The Witch Hunter

by Bernard Knight

  The coroner’s brow furrowed as he tried to assemble the significance of today’s events in his mind. Two identical murders, but no apparent connection between the victims other than a tenuous thread concerning witchcraft. What could an apothecary have in common with a fulling-mill worker, other than Elias’s reputation as a male witch and Walter’s support of a mad canon’s crusade?

  Shrugging off the puzzle for the moment, John followed the sounds of distress in the next room and pushed his way through a leather flap that shielded the doorway between the kitchen and the hall of the little house. Here he found the widow of Elias, a large woman whose ample bottom flowed over the sides of a milking-stool, being comforted by a daughter and a neighbour, both of whom were wailing almost as loudly as she. This was a scene that John hated, as any form of emotion embarrassed him and drove him into an even more gruff mode of speech. Luckily, the big monk had no such problem and his sympathetic spirit burgeoned as he went forward to soothe and comfort the women, using his best pastoral manner to calm them down.

  He spoke to them in his avuncular way for a few moments, then came back to John and beckoned him out into the kitchen-cum-sorcerer’s den.

  ‘They know little of any significance, Crowner,’ he announced, unsuccessfully trying to conceal his delight at being involved in a murder investigation. ‘The wife came home from visiting a relative to discover Elias dead in the yard, just as we found him. Nothing seems to have been stolen, though there seems little of any value here, unlike the apothecary’s dwelling.’

  ‘Does she or the daughter know of anyone who might be his enemy?’

  The monk shrugged his ample shoulders. ‘They admit he was never loath to sell a charm or a curse to those who wanted them and may well have upset those who thought they were the target of his necromancy. But they know of no one in particular who may have taken umbrage sufficient to want his death.’

  Osric had sidled up to hear this part of the conversation, having left his colleague Theobald outside to keep out the sullen crowd still clustered round the gate. ‘Remember, Crowner, that he worked at the fulling mills on Exe Island,’ he said quietly. ‘His master was Henry de Hocforde.’

  As de Wolfe digested this, he caught the eye of Rufus, whose eyebrows rose on his moon face. ‘There seem to be threads connecting each other like a spider’s web, Sir John,’ he observed. ‘He was the merchant that Cecilia de Pridias accused of wishing for her husband’s death.’

  The coroner ran his fingers through his long black hair in a gesture of exasperation. ‘But why would he want this wizard dead now, so long after the deed was done? And anyway, we sane people know that the fellow died of a seizure. Straw dollies are just a bloody nonsense and an irrelevance. And what in God’s name could that miserable little pill-pusher have to do with it?’

  Brother Rufus shrugged. ‘You said that he was treating de Pridias for an ailment in his belly, but that tells us nothing.’ He blew out his breath like a tired horse to express his frustration. ‘All I do know is that the witch-hunting canon has caused a great deal of trouble, including a few deaths. I pray that God will forgive him when the day of judgement comes.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  In which two witches meet on marshy ground

  In the late August dusk, an elderly woman picked her way slowly through a maze of muddy paths on Exe Island, outside the western walls of the city. The river flowed swiftly a few yards further on, its water swollen by the rains on Exmoor, though it had not yet flooded over the wide marshy area above the uncompleted bridge. Avelina Sprot, the dairy wife from Milk Street, lifted the hem of her brown woollen kirtle to keep it out of the mire, though her wooden clogs were caked in the tenacious clay that lay between the patches of coarse grass that dotted the flats. Muttering under her breath at the foul place that she needed to visit, she threaded through the reens and leats of the marsh, aiming for a rickety hut that stood on its own, out near the main river bank. Although there were many other shanties and shacks dotted across the island, housing the poorer labourers and wool porters that served the mills further upstream, the one she was seeking was even more ramshackle.

  When she eventually slithered up to it, she saw that the occupant needed all the magic she could muster to prevent the hut from falling into the river, as it leaned at a precarious angle, its rotting boards and mouldering thatch needing but a good push to tip it over.

  The householder was obviously at home, as smoke was filtering from under the eaves, as well as from many holes in the walls, and the battered hurdle that served as a door was lying on the littered ground outside. She called out to attract attention.

  ‘Lucy! Are you there, Lucy?’

  For a few moments there was no response, then an apparition shuffled to the doorway and peered out, the eyes blinking behind inflamed lids as she strained to see who was calling her.

  ‘It’s Avelina, Lucy. Avelina Sprot. I must talk to you.’

  Even though she had known Lucy for years, the visitor had not seen her for some months and was sad to see how she had deteriorated lately. Lucy was of indeterminate age, but looked at least a hundred, thought Avelina. Her thin grey hair was matted and filthy and her back was so bent that she had to stretch her neck up to look ahead. But her most remarkable feature was the growth of long grey hair over most of her face and neck, leaving only the skin around her eyes and forehead visible. She wore a grubby and shapeless black garment which hung from her gaunt frame like a curtain, and she shuffled along with the aid of a knobbly stick. Her eyes were filmed with cataracts and she had to come close to peer at her visitor to make sure of her identity.

  ‘Avelina Sprot! What brings you here, sister?’ Compared with the rest of her decrepit appearance, her voice was unexpectedly strong. She was not claiming her as a sibling, but part of the loose sisterhood of cunning women.

  ‘Have you not heard of what is happening in the city and around it?’ asked Avelina. ‘We are being persecuted, with one already dead and two more condemned.’

  Bearded Lucy, by virtue of both her age and reputation, was considered by those who possessed the gift as being their unofficial leader, much as the apothecaries looked to Richard Lustcote as their figurehead.

  Lucy beckoned for Avelina to come inside, but the visitor shook her head. She had seen Lucy’s dwelling once before and was in no hurry to repeat the experience. ‘I’ve no time, I must get back for the skimming. But I wanted to warn you and to ask if there is anything that can be done to stop this madness. Half the city is out for our blood, even though in a month’s time they will regret it.’

  Bearded Lucy sank slowly on to an empty box that lay among the debris outside her hut and leaned forward, clasping her gnarled hands on her stick. ‘I have heard some of this, but I get out very little now. Kind folk bring me something to eat now and then. I hope to die soon,’ she added simply.

  ‘Nonsense, you can’t die yet, we have too much need of you,’ snapped Avelina. She proceeded to tell Lucy all that had been happening in the last week or so and the old woman listened in silence.

  ‘You say that the witch-hunter is this priest, this canon?’

  ‘Yes, Gilbert de Bosco. But he was put up to it by the widow of this merchant and an apothecary, Walter Winstone, who was jealous of our healing skills.’

  Lucy screwed up her red-rimmed eyes and sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘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 violenc
e, 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.’