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 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.