‘Why should he do that, if he came to do business, however unwelcome?’ asked John, trying keep the sarcasm out of his voice. This was the woman who had helped to hound four women to their deaths.
‘Because she told the swine what she thought of him,’ spat Avise, her eyes glittering with hatred. ‘He killed my father for the business and he tried to do the same to my mother.’
‘Just tell me what happened,’ said John patiently. ‘Were you there all the time?’
‘I was indeed,’ replied the daughter. ‘De Hocforde became abusive when my mother continued to refuse to have any dealings with him and when she loudly accused him of bringing about my father’s death by having a curse placed upon him. He became angry and violent and pulled out his dagger, waving it about.’
This sounded unlikely, but de Wolfe kept his temper. ‘Madame, your husband did not die as a result of magic.’
The fury that Cecilia had held for Henry de Hocforde now transferred itself to the coroner, for confounding her beliefs. ‘You have kept trading me that lie from the beginning! I tell you, he did not die of a seizure!’ she shouted.
‘I agree with you,’ said John. ‘I now believe that he was deliberately poisoned with sugar of lead.’
Cecilia’s rage collapsed like a pig’s bladder pierced with a needle. She stared at him open mouthed. ‘Poisoned? By whom?’
‘The apothecary, Walter Winstone — though he is now in no position to admit or deny it.’
The sharp-witted widow rapidly collected her senses. ‘Then it was at the behest of de Hocforde, if you are right. Why else should an apothecary want to kill a good customer?’
De Wolfe did not want to be sidetracked from the stabbing. ‘How did he come to be injured?
The daughter broke in rapidly here, too quickly for John’s liking. ‘We told you, he burst into a flaming temper and advanced on my mother with his dagger. I screamed, but there were no servants within earshot and my brave mother was forced to pick up the knife she used to cut threads for her embroidery to defend herself.’
‘He stumbled in his rage and fell upon the blade that I was holding out to ward him off. My knife was very sharp, it has to be for the work it does.’ Cecilia pointed to a corner of the room, where a small, narrow knife lay on the floor, its blade red with blood.
De Wolfe thought the whole story a complete tissue of lies, but Avise stoutly supported her mother. ‘I saw it all, it was just as she described,’ she said vehemently. ‘He is a violent madman, who uses violence to get whatever he desires. My mother was in fear of her life and was defending herself!’
They both stuck resolutely to their version of events, and John saw that it was pointless to keep badgering them at the moment. ‘We’ll see what the victim has to say about it,’ he grunted and took Gwyn back with him to the other room. It was much too soon to expect any sign of Osric coming back with Brother Saul and they found Thomas solicitously holding a cup of brandy-wine to the lips of the mortally injured man.
‘I thought it might help him,’ muttered Roger, who looked very uneasy at the situation, with his wife and mother-in-law obviously lying through their teeth.
John crouched again by the victim’s side and saw that his pallor had worsened and that his breathing was becoming more rapid and shallow. Although he was no physician, he had attended enough mortally injured men to recognise the agonal stages. He felt Henry’s pulse, which was thready and feeble. Thomas, who also knew a dying man when he saw one, looked up quizzically at the coroner and murmured that they needed a priest.
‘You are a priest, man — or soon will be again! Do what is necessary or it will be too late. But let me speak to him first.’
He bent over Henry and spoke his name in a firm voice, asking whether he could understand him. Somewhat to his surprise, de Hocforde rolled his eyes towards him and nodded. ‘Am I dying?’ he whispered.
John felt under no obligation to lie. ‘Yes, Henry. We have sent for a physician, but I have no doubt that you will soon be in the next world.’
The man gave a faint sigh and closed his eyes. ‘I have brought it upon myself. Greed has laid me low.’ His lids rose again and he looked at Thomas. ‘Is that a priest there?’
‘Yes, he will be with you at the last. But now that you accept that you have no hope of living, have you anything to tell me? About your dealings with the de Pridias family or Walter Winstone?’
De Wolfe was being legally correct, as a dying declaration was valid in a court only if the victim had no expectation of survival, when the law assumed that it was the truth. There was a silence, then another whisper, though it was clearly heard in the quiet room.
‘I paid that knave of an apothecary well to do away with Robert de Pridias, but he was useless. I had to employ a sorcerer to curse him to death.’
‘And who was that?’ asked John grimly, avoiding putting a name into the man’s mouth.
‘Elias Trempole, God rest him.’
‘And did you have him and the apothecary killed?’
There was another pause and sweat appeared on the pallid brow of the dying man. ‘I had to do it. Winstone was threatening to expose me. Trempole had to go too.’
‘And who did you employ to slay them?’
‘Hugh Furrel — but the fool made it too obvious that the deaths were related. I have been dogged by fools all along.’
He gave a sudden cough and closed his eyes again.
‘He’s going soon, master,’ Thomas warned, and started to administer the last rites. These included the seven interrogations required by the Church to ensure that the dying person was a true believer and sincerely regretted his sins in order to obtain the final absolution — but it was too late. Although Henry was still alive, his brain had faded from want of blood and Thomas got no response. However, he continued to recite the Latin monologue of extreme unction and when Saul arrived a few minutes later was still doing so, with Henry’s heart still beating, albeit little more than a flicker.
John abandoned the task of getting more information and went out into the street with Gwyn.
‘We’ll never know now, will we?’ grunted the ginger giant. He looked at his master with a sly grin. ‘You asked him all about his crimes first, Crowner. Maybe if you’d started with who stabbed him, we’d know now.’
John scowled at him. ‘Are you accusing me of something, you old devil? I don’t like that malicious old bitch in there, but that bastard Hocforde had no less than three people murdered to suit his own ends.’ They stood waiting for Saul and Thomas to come out to tell them that the mill-master was finally dead. ‘At least we can clear up a few unfinished inquests now. I’ll leave the widow Cecilia to God and her conscience, if she possesses one!’
By noon, when like most people, he took the main meal of the day, John was again alone in his hall. Mary said that Matilda had gone off in a sombre mood to pray at the cathedral, a sure sign of the seriousness of her devotions.
He ate in solitary silence, apart from the panting Brutus, who sat slavering under the table, waiting for scraps. It was a scorching day outside and the old hound felt the heat — as did many a manor bailiff and village reeve, looking hopefully towards their fields of grain.
A man bleeding to death made no difference to John’s appetite and he made short work of a wooden bowl filled with mutton stew, taking his small eating knife from his belt to spear the solid lumps and drinking the liquid with a horn spoon. A piece of boiled salmon followed, all too common a fish on most dinner tables but by Matilda’s orders, strictly limited to once a week in the de Wolfe household. Some dried figs and raisins made up the dessert, brought back from Normandy on one of the ships that had taken a cargo of their wool to Caen.