us. Do you remember what happened the last time you kept secrets from me in a matter such as this?” I knew he needed no reminder, for it nearly had resulted in the death of a guiltless soul. He returned my stare and refused to answer my question.
“You must go,” he insisted. “Anything I tell you now would be mere gossip. I must learn more.” When I hesitated he took my hands and looked me in the eyes. “Lady Bridget, please. I want to see whoever did this hanged as much as you do. Not to do so would be a terrible injustice and would leave a stain on York, on my family’s city.”
I considered Edward’s words, and they rang true. He loved York more than anyone I knew, and while I did not understand what he intended to do, I knew he would not rest until he’d found the murderer.
“I’m trusting you,” I said, giving his hands a squeeze. He nodded his thanks.
Martha and I ducked back through the low door and into the street. Mark Preston still stood watch, and when we came out, he slipped inside, closing the door behind him. God only knew how they would get the bodies out of the house and into a churchyard without attracting all the neighbors, but that was Edward’s problem now and I had the uneasy feeling that Mark was the right man for such work.
We walked in silence until we reached Petergate, which would take us home. I looked down the street toward the Minster, at the striped awnings, the crowds of buyers, sellers, and passersby haggling, laughing, and arguing, all oblivious to the horror that lay just a few yards away.
“That is all?” Martha asked. “We are just going to walk away from those bodies? From whoever did that?”
“That would be the prudent thing to do, don’t you think?” I replied evenly.
Martha understood my meaning and smiled. “But you don’t plan to take the prudent course.”
“You are as good a judge of the living as you are of the dead, Martha,” I said. “I have no intention of abandoning Jennet or Mr. Jones after all they have suffered.” I knew that Edward would be furious if he knew what I intended, but I had proven myself useful in the past, even in the face of his objections. I was not his maidservant, and would not act like it. “Come, we will see if my Bible can help us understand those verses.”
Chapter 5
When Martha and I reached home, we found an unexpected but entirely welcome guest in the parlor. The moment the door closed behind us, a small and very dirty boy flew to our side and wrapped his arms around Martha’s waist and then my own.
“Martha! Lady Hodgson!” he cried.
“Tree!” I replied, and tried to scoop him into my arms. The boy wriggled to escape—he’d often told me that holding was for babies and he was eight—but I held him tight.
Tree was the bastard son of a woman who had died while imprisoned in York Castle, and he’d been taken in by the jailor, Samuel Short. I’d met Tree and Samuel the year before, and in the months since, Tree and I had become close. Samuel was a fine guardian, but Tree lacked a mother and I think he sought one in me. He still called the Castle home, but visited me regularly, sometimes just for a meal, sometimes for a few days at a time. To my sorrow, the summer’s heat had driven Tree to spend more nights at the Castle, which he said was not so hot. While I knew that others in the city suffered far worse from the cursed weather, I counted this the cruelest blow that God had dealt to me, for I missed him sorely. I stroked the boy’s hair, and reflected on my own lost children, and on Tree’s ability to soothe the pain just a little. While we’d never said as much, Tree and I needed each other.
“Can we play at dice?” Tree asked once he’d freed himself from my embrace. “Samuel has been teaching me how to coz—” Tree stopped himself. “He’s teaching me how to win.”
“Cozen, eh?” Martha said in mock horror. From her former life, she knew a thing or two about cheating at both dice and cards, and said that Tree had become quite good at it.
“Well, I wouldn’t take your money,” Tre
e replied. “It would be just for fun.”
Hannah bustled in from the kitchen. “I’ve got some bread just out of the oven,” she announced. “Though in this heat, the rising was like nothing I’ve seen. I have no idea how it will be.” Tree’s eyes lit up at the prospect of fresh bread, and he dashed into the kitchen. I took Hannah by the arm.
“Keep him with you for the moment,” I said. “We have some business to discuss that is not fit for a child’s ears.” Hannah nodded and followed Tree. I then sent Martha for some white wine—which we both needed after the afternoon’s work—and she joined me in the parlor.
“Let us look to the verses first,” I said. I pulled down my Great Bible.
“Numbers, chapter twenty-five, verse eight,” Martha said from memory.
“Here we are,” I said. “The Israelites are still in the wilderness, and the Lord has afflicted them with a plague because they have begun to commit whoredom with the daughters of Moab.”
“Whoredom?” murmured Martha. “Interesting.”
I nodded and continued reading. “And Moses said unto the Judges of Israel, slay ye every one his men, that were joined unto Baal-Peor.” I ran my finger along the text. “One of the Israelites brought a Midian whore back to the camp. When another saw this, he picked up a javelin. He went into the tent, and thrust both of them through, the man of Israel, and the woman, through her belly: so the plague was stayed from the children of Israel.” By the time I reached the end of the passage, my voice had fallen to a whisper.
“This Israelite killed two people because they were guilty of whoredom?” Martha asked.
“He stabbed them through the belly,” I said.
“Just as Jennet and Mr. Jones were stabbed.”
I nodded. “And then God lifted the plague.”
“The murders were made to look like a story from the Bible?” Martha asked, still unable to believe what we’d found. “He slaughtered Jennet and that poor man as a part of a play?”
I nodded again, struck dumb by our discovery. I had met murderers before, and not just poor girls who had abandoned their infants in a churchyard, but truly evil people who had killed for money or merely to protect their reputations. But even the worst of them had motives I could comprehend: greed, revenge, anger. Having seen all this, the idea of killing someone in twisted homage to an obscure Biblical verse seemed to be madness. Did the murderer believe that killing Jennet would inspire God to lift the terrible heat that lay upon the city?
“My God,” Martha said softly, giving voice to my own thoughts. “Who is this man?”
I shook my head to clear it of the image that the passage had painted in my mind. “Let us look to the other verse,” I said, turning to the end of the Bible. “Revelations, chapter two, verse fourteen. Here, God is condemning the men of Pergamon who taught Balac to eat things sacrificed unto idols, and to commit whoredom.”
Martha furrowed her brow. “What does that mean? Who is Balac?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I don’t think that is the point. There’s more: Repent, or else I will come unto thee quickly, and will fight against you with the sword of my mouth.” Martha looked at me and shook her head in confusion. I reread the passage.
“Both passages condemn the sin of whoredom,” I said. “In Numbers, God lifts the plague when the Israelites kill the whore and the man who brought her to the camp. In Revelations, God renews His threat against those who taught Balac to commit whoredom.”
“God demands that those who commit whoredom be put to the sword?” Martha asked.
I nodded.
“So the murderer thinks he is doing God’s work?” Martha asked, her voice rising. “And you wonder why I resist going to church?”
I chose not to answer her challenge, for I had no ready response: the killer had indeed fashioned his crime after passages in the Bible.
“Lady Bridget,” Martha said after a moment. “Why did Mr. Hodgson react so strangely when he saw these passages?”
I considered the question for a moment. “He must have recognized them, or at least he recognized what they meant,” I said. “And he’s afraid that the killer comes from the godly faction.”
Martha nodded. “I’d not be surprised. None know the Bible so well as them.” Her tone made clear her disdain for those who held such beliefs.
“Mr. Hodgson is in that faction,” I said testily. “And there is no need to paint all the godly with that bloody brush.” I paused. “But you are not wrong. If the killer does come from the godly, it would besmirch them all. Edward would want him hanged quickly and quietly.”
“What do we do now?” Martha asked. “We can’t very well ask all the city’s Puritans if they murdered Jennet and her whoremonger.”
“We’ll let Edward worry about the godly. Tomorrow we will talk to the other whores and find out who knew Jennet. Perhaps one of them saw her last night.”
“What will you say if your brother-in-law finds out?” Martha asked. “He said we are not to trouble ourselves with this crime.”
“I’ll not abandon the search for Jennet’s murderer simply because Edward asked me to,” I replied. “She deserves more. Besides, the whores and the constables are not on good terms, and we will be discreet.”
Martha smiled a little. I think she enjoyed the prospect of disobeying Edward.
* * *
Tree joined us for supper, providing a welcome diversion from that day’s bloody business, but all too soon he returned to the Castle. After he left, I gazed out the back window of my house. The sun hung low in the sky, and bathed my small garden in a red light that reminded me of nothing so much as Jennet’s blood-spattered chamber. Even this late in the day, I could feel the searing heat as if I were standing in a smithy rather than in my own home.
I retired to my chamber earlier than usual, so I could reflect on the day’s events. I closed my eyes and let all the horror of the day wash over me—I knew that if I did not, Jennet and Mr. Jones would haunt my dreams. I tried to imagine what had brought Jennet to her awful end. I knew many of the city’s doxies, of course. I provided advice and medicines to help them avoid becoming pregnant, and I tended them when their efforts failed. Some were maids who had fallen into whoring when the world turned its back on them; for these women I felt sympathy. Other whores seemed wholly unredeemable, not caring if they became pregnant, and then seeking medicines to destroy the children in their wombs. These I refused to help. If Jennet was new to the city, she had likely come to York in the hope of finding work as a servant but her luck or money had run out. Did she have family who did not yet know of her fate? Would they ever find out? I imagined a mother’s weather-beaten face as she stood on the northern moors, gazing toward the city, wondering what had become of her daughter.
I thought too of Mr. Jones—or whoever the poor man was. He was too old for his whoring to be mere sport and that galled me. He likely had a wife and children. Had he abandoned them for a night with a whore? Did he think of them as he lay dying? Or only of himself and his horrible death? If he was not from the city, we might never know his name, and his family, too, might never know of his fate. He would simply have disappeared.
I also tried to imagine the killer himself. How had his brain become so fevered as to think that God demanded such a bloody reprisal for sin? How had he chosen his victims? I pictured him waiting outside an alehouse, following Jennet and Mr. Jones to her house, and then forcing the door open. Mr. Jones would have been terrified of discovery, so he tried to run, only to be knocked senseless the moment he reached the door. Then what? Did the killer lecture his victims, or just go about his gruesome work? Did Jennet cry out? What strength must the killer have had to kill two people and then heave their bodies about as if they were dolls! Did the killer truly draw his strength from the mad belief that he was doing God’s work? I had faced a savage killer before, but the demons that drove this murderer were of another order entirely. I prayed that he would be found and hanged quickly, for I could not bel
ieve that the blood he’d spilled that night had quenched his fury.
I awoke the next morning to a frantic pounding on my front door. I raced downstairs just as Will stumbled in, his chest heaving from the journey. He had the smell of old ale on him, but he seemed sober enough.
“Will, what is it?” I cried as soon as he entered.
“Have you read this pamphlet?” He handed me a single sheet of paper. At first glance, I took it to be a ballad or a jest, but as I read it became clear that merriment was far from the author’s mind.
“Martha,” I called out. “You should see this.”
Martha hurried in, drying her hands on her apron. I showed her the title of the sheet. God’s Terrible Justice in York. Her eyes widened as she read. “My God,” she gasped. “Surely it’s not about Jennet. So soon? How?”
To answer her question, I read from the pamphlet. “The Lord God visited his terrible justice on the city of York, as a common whore and her whoremaster died a monstrous but much deserved death last night.”
“So you know about the murders?” Will asked.
“Of course,” I answered. “Your father asked me to examine the bodies. Didn’t he send you here with this?”
“No,” Will spat. “I overheard him telling Joseph that someone had killed a doxy, and I guessed that he would call you. When I asked what had happened, he said it was city business and I ought not concern myself.”
I could hear the anger and pain in Will’s voice and marveled at what Edward’s neglect had begat in his son.
“Will…” I said.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Will continued. I could see his knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip on his cane. “I had to beg the details from a new servant, the three-fingered dog that followed Joseph home from the wars.”
“Mark Preston,” I said. “He was at the site of the murders.”
