by Ann Swinfen
‘I know that.’ I spoke somewhat sharply, but I was worried. Indeed, I was afraid, but I was not prepared to admit it. The whole case for murder rested on my testimony. But I was an unemployed physician, cast out by St Thomas’s hospital. Might the coroner and jury think that I was up to mischief, calling attention to myself for some personal reason? But attention was the very last thing I wanted. I suspected that Lord Hunsdon had not altogether believed my assertion that Wandesford had been poisoned. He would be obliged to attend the inquest, something he surely would not relish. The inconvenience and the scandal could all be laid at my door.
I began to pace about the room.
‘I do have the wine from Wandesford’s glass in the phial, still sealed with wax. You and Will saw me seal it. The coroner could call for someone else to examine it.’
‘Who?’
‘An apothecary or another physician would do. They should be able to recognise belladonna. It is not an obscure poison.’
‘Perhaps you should suggest that to the coroner. You could send him a message.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Write it now,’ Simon said, ‘then give it to the Atkins lad in the morning. If he runs straight to the Guildhall he should be able to deliver it before the coroner leaves for the Green Dragon.’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘That’s a useful suggestion. I will explain that I have some of the wine from Wandesford’s glass and would like a second person to sample it, in order to confirm my suspicions.’
Simon returned to his room to catch what sleep he could, while I wrote and sealed a message for the coroner. I had barely closed my eyes before it was time to rise again. I dressed carefully, after brushing my robe and rubbing my shoes with a cloth to rid them of dust. Probably a waste of effort, for the streets between Southwark and the Green Dragon would be thick with dust and they would soon be soiled again. My hair needed cutting, but I combed it, then tucked it under my physician’s cap. I picked up my satchel and checked yet again that the phial was still inside, then whistled to Rikki.
On my way downstairs, I banged on Simon’s door.
‘I am taking Rikki to Tom Dean,’ I called. ‘I will meet you at the Bridge gate, but if you are not there, I shall go on ahead. I must not fail to be at the inn on time.’
Simon answered with a grunt, but I was already halfway down the stairs, calling to young Jos Atkins to take my message to the Guildhall.
When I returned to the Bridge from the hospital, Simon was just running toward me, so I waited and we crossed the river together.
‘My head is pounding,’ I said. ‘I suppose it is lack of sleep.’
‘Or the weather,’ he said.
He was right. A brassy glaze lay over the sky and the air seemed almost too thick to breathe. The weeks of heat had built up in layers, so the very ground failed to cool during the night, but instead hoarded the heat like a baker’s oven when the fire is first raked out. The streets of the city burned through the soles of our shoes. Jagged black lines, like flashes of lightning, flickered across my sight, and my skull felt ready to burst.
We reached the Green Dragon, whose very sign was peeling in the sun, as if the dragon’s scales were lifting in menace, having taken on a life of their own. Already a crowd was gathering outside and we had to push our way to the door, muttering ‘coroner’s witnesses’ by way of apology. Beside the door, a gaunt woman thrust out her basket at us.
‘Nosegays, to sweeten the air, my fine sirs! Sweet nosegays for the gentlemen!’
Simon looked startled, but I nodded.
‘How much?’
‘A ha’penny each, my master.’
I shook my head and made to go on.
‘Too much.’
‘A poor body has to live, master,’ she whined, with a hint of menace in her tone. ‘Sweet nosegays, picked fresh this morning out beyond Finsbury Fields.’
This was clearly a lie, for the flowers were already beginning to wither, and they were the sort of wild flowers that could be found in odd corners of the city. She had not walked far to gather them, nor picked them this morning. However, I knew what the atmosphere would be like by midday, with the crowd and the corpse, confined in one room.
‘I’ll give you a farthing for two,’ I said, holding the coin out to her.
She snatched it from me and thrust two small bunches into my hand. I handed one to Simon as the woman pushed her basket under the nose of a fat man I recognised as a local baker.
‘What do we want with these?’ Simon asked.
‘They won’t help much, but you’ll be glad of it, nevertheless. Poor Master Wandesford has been lying unburied these three days.’
‘Oh,’ he said, understanding.
Inside it was already hotter than in the street outside. The innkeeper was standing at the door to the parlour, his face reddened by the heat and a look of despair in his eyes. When he caught sight of me, he glowered.
‘This is all your doing,’ he snapped. ‘All this talk of poison. I’ll have you know this is a decent house and we have never had any trouble. Never.’
‘I promise you,’ I said, ‘I do not believe that the poison had anything to do with you, and I shall make that quite clear to the coroner.’
‘That is all very well,’ he began, but he could not finish, for Simon and I were shoved into the room by the press of men coming up behind.
‘Give way, there!’ It was a large stout man I recognised as a butcher with a business just round the corner from the inn. ‘We are the Coroner’s Jurors.’ He spoke with a swaggering exaggeration, and I suppose to be chosen to sit on a coroner’s jury was an event to excite a man who spent his life hacking apart fly-blown carcasses.
‘Give way yourself,’ Simon said crossly. ‘I am a coroner’s witness, and Dr Alvarez here is the expert with knowledge of the method of killing, so look to your manners, sirrah!’
The butcher made a snorting noise. He did not apologise, but he stopped pushing. Even so, we were propelled forward by the sheer bulk of people crowding into the room. A harassed sergeant from the coroner’s office in the Guildhall marshalled the sixteen jurors on to two rows of benches on one side of the room, and directed us, together with the remaining witnesses, to benches facing them. Between the two groups, a large chair had been placed for the coroner, with the official banner hung on the wall behind, displaying the royal arms and those of the City of London, while in front a table was set out with writing materials and a large and beautiful nosegay of roses, lavender, and healthful herbs.
I recognised at least half of the jurors by sight – as well as the butcher, two local bakers, a cordwainer, a clerk, a fishmonger, a carpenter, and the farrier who shoed the Walsingham horses. Once all the witnesses and jurors were seated, the public were allowed to enter, which they did with much shoving and ramming of elbows, until every available space was crammed with people, except for a cleared area in front of the coroner’s table, occupied by a pair of trestles. I was surprised to see a fair sprinkling of women amongst the men in the crowd, decent, respectable looking goodwives, and not of the poorest class either.
Just when it seemed not another person could squeeze through the door, a second coroner’s sergeant cleared a passage through the press for one more person, who joined us on the witnesses’ benches. He smiled and bowed at me before sitting down.
‘Do you know him?’ Simon whispered. There was no need for him to whisper, for the crowd of newcomers were all talking at full pitch.
‘It is Master Winger,’ I said, ‘the senior apothecary at St Bartholomew’s.’
I was relieved. There were many apothecaries in London, and not all were honest men, but I had known Master Winger for years and I was certain he could be trusted to support my analysis of the wine. His daughter Helen was married to Peter Lambert, and he was newly a grandfather.
‘Should Master Wandesford’s body not be here?’ It was Guy, crowded up against my other side. ‘I thought the inquest must be held super visum corpor
is.’
‘I expect that is why the trestles are there,’ I said.
‘Ah.’
As if they had heard us, the sergeants now began thrusting a wide path through the crowd of gaping onlookers, as four stout men staggered in, carrying a simple coffin of cheap unpolished wood. The crowd which had grumbled at being pushed aside now avidly surged forward, trying for a glimpse of the body, although the lid was still on the coffin. I felt suddenly sick. Not at the thought of seeing the body, for I had seen many, but at the morbid curiosity of these people. Poor, quiet Master Wandesford. I was filled with disgust. Had I dared, I would have sprung to my feet and left this wretched, unseemly gathering.
The coffin bearers paused in front of the trestles. Sweat was running down their faces, and even where I was sitting I could smell that sweat. The sergeant who had escorted us to our seats made a final adjustment to the position of the trestles, then nodded at the bearers, who laid the coffin down with relief and straightened up, some flexing their fingers, others wiping their faces on their sleeves. The sergeant leaned over the coffin and lifted off the lid, setting it on the floor beneath the trestles. The crowd leaned forward. The jurors maintained their dignity, but one and all they stiffened expectantly.
The stench from the body rose like a sickly miasma into the room, mingling with the stink of hot, unwashed bodies, crowded together in too small a space. The only window had been opened, yet there was no hope that it could mitigate the foulness of the air. I raised the bunch of wilting flowers to my nose, but their meagre scent was no match for the stink. On either side, Simon and Guy were pressed up against me so tightly I could feel the heat of their bodies.
There was a door in the wall behind the coroner’s chair, leading, as I knew, to a smaller parlour, where a private dinner might be accommodated. The two sergeants now approached it and stood on either side. The buzz of talk from the crowd, which had faded as the coffin was brought in, now rose in pitch and excitement. There must have been some signal from beyond the door, for one of the sergeants threw it open and then drew back. Witnesses and jurors were motioned to stand. The coroner entered.
He was a tall man, dressed in long black robes, lawyer’s robes, not very different from my own physician’s gown, though the yoke and sleeves are distinctive, indicating the different professions. However, whereas my gown was of rough woollen cloth, irritating in the heat, the coroner’s gown whispered silk as he moved gravely to his chair, bowed to the company and took his seat. We all resumed our own seats.
I tapped Simon’s arm and whispered, ‘I know him.’
He raised an interrogative eyebrow.
‘Sir Rowland Heyward. Last year as Governor of the Muscovy Company he sent me on my mission, then I reported to him when I returned. And I’ve remembered seeing him once before, at a meeting of the governors of St Bartholomew’s.’
Guy leaned forward. ‘He stepped in as Lord Mayor when John Allot died before finishing his term of office. I’ve heard the Lord Mayor may act as coroner ex officio.’
So that was why he was here.
One of the coroner’s sergeants frowned at us. It would be difficult to silence the public, but the jurors and witnesses were expected to behave in a seemly manner.
Before the business of the court could begin, there was a stir by the door. One of the inn servants was pushing his way through, carrying a cushioned chair before him like a battering ram, which he place at the end of our row of benches, then bowed deeply and stepped aside. There were several gasps and a rise in the level of noise as the newcomer was recognised. Lord Hunsdon, resplendent in a velvet doublet of dark green, slashed with copper coloured satin, gave the merest hint of a bow to the coroner and took his seat, ignoring the rest of us and staring straight ahead. Normally sober in his dress, he was clearly making a point with the wealth displayed on his person, in clothes, rings, and his very bearing. No one could doubt that this was the highest ranking individual in the coroner’s court. It was clearly intended to intimidate, though I did not think that Sir Rowland himself was intimidated.
It was only then that I realised one person was missing. All those who had been present at the dinner in the garden of the Green Dragon had been ordered by the coroner to attend. The whole of Master Burbage’s company and I were here, as were the inn servants, Lord Hunsdon and his two attendants, who now followed him in and took up a position standing behind his chair, for there was no more room on the benches. There was no sign, however, of Mistress Aemilia Bassano.
I wondered whether Sir Rowland knew that she had been present at the dinner, but considered that the testimony of a woman had no value in the present case. Or had Lord Hunsdon used his considerable influence to suppress the fact that she had been there, and so protect his reputation? Perhaps he even cared for her reputation, but since he openly flaunted her as his mistress I was inclined to doubt it.
With a certain inward irony, I thought that, had all those present realised that the case for murder had been raised by a woman, moreover a woman masquerading as a man, this whole performance would not be taking place. For it did seem like a performance, those of us participating in the inquest were the players, the citizens of London were the audience. To the less sensitive of that audience, who had not known the man whose body lay before them, it must have seemed much like a play, staged for their benefit.
I closed my eyes briefly. The pain in my head was getting worse, but I must not let it overwhelm me.
The inquest began. Unnoticed by me, a man with inky fingers had slipped in after Sir Rowland and seated himself behind a small table at the coroner’s elbow. He had paper, ink, and quills, so I realised he must be the clerk of the court, here to write down the proceedings. He dipped his pen in the ink and waited with it poised over the paper.
One by one, each juror was called forward by an official and handed a Bible on which he must swear to speak only the truth. He was then required to state his name, occupation and address, all carefully entered in his official record by the clerk of the court. This took some time, and the audience grew restless, the room hotter.
Once the jurors were sworn in, they were led to the coffin and required to take note of the deceased person over whom this inquest was taking place, to determine the cause of death. They made a fine show of manly courage as they studied the body, but both of the bakers looked decidedly green, while a small man, unknown to me, pressed a handkerchief to his mouth and rolled his eyes, with the air of someone like to vomit at any moment. As they return to their places, he retreated to the back and fixed his eyes firmly on the ceiling, swallowing repeatedly.
The jurors dealt with, it was the turn of the witnesses, starting with Lord Hunsdon, who spoke with some arrogance, as if he hardly expected to have to account for himself or state his name. The official, though polite in his manner, made no distinction for his birth and position. In previous encounters I had found his lordship pleasant enough and by no means as lofty as many men of lesser rank, but I had some sympathy for him in his present situation. He had entertained the players to dinner merely because of his interest in the playhouses, and now found himself caught up in this disreputable affair, which almost certainly had nothing whatsoever to do with him.
After Lord Hunsdon, Master Burbage and then the rest of us who were witnesses swore and gave our particulars. Finally the preliminaries were over and Sir Rowland spoke for the first time.
‘Who is present in this court to identify the deceased?’ he asked, looking towards us.
Master Burbage and Guy rose to their feet.
‘We are, your honour,’ Master Burbage said.
They both approached the coffin and looked down. Master Burbage had his back to me, but I saw a spasm of pain cross Guy’s face.
‘Do you recognise the deceased? If so, name him.’
‘His name is Oliver Wandesford,’ Master Burbage said, ‘late copyist to Lord Strange’s Men, of which I am the governor.’
‘I also confirm that this is Oliver Wand
esford,’ Guy said.
‘And how long have you known the deceased?’
‘Fifteen years.’
‘Fifteen years.’
‘There is no doubt in your mind that this is Oliver Wandesford?’
‘None.’
They were waved back to their seats.
The coroner now asked Lord Hunsdon to give an account of how and why the dinner in the garden of the Green Dragon had taken place three nights before, which he did with remarkable brevity.
‘And are all those who attended the dinner now present?’
‘They are.’
Hunsdon spoke without hesitation or so much as a flicker of an eyelid. I suppose courtiers must learn to lie smoothly from a very early age. Next the innkeeper was required to give an account of all the victuals served, where they had come from, who had prepared them, and how they had been served.
He had barely finished his very long-winded and defensive account of the excellence of the food provided by the Green Dragon when there was a disturbance in the audience. The coroner frowned and signalled to the sergeants to investigate. It soon became clear that two people had fainted from the heat and the close atmosphere, which made it so difficult to breathe. One was a young boy. Barely up to an adult’s elbow, he must have suffered more than the rest from the stifling air. The other was a pregnant woman, not far off her time. I half rose to go to their assistance, but Guy pulled me back down.
‘You cannot leave until the proceedings are closed,’ he whispered. ‘They will find another physician.’
The woman and the boy were bundled unceremoniously out of the inn, and we were unable to see what became of them. Once quiet – or relative quiet – had been restored, each of the witnesses, including me, was told to give an account of the dinner. For the moment I was not being singled out. The evidence was mostly repetitive and seemed to go on for hours. Our audience, clearly eager for excitement, grew restless, and bored, and noisy. Several times the sergeants reprimanded them. They even went to far as to turn a few of the noisier offenders out into the street.
