by Sam Thomas
“Who is out on a night such as this?” Hannah asked as she carried a tray of steaming chocolate into the parlor. “Are you expecting a mother’s call, my lady?”
“I’ll see who it is,” Martha said, and slipped out of the parlor.
She returned a moment later, a look of concern on her face. “There’s a lad here who says he’s Mr. Breary’s footman,” she said. “He has brought Mr. Breary’s cloak.”
Will and I hurried to the door, and found a young man waiting. He held a heavy wool cloak in his arms and looked at us expectantly.
“Why have you brought Mr. Breary’s cloak?” I demanded. “Did someone tell you he was here?”
“After you left, my lady, he dashed after you,” the lad replied. “I called to him, and said it was too cold, but he would not stop. I thought he must be following you, so I came here.” Martha, Will, and I exchanged worried glances. I think we all remembered the cry we’d heard as we neared St. Michael’s.
“Is he not here?” George’s servant asked at last.
“Get lanterns,” I said to Martha. “One for each of us. We must search for him.”
* * *
We hurried up Stonegate to St. Michael le Belfrey where we’d heard the cry. I prayed that the sound had indeed been the wind, and that George had ducked into an alehouse to escape the cold. It would have been the sensible thing to do, and (except for his marriage proposal) George was nothing if not sensible. I could only hope that his desire for my hand had not driven him to some new idiocy. Within a few minutes we arrived at a point where four narrow streets came into Petergate. We stopped and peered into the darkness each street offered. Miraculously, the wind hadn’t blown out any of the lanterns, and we huddled together as we considered our options.
“It could have come from any one of these streets,” Will said.
“Let’s search in pairs,” I said. I knew Will had a sword hidden in his cane, and I took some comfort from that, but it appeared that George’s servant was unarmed. “Will and Martha, you start there.” I indicated the nearest street. “The lad and I will look in the next one over. Don’t go too far in. We’ll meet back here. And if you hear anything, cry out.” I was not sure we would hear anything in the wind, but we had no other recourse.
Will and Martha nodded then disappeared into the darkness. The servant followed me into the second alley, and we held our lanterns high in an effort to dispel the shadows. The close-built houses crowded us from the sides and the eaves loomed above. George’s servant seemed a timid creature, and he began to fall behind. At that moment I realized that despite my frequent visits to George’s house, I’d never seen the boy before and had no idea if he truly was George’s man. Was it possible that I’d fallen into some sort of trap?
I whirled to face the lad and found him just a few yards behind, lantern held high, his hands otherwise empty. In the guttering light I could not read his face.
“You should take the lead,” I said. I would rather have a clear path back to Petergate if I needed to escape.
As he passed me, me we heard a voice cry out three times—there could be no mistaking this for the wind. I raced back to Petergate. I could hear George’s servant behind me as I tore down the street toward Will and Martha. I found them crouched over something—or someone. When I arrived, my fear was made real.
“Oh God, no,” I cried out.
George Breary lay against the side of a building, and it was clear that he’d been beaten terribly. The left side of his face was covered in blood. I knelt by his side and took his head in my hands.
“Is he alive?” Will asked.
“I think so,” I said. “We must get him to my house.”
I took George’s cloak from his servant, and laid it over him. Will and the servant took George by his shoulders, while Martha and I lifted his legs, and together we carried him back to Petergate and toward my house.
Hannah cried out when she saw our grim burden and hurried to find towels and blankets. We laid George on the couch in the parlor, his head on a pillow. His skin had taken on a bluish tinge, and Martha added more wood to the fire. We wrapped George in a blanket, and I washed the blood from his face. As I did so, it became clear just how terrible the beating had been. His skull was broken in several places. I could not see how he could survive such grievous wounds.
“Martha, take George’s servant, and fetch Dr. Baxter,” I said. I did not think that binding George’s wounds would make a difference, but I could not simply let him die in my parlor.
Martha nodded and began to wrap herself against the cold.
“Wait,” I said. I placed my hand on George’s chest but felt no movement. “Get me a mirror.”
Hannah handed me a small glass, and I held it close to George’s nose and mouth. The glass stayed clear.
“Ah, God,” I said softly. “Never mind Dr. Baxter. Find the vicar and fetch a Justice of the Peace.”
George Breary was dead.
Chapter 9
In the hours that followed, a parade of city officials marched through my parlor. Some came to pay their respects, others to question us about George’s murder. Mercifully, Joseph saw fit to absent himself on this occasion, though other Aldermen assured me that he knew of George’s death and would not rest until his murderer had been hanged. Given Joseph’s antipathy for George such assurances rang hollow, but I held my tongue.
It was three in the morn when my guests finally left and only George’s body remained. It awaited the arrival of the Lord Mayor’s men, who would take it to his church for burial. I sat for a moment and looked at my friend’s face, allowing sorrow to wash over me for the first time that night. George could play the part of a fool, to be sure, but after Edward’s death he had remained true to me and, more important, had helped Will regain his feet. In short, he had proven himself to be a kind man and a loyal friend at a time when few seemed inclined to these virtues. While I would not have married him, he had been my friend, and in a way I did love him. I did not know who had killed George Breary, but I was determined to find out and see him hang.
A soft knock came, and Martha admitted the Lord Mayor’s men. They wrapped George’s body in a wool shroud and disappeared into the night. Will, Martha, and I returned to the parlor. I settled in my chair while Will and Martha eased themselves onto the couch. Hannah had disposed of the bloody pillow, and now there was no sign that a man had so recently breathed his last on the very spot. Martha leaned against Will, laid her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. I allowed them that rare moment of intimacy before I brought them back to the terrible events that had just played out.
“How are you, Will?” I asked.
He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot from fatigue and sorrow. I knew that he recognized the ramifications of George Breary’s death. He had lost a friend and mentor, of course, but also his last best chance to obtain the power and prestige that his ancestors had enjoyed. From his youth Will had dreamed of following his father into city government, and while the road had been far from smooth, George Breary had been ready to guide him. Now Will was naught but a wealthy man’s impoverished son, dependent for his survival on the goodwill of his twice-widowed aunt.
“What do you think happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Will replied.
“It might have been Joseph,” I ventured. “We have to consider it.”
Will stood and began to pace the room, unwilling to meet my gaze.
“No,” he replied. “It’s not Joseph. I’ll not deny that he is a hard man, but he is not a murderer.”
“If Mr. Breary really had summoned another Witch Finder to replace him, it would make sense,” I persisted. I was not sure how far to push Will in this matter. No matter how turbulent their relationship had become, it was no easy thing for him to accuse his brother of murder.
Will started to reply, but Martha spoke first.
“It might have been Mark Preston without Joseph’s knowledge,” Martha said. An image of Preston’s
deformed hand flashed through my mind. He might not be able to charge a pistol anymore, but he could certainly wield a club.
Will considered this for a moment and gave me a curt nod.
“That is possible,” he said. “If Joseph spoke ill of Mr. Breary, Preston might have killed him without asking permission.”
“Very well, Mark Preston,” I said. This concession seemed enough for the moment, so I left well enough alone.
“Is there anyone else?” Martha asked. “Can you think of anyone who might have profited from his death? Who might have been jealous of his success?”
Will pondered the question for a moment and, to my surprise, his ears pinked as if he’d thought of something unseemly.
“What is it?” Martha asked. She had noticed the change as well.
“It is nothing, I’m sure,” Will said. “It could not be.”
“Obviously it could be, or else you wouldn’t have thought of it,” Martha replied. “What is it? You must tell us.”
Will hesitated yet again.
“Will, the man is dead,” I said. “He has no more secrets. If he had some unsavory business dealings he would not be the only one in the city.”
Will shook his head, as if hoping to drive the thought from his mind. “It is not business,” he said. A pained look crossed his face, and I knew he could not hold out much longer.
“You must tell us,” Martha said.
After a moment, Will looked me in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Aunt Bridget. I could not tell you earlier. I would have said something if you had agreed to marry him.”
This threw me into confusion. “Will, why must you apologize to me? What is it?” I could not imagine a sin—in business or otherwise—that would have hurt me.
“Mr. Breary was a good man in many ways.” Will sounded as if the words were being ripped from his chest, and for the first time that evening he began to weep. “And he took me in when no other man in the city would even speak to me. He believed me, not Joseph’s lies. He defended me when nobody else would.”
“But there was more to him.” Martha took his hand.
Will nodded as the tears coursed down his cheeks. “Mr. Breary had taken a paramour of late,” he said at last. “I do not know who she was, but the signs could not be missed. I saw cryptic notes on his desk, listing only a time and place. When the time came, he would disappear for a few hours. He never told me where he went, and I knew I should not ask.”
“It could have been anything,” I replied. “A business dealing he could not yet share with you, or something to do with the city.”
Will shook his head. “I wish it were. But he hid nothing of his business from me. And when he came back he seemed more relaxed and vibrant than I’d ever seen him. A meeting for business would hardly do that to a man.”
I considered Will’s point for a moment before I realized why he’d been so reluctant to tell me of his suspicions.
“Will,” I said, my voice rising. “You knew that he was mired in such sinful courses, and that he intended to marry me, yet you said nothing of it?”
“I know,” he said. “I was going to tell you tonight, but it’s not the sort of thing I could bring up during supper.”
“Perhaps after he served the sweetmeats?” Martha said, trying to ease the tension in the room. “Mr. Breary could have presented the delicacy and let Will present the debauchery.”
Will and I smiled despite ourselves. I knew that he had done his best under difficult circumstances, and he seemed so miserable that I had to release my anger.
“Well, you did no harm,” I said at last. “And now we must consider our best course of action.”
Will and Martha agreed.
“Mark Preston seems the most likely culprit,” Martha said. “But how could we prove it?”
“What about Rebecca Hooke?” Will asked. “She had even more to lose than Joseph. Joseph would remain an Alderman even if he lost control of the witch-hunt. But if Rebecca lost her place as the Searcher, she would be as powerless as before.”
I nodded in agreement. “It is possible. The thought of losing yet another office to me—first that of a midwife then of a Witch Searcher—would drive her mad. But she is hardly strong enough to beat a man to death. And I cannot see her lying in wait for Mr. Breary on a night such as this.” The wind rattled the windows, as if to underscore my point.
“She would have hired someone,” Will said. “There are ruffians enough in the city.”
“Might she have sent James?” Martha asked.
Will and I shook our heads simultaneously.
“Not James,” Will said. “A fool such as he could never change his spots.”
I nodded in agreement. James Hooke was Rebecca’s only son, and if he’d taken after his mother, he would have been an imposing figure indeed. However, while he had his mother’s clear blue eyes, he also had his father’s kindly soul and weak mind. Twice in the past, he’d become embroiled in evil schemes, but never as the prime mover. He simply was too stupid to avoid the trouble that the world brought in his direction.
“Mark Preston is the most likely suspect, and he knows it,” I said. “We would have to approach him with caution.”
“Then let’s begin somewhere less dangerous,” Martha suggested. “We could start with Mr. Breary’s mistress and see where she takes us.”
I nodded in agreement. “Preston will think we’re letting the constables do their jobs. If we are discreet, he may not realize that he is our quarry. At least not right away.”
With that matter decided, Will climbed the stairs to his chamber, leaving Martha and me alone.
“You don’t believe Mark Preston killed Mr. Breary,” Martha said. It was not a question.
“He may have, but only with Joseph’s permission,” I said. “But you saw Will’s face. If I persisted in accusing Joseph, he would have rebelled entirely. But Preston is so close to Joseph that stalking him will do, at least for the moment.”
“But how will we find Mr. Breary’s mistress?” Martha asked. “I’ve heard no gossip about it, and if Will doesn’t know, who does?”
“We can fight that battle in the morning,” I said. “But I think I know who to ask.”
* * *
Our search for George Breary’s mistress got off to a slow start when Tree appeared at my door, eager for breakfast and Elizabeth’s company.
“I’m going to walk across the river,” he announced. “Other boys have done it, and they’re no braver than me!”
Elizabeth, of course, was enraptured by the idea, and imagined Tree to be as heroic as David had been when he took the field against Goliath. By the time we’d finished our pottage, Tree and Elizabeth were so ardent for their adventure, I could hardly deny them. So Will, Martha, and I trailed after the children as they raced down to the King’s Staith on the north side of the river.
“It is a wondrous sight,” Will said. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve never seen it like this.”
“Is it safe to cross?” I asked.
Will hopped off the staith onto the ice and stomped his feet. “Solid as stone,” he replied.
A group of children had gathered at the edge of the river, and some of the braver boys had ventured out onto the ice, arguing over who would be the first one to cross. Tree joined them and, with his chest thrust forward, announced his intention to lead the way. No other boy volunteered, so to my trepidation—and to Elizabeth’s delight—Tree tiptoed further onto the river. Every few steps he looked back over his shoulder at us, his face shining with excitement.
His expression turned to horror when the ice gave a terrific crack. He turned to face us, his mouth a tiny O as he realized what was about to happen. Then the ice opened up, and in an instant he disappeared.
At that moment the world around me slowed to a crawl. As if in a dream, I heard Will and Martha crying out in horror, the other boys shouting, and Elizabeth wailing in fear. After a terrible moment, Tree’s head and shoulders reappeared. I coul
d see his mouth moving as he cried out for help, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the ice. As if guided by another hand—God’s, perhaps—I jumped down to the ice and took a few tentative steps toward Tree, as though treading softly would lessen my weight.
As I drew near him, the ice began to creak and crackle beneath my feet, and soon these sounds were all I could hear. I took another step, heard another crack, and stopped. If I retreated, Tree would die. If I continued toward him, I would join him in the river and we both would die.
As I gazed into Tree’s eyes, I became aware that another boy had come out onto the ice, and that he was shouting at me.
“Lie down!” he shouted at me in accented English. “You must lie down!”
I stared at him. What could he mean?
“You must crawl out to him on your … your buik,” he cried, patting his stomach. “Your belly!”
Then I understood. As slowly as I could, I lowered myself onto my stomach. The ice seemed to quiet a bit, and I took a shallow breath. I hardly felt the cold as I pushed myself inch by terrible inch toward Tree. Our fingertips just touched once, and with one more push forward I held his hands in mine.
His teeth chattered madly as I pulled myself backward and he slowly emerged from the river. His lips had turned a frightening blue and his breath came only in fits. I continued to crawl backward until I felt someone (Will, it turned out) grasp my ankles and pull both Tree and me to safety.
Without a word, we bundled Tree in our cloaks and raced toward my home. I counted it as a blessing, perhaps even a miracle, that despite our haste we did not slip on the ice-covered stones. Within minutes, we had buried Tree in goose-down quilts, and Hannah brought him a hot bowl of pottage. Once his chattering had slowed enough for him to talk, he began to tell an enraptured Elizabeth his account of the morning’s adventures. The fact that he had nearly died seemed not to matter to either one of them.
I later learned that the boy who had told me to lie on my belly was a Hollander who’d come to York with his father and been trapped in the city when the river froze. I thanked the Lord for the boy and the good he’d done us. After a time, Elizabeth climbed under the covers with Tree and the two of them drifted off to sleep.
