Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries)

by Bernard Knight

  As they walked, they passed or overtook a variety of people, from ones hobbling on crutches, to others being helped by relatives, some moaning and sobbing. A sister in a black habit and flowing cover-chief, tenderly held a small baby, the mother walking ashen-faced alongside. A small cart, pushed by a youth, carried a woman flat on her back, keening in pain, her anxious husband bent over her as they went.

  ‘Cheerful place, this,’ grunted Gwyn, looking askance at the plentiful evidence of pain and suffering around them.

  ‘Thank God it exists!’ countered Thomas sternly. ‘Or there would be even more distress without the efforts of these Austin monks and nuns. May Christ and all his saints bless them!’

  Their barefooted guide took them past the end ward block with its stone-tiled roof and came to a small structure jutting from a low building, which from the smell must have been the reredorter, the latrines of the hospital.

  ‘The dead-house is always in the worst possible place!’ grumbled John, but he walked unhesitatingly to the door, leaving the boy to scamper back to the gatehouse. Inside, it was hot and gloomy and pervaded by the lingering smell of the thousands of corpses that had passed through it over the years.

  When their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, they saw a row of four wooden biers, stretchers with handles at each end, standing on four legs. Two were empty, the other pair held shrouded bodies.

  Gwyn lifted the sheet from the nearest, but replaced it quickly when he saw the face of a woman, grotesquely deformed by a great tumour that grew from the lower jaw. ‘It must be the other one,’ he muttered and moved to the next bier. The face that was revealed this time was familiar to them all – it was Simon Basset, one-time canon of Lichfield.

  De Wolfe moved up to stand alongside his officer, with Thomas hanging well behind, fervently crossing himself and murmuring Latin blessings for the dead.

  ‘Well, we’ve found our Treasury man,’ said John, with melancholy satisfaction. ‘Now he’ll never be able to tell us anything!’

  They looked down at the cadaver, whose face had a serene expression. He was dressed in a hospital shift of coarse wool, his hands crossed peacefully over his chest, with a small crucifix pressed between his fingers.

  At a sign from the coroner, Gwyn pulled the sheet right down to the corpse’s feet and they studied the exposed legs, then lifted the shift and examined the belly and chest. With one powerful hand, the Cornish-man turned the body on to its side, so that they could look at the back.

  ‘He doesn’t seem injured, what we can see of him,’ ventured Thomas, peering round Gwyn’s bulk. ‘What can he have died from?’

  A deep voice came from behind to answer him. ‘I fear he was poisoned, brother.’

  They turned and saw a tall monk standing in the doorway. He wore the black habit and scapula of an Augustinian, though over his front was a white linen apron speckled with a few spots of blood. He signed a cross in the air and Thomas responded with a genuflexion and his inevitable reflex touching of his head, heart and shoulders.

  John turned to acknowledge him with a brief bowing of his head. ‘I am Sir John de Wolfe, the Coroner of the Verge. I am charged with investigating the disappearance of this man – and now with his death, it seems.’

  ‘And I am Brother Philip, one of those charged with trying to help the sick,’ replied the monk, with no trace of sarcasm in mirroring the coroner’s words. He had a pale, sad face under a severely cut tonsure which left little but a thin rim of fair hair around his head. ‘No doubt you can tell us the identity of this poor man, for he was unable to speak after he arrived and all we know of him is that he was in holy orders, and from the royal insignia on his cassock must have been in the king’s service.’

  John explained who Simon Basset was and the monk’s pale eyebrows rose when he learned that the dead man was a canon of a famous cathedral and a high official of the Exchequer. The coroner did not mention the matter of the missing treasure, but merely said that the priest had gone missing from home several days ago.

  ‘This poisoning, brother. Are you quite sure about that?’

  The Augustinian nodded gravely. ‘I am in no doubt at all – and I know what the poison must have been, for we frequently use it as a medicament. Several of my brother physicians came to examine the patient and all agreed with me.’

  ‘What was it, brother?’ interposed Thomas, whose insatiable curiosity overcame his reluctance to stay in the dead-house.

  ‘A common herbal remedy for dropsy and a failing heart. It was an extract of foxglove, which in small doses slows and strengthens the beating of the heart, but in excess is a potent poison.’

  They all looked at the still shape on the bier, free from any sign of injury. ‘How could you tell that?’ asked Thomas de Peyne.

  ‘The dramatic slowing of the pulse, which became erratic and finally ceased,’ answered Brother Philip. ‘And the rough fellows who brought him to the hospital, though they knew next to nothing about him, said that before his speech failed, he had been vomiting and rambling about his sight being yellow and green, which is a characteristic of foxglove poisoning.’

  ‘Did the men who delivered him here know anything more?’ asked de Wolfe. ‘Where were they from?’

  The Austin canon shrugged. ‘I fear I do not know. I see scores of these unfortunate patients each day, but only in the wards. Unless there is a relative with them, I rarely learn anything about their circumstances. The gatekeepers might be able to give you some more information.’

  The coroner considered this for a moment, then tried another tack. ‘Brother, if you are convinced that he died of poison, have you any idea how he may have taken it – or been given it?’

  This final distinction was not lost on the monk.

  ‘You mean did he swallow it himself – or was it given to him by some other person?’

  When John nodded, Philip shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you from a physician’s point of view – all I can say is that it must have gone down his throat somehow. But as a man of God, I must surely believe that no priest would have endangered his immortal soul by deliberately swallowing a fatal dose of foxglove in order to kill himself.’

  Nodding his head in fervent agreement, Thomas pursued this aspect. ‘Could you tell how large a dose was taken and how long before?’

  Philip pursed his lips as he considered this. ‘Without knowing anything of the circumstances before he came here, it is difficult. Was he well until having his last meal, for instance, which might mean the poison was introduced into his food or drink? It must have been a large dose if the interval was short, for his symptoms were very severe.’

  ‘How is foxglove usually given?’ asked John.

  ‘All of the plant is dangerous, the leaves, stems and roots,’ explained Philip. ‘Chewing those could cause symptoms, but the severity of this case suggests to me that a strong extract was used. A watery infusion is most common, unless dried and powdered plant is used. But a tincture, where an extract in spirits of wine is used, is the most potent.’

  ‘Is this drug easily obtainable?’ asked Gwyn, entering the discussion for the first time.

  ‘At the right season, anyone wandering the country lanes could pick a sackful!’ replied the monk. ‘And the wise women who practise their helpful art in every village will have dried plants hanging in all their cottages. For a strong powder or a tincture, one would probably need to visit an apothecary’s shop, but there’s no lack of those in London.’

  De Wolfe rasped his fingers over the black stubble on his cheeks as an aid to thought. ‘I agree that it seems highly unlikely that a rich canon would deliberately do away with himself, so that leaves murder or accident,’ he said. ‘Could it have been accidental?’

  Again the monk shrugged. ‘As I said, it only needs a large spoonful of the strong tincture to do fatal damage to the heart. Normally, the tincture is given as a few drops. As long as the foxglove goes down the throat, it is potent – but it seems straining belief to think of an
y accident that could cause a person to drink it in error.’

  The coroner agreed with Philip. ‘So that leaves us with murder as the most likely option! Is that feasible? Does foxglove have a foul taste?’

  ‘It is bitter, but only a small volume of the tincture is needed, which could be concealed in food or especially in wine. I have never seen a death from foxglove before, though I have had children who have unwisely chewed foxglove plants and once I saw a woman who had taken too much of her dried powder prescribed for dropsy. These people fell ill, but recovered as the dose was less than a fatal one.’

  They talked around the matter for several more minutes, but it became apparent that Brother Philip had no more to tell them and he was anxious to get back to his care of the sick, a marathon task for only eleven monks and four nuns to attempt in the face of the huge population of the nearby city. They left him with thanks and a promise to notify Westminster of the death, so that Simon Basset’s earthly remains could be collected for burial.

  On the way out to collect their horses, they stopped at the lodge, where John interrogated the gatekeeper. He was not the man on duty when Simon Basset was admitted, but he was soon found and had a clear recollection of the event.

  ‘We rarely get a priest brought in a chair litter,’ he observed. ‘Especially from a brothel!’

  ‘A brothel?’ barked the coroner. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘The chair men told me that they had picked him up at Margery’s whorehouse in Stinking Lane. She gave them two pence to bring him here, to get rid of him, it seems.’

  De Wolfe groaned – this bloody mystery was getting more complicated by the minute.

  ‘Did they tell you anything else?’ he demanded.

  ‘Only that the fellow was puking all the way and muttering and groaning. He kept saying that his vision had gone green and yellow – they thought he was either drunk or out of his wits.’

  There was nothing else to be got from the man, and after taking directions the trio set off for Stinking Lane. They trotted through some squalid lanes to nearby Aldersgate and entered the city through the stone arch in the great walls that had surrounded London since the time of the Roman Empire. Stinking Lane appeared no more foul than the other narrow streets nearby, all of which had piles of rubbish outside the houses and sewage trickling down the central gutter in the unpaved thoroughfare between the motley collection of buildings. John reined in halfway down the lane, looking around for the most likely location for a brothel.

  ‘We’re right in the city sheriff’s territory now,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘Is he going to take kindly to us investigating on his patch, after all that damned fuss he made the other day?’

  De Wolfe glowered around at the closely packed houses, some of which had upper storeys hanging over the street.

  ‘He took the trouble to send us that messenger telling us of Basset’s corpse, so it looks as if he’s got no interest in it,’ he replied. ‘Now which of these bloody ratholes is Margery’s stew?’

  Thomas walked his small palfrey on a few yards, to where a cripple in rags was squatting against the wall, picking through a heap of discarded vegetables for something still edible. Surreptitiously slipping the beggar a halfpenny that he could ill-afford, the soft-hearted clerk came back with the information that Margery’s brothel – not the only one in the lane – was the large house with a red door further down on the left.

  Gwyn hammered on the door and a girl opened it. She looked startled at the sight of a huge man with wild red hair and moustache, assuming that he was a customer she might have to satisfy. ‘You want a woman, sir? Come in, we are sure to have something to your tastes.’

  Then she caught sight of the two men on horses waiting in the street. ‘There are three of you? You’d best take your steeds around to the yard at the back.’

  Gwyn managed to interrupt her flow of words. Grinning at the good-looking girl, who was about seventeen, he patted her paternally on her dark hair. ‘We don’t want your favours, lass, we want your mistress. We are law officers, seeking to discover something about a priest who was taken ill here two days ago.’

  The mention of the law made the strumpet uneasy. Though it was not her problem, she knew that Margery had paid her usual bribes to the sheriff’s constables to leave them in peace, but she had also heard that their regular customer Canon Simon had died in St Bartholomew’s. Opening the door wider, she stood aside.

  ‘You need to speak to Dame Margery, then. And to Lucy, no doubt, for it was she who was with Fat Simon when he was took ill!’

  By now, John de Wolfe had dismounted and had advanced to the door, leaving Thomas to guard their horses, knowing that the prim little priest would be most reluctant to enter a house of ill-repute. At the same time, the madam of the establishment had appeared, attracted by the voices.

  Before she could open her red-painted mouth, John had boomed some orders.

  ‘Take us somewhere where we can speak!’ he commanded. ‘I am the king’s coroner and need to question you and your drabs.’

  Margery of Edmonton had enough experience of both men and officials to know that here was someone who could neither be trifled with, nor bribed with money or sensuous favours. Without a word, she led the way down a short passage to a large room where there were clean rushes on the floor, several couches and chairs and a counter where a hogshead of ale and jars of cider and wine were displayed. With a flounce of her henna-stained hair, she turned to face de Wolfe.

  ‘Where are the sheriff’s men, sir? They usually deal with sad accidents such as this.’

  ‘This was no accident, woman. The canon was murdered,’ he snapped. The brothel-keeper’s powdered face cracked in an expression of outraged disbelief.

  ‘Well, he wasn’t murdered here. This is a respectable house!’ she added illogically, considering the nature of her business.

  She sat down on a chair, but did not invite her unwelcome visitors to join her. The girl from the front door stood protectively behind her and now several other young women, all pretty and dressed in coloured silk gowns, appeared inquisitively at the doorway from the passage. De Wolfe, who in his younger days had more than a nodding acquaintance with whorehouses, recognised that this was a superior type of establishment with prices well above the stews that catered for the lower classes.

  ‘You were aware who the dead man was?’ began John, harshly.

  ‘Father Simon, some chaplain in the king’s service,’ replied the madam defensively. ‘We get a number of men of the cloth in here. Supposed to be celibate, I know, but that’s their business, not ours.’

  ‘He was a cathedral canon and an official of the Exchequer,’ snapped the coroner. ‘An important royal officer and I want to know who killed him!’

  Margery, now pallid under her make-up, began protesting that he had died of bad food and that his death was nothing to do with her, but John cut across her excuses.

  ‘Did he say where he had been before he came to relieve himself here?’ he demanded.

  For answer, the woman beckoned to one of the girls in the doorway. ‘Lucy, you attended to the priest. Come here and tell the coroner what you know.’

  Reluctantly, Lucy sidled into the room and stood before John, her eyes downcast. He thought she was too fresh and attractive to be used by any man who had four pence, though he also knew that many girls eventually found a husband amongst their clients.

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened, Lucy,’ asked de Wolfe in a more kindly tone. ‘If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear.’

  ‘He was a nice, kind man,’ she said with a sniff. ‘I’m sorry he’s dead – but I know nothing about it. I tried to help him when he was so sick.’

  ‘He was well enough when he arrived,’ mumbled Margery, but Lucy shook her head. ‘He was not his normal self even then. I noticed his brow was sweating, but thought he was excited at what was to come. Then we went up to one of the rooms upstairs and as he began taking off his clothing, he started to groan a
nd clutch his stomach.’

  ‘Did he say anything about where he had been?’ asked de Wolfe, but Lucy wanted to tell her story at her own pace.

  ‘He slumped down on the pallet and pulled off his hose, then apologised for not feeling well. He said it must have been something he had eaten, though he had dined with a friend at a good inn so it was surprising that there should be anything amiss with the food.’

  The coroner seized upon this. ‘Did he say who the friend was? Or which inn they had visited?’

  To his chagrin, the girl shook her head. ‘It was at that very moment that he started to vomit. From then on, his speech made no sense, he was too occupied in throwing up and groaning. I tried to comfort him and clean him up as best I could, but soon had to call the mistress, as he became so distressed.’

  In spite of more questioning of Lucy, her mistress and the other whores, de Wolfe failed to extract any other useful information. It seemed clear that following a good meal at a decent hostelry in the company of a friend, Simon Basset had arrived at his favourite brothel for his regular fornication. He was unwell on arrival and rapidly deteriorated, showing all the symptoms of foxglove poisoning, according to Brother Philip. Death had occurred without him becoming rational enough to explain what had happened and once again the coroner was stuck with a mystery.

  They left for the ride back to Westminster with an extra horse led on a head-rope behind Gwyn’s mare, for the canon’s mount had still been tethered in the yard behind the whorehouse. The crafty Margery had failed to mention it, no doubt hoping to sell the beast, until Gwyn had queried how Basset had arrived in Stinking Lane. Reluctantly, she admitted that the horse was still there and John hurried to examine it in case the saddlebag contained some further clue – for a moment he even wondered if some of the lost treasure might be there. In the event, there was nothing, but they decided to return the valuable nag to the house in King Street, when John called to give them the sad news.