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 violence, 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.’
Richard shrugged his rounded shoulders. ‘There you have me, Sir John. Again, though I should not say this, though I am no priest in the confessional, but Winstone’s reputation as an apothecary was not unblemished. He came here under rather dubious circumstances and the whisper is that he was suspected of some unprofessional practices in his former town of Southampton. Nothing was proved and I declined to pursue the matter when he came to Exeter, but it is possible that he made some enemies here — though how on earth that could tie in with the death of a cunning man, I have no idea.’
John grunted into his cup. ‘Unprofessional practices, you say? Can I take that to mean ridding unfortunate women of the unwanted burden of their husband’s lust?’
‘That at least — and possibly relieving unwanted persons of their lives!’
‘You are being very frank with me, Richard,’ said John, in some surprise.
‘Only because Walter Winstone is now beyond the retribution of us all, except Almighty God. We can do him no harm now and he has no family upon whom any stigma might fall.’
The coroner fell silent for a moment as he sipped the excellent wine, but his mind was working methodically. ‘Tell me, what methods might an unscrupulous apothecary employ to secretly get rid of such an unwanted person?’
‘There are many poisons which could be incorporated into pills, draughts and potions. Some are from certain herbs and plants, others are mineral in origin. Why do you ask?’
‘To be successful in a slow, secret poisoning, the victim would have to be a patient of that apothecary?’
Lustcote nodded. ‘It would be very difficult to administer the poison otherwise. Most have a hellish taste and so could not be added to food or drink by the one who commissioned the deed. But as medicines are supposed to function better the nastier they are, then almost any foul-tasting substance can be given under the guise of a medicament.’
The germ of an idea began forming in de Wolfe’s mind. ‘Tell me, are there any particular signs that would suggest that someone was slowly being poisoned?’
The master apothecary sighed. ‘You ask a question with a very long answer, Crowner. All kinds of symptoms may appear, but none are very specific. Wasting, belly-cramps, purging, vomiting, the yellow jaundice, bleeding spots in the skin and eyes — the list is long, but so many mimic natural disease.’
‘Would fouling and darkening of the gums with loose teeth suggest anything?’
‘So many people have terrible mouths and most lose their teeth eventually. It could be scurvy in those who are starved — but you say darkening as well?’
‘Yes, virtually black, an inky line along the roots of the teeth.’
Richard rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘That could be plumbism, of course. The administration of sugar of lead — Plumbum acetas — over a period can do that. It’s an effective poison which has no obnoxious taste and can fatally weaken the heart and brain if allowed to build up in the body.’
John elaborated no more on the matter to the apothecary, but he now fitted some more facts into place: Winstone was de Pridias’s physician, the man had blackened gums after death, and his widow Cecilia vehemently claimed that he had been done to death by the intervention of a cunning man or woman. He had no means of proving it, but as he walked back to Martin’s Lane the coroner wondered whether Henry de Hocforde also fitted into the pattern he was constructing in his mind.
Late in the afternoon of the following Monday, a small cavalcade clattered across the drawbridge at Rougemont and passed under the arch of the gatehouse. The sleepy sentry snapped to attention and saluted with his pikestaff, for the first rider was Sir Richard de Revelle, the county sheriff and nominally his lord and master. He was followed by a couple of his clerks, his steward and four men-at-arms who had escorted him on his journey to Winchester. The guard noticed that the sheriff’s thin face, never much disposed towards amiability, was darkened by a scowl as he trotted his horse into the inner ward and made for the keep on the other side. A trumpet-blast from one of the soldiers caused a flurry of activity around the wooden stairs that led to the entrance on the upper floor. A pair of ostlers scurried out from the undercroft below and several servants burst out of the main door to stand waiting on the platform at the top of the steps. As an ostler grabbed his stallion’s head, Richard slid from the saddle and stalked without a word to the keep. Ignoring the greetings of his servants, he stamped up the stairs and marched into the hall, pulling off his riding gloves and slapping them irritably against his thigh. Inside, he turned left around the screens to go towards his chambers, but then stopped dead as he saw who was sitting at a nearby table, drinking ale with the castle constable.
‘De Wolfe, damn you! I want to talk to you — now!’
His high-pitched voice was vibrant with anger as he glared across at the coroner, who stared back with infuriating calmness. ‘And a very good day to you, brother-in-law!’ he replied sarcastically, not moving from his bench.
De Revelle wheeled around and strode to his quarters, slamming the door behind him in the face of his apprehensive clerks, who had followed him into the hall.