Susanna GREGORY - A Vein of Deceit

Edith’s husband, Oswald Stanmore, was a wealthy merchant, and his Milne Street property was luxurious. Thick woollen rugs were scattered on the floor, and fine tapestries hung on the walls. Not for him the stinking tallow candles used by most people; his were beeswax, and gave off the sweet scent of honey. A number were lit, casting an amber glow around the room. They illuminated Edith, kneeling next to someone who flailed and moaned. The rugs beneath the patient were soaked in blood; there was far too much of it, and Bartholomew knew he had been called too late.

‘Thank God you are here, Matt!’ Edith cried when she saw him. Her face was pale and frightened. ‘Mother Coton says she does not know what else to try.’

Bartholomew’s heart sank. Mother Coton was the town’s best midwife, and if she was stumped for solutions, then he was unlikely to do any better. He knelt next to the writhing woman and touched her face. It was cold and clammy, and her breathing was shallow. He had been expecting someone younger, and was surprised to see a woman well into her forties. Her body convulsed as she was seized by another contraction, and the scream that accompanied it was loud enough to hurt his ears.

‘It is getting worse,’ said Edith in a choked voice. ‘ Do something!’

‘She took a potion to rid herself of her child,’ explained Mother Coton. She was a large, competent person, whose thick grey hair was bundled into a neat coif. ‘Pennyroyal, most likely.’

‘No,’ objected Edith. ‘I am sure she–’

‘I know the symptoms,’ interrupted Mother Coton quietly. ‘I have seen them hundreds of times. She brought this on herself.’

‘But Joan wanted this child,’ cried Edith, distressed. ‘She had all but given up hope of providing her husband with an heir, and was delighted when she learned she was pregnant.’

Mother Coton declined to argue. She turned to the physician. ‘Can you save her? You snatched Yolande de Blaston from the jaws of death after I told her family to expect the worst. God knows how – witchcraft, probably. Will you do the same for this woman?’

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew, hating the dismay that immediately flooded into Edith’s face. It upset him so much that he barely registered why Mother Coton thought he had been successful with Yolande; he was used to people assuming his medical triumphs owed more to sorcery than book-learning and a long apprenticeship with a talented Arab medicus , but he did not like it, and usually made a point of telling them they were mistaken. ‘I can only ease her passing.’

‘No!’ shouted Edith, beginning to cry. ‘You must help her. Please, Matt!’

Her tears tore at his heart, but she was asking the impossible. He began to drip a concentrated form of poppy juice between the dying woman’s lips, hoping it would dull the pain and make her last few moments more bearable.

‘I have never seen this lady before,’ said Mother Coton to Edith, while he worked. ‘And I know most of the pregnant women in Cambridge. Is she a visitor?’

Edith nodded, sobbing. ‘We were childhood friends, although I have not seen her for years – not since she married and left Cambridge. We met by chance in the Market Square two days ago, and she has been staying with me since. She came to buy ribbons for the baby clothes she plans to make.’

‘Then I am sorry for your loss,’ mumbled Mother Coton, in the automatic way that suggested these were words uttered on far too regular a basis.

‘Is Joan’s husband staying here, too?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘If so, we should summon him.’

‘He is lord of Elyan Manor, in Suffolk. But he did not come with her to shop for baby baubles – he stayed home.’ Edith’s hands flew to her mouth in horror. ‘Oh, Lord! What will Henry say when he learns what has happened? He will be distraught – Joan said this child means a lot to him.’

‘She came alone?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Suffolk was a long way away, especially for a woman at such an advanced stage in her pregnancy.

‘She came with her household priest, who had business with King’s Hall. He is staying at the Brazen George.’ Edith clambered quickly to her feet. ‘I shall send a servant to–’

‘It is too late,’ said Bartholomew, as Joan’s life-beat fluttered into nothing. ‘I am sorry.’

Edith stared at him, and any colour remaining in her face drained away. ‘Then she has been murdered,’ she declared in an unsteady voice. ‘Do not look at me in that disbelieving way, Matt. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’

Bartholomew was used to losing patients – he had been a physician for many years, and was the first to admit that the field of medicine was woefully inadequate, even among the most dedicated and skilled of practitioners – but that did not mean he found it easy. Even when he did not know the victim, there were grieving friends and kin to comfort, and dealing with death was the part of his profession he most disliked. He led Edith to a bench, and held her in his arms while she wept.

‘She was my oldest friend,’ she whispered, heartbroken. ‘We spent all day picking ribbons for her baby. Then we ate just after sunset, and sat laughing about old times. How can she be dead now?’

Bartholomew had no answer. He glanced up, and saw Mother Coton was still with them. He had sent his book-bearer to fetch a bier, while two maids were swabbing the blood from the floor, so she was not lingering to be helpful. It took him a moment to realise she was waiting to be paid.

Fees were usually the last thing on his mind on such occasions, and it was a constant source of amazement to him that others felt differently. He could not pay her himself – Mother Coton’s charges were princely and he was far from rich – so he was obliged to interrupt Edith’s tearful reminiscences and remind her of her obligations. Fortunately, the need to address practical matters forced Edith to compose herself. Wiping her eyes, she took a key from a chain around her neck and unlocked a chest.

‘I do not care what your experience tells you, Mother Coton,’ she said, handing over several coins with a defiant glare. ‘Joan did not take something to end her pregnancy.’

The midwife made no reply, although her expression said she thought Edith would accept her diagnosis in time. Bartholomew was inclined to agree: Joan’s symptoms matched those of an attempt to abort. Of course, Edith’s testimony suggested Joan was happy with the prospect of motherhood, but it was not unknown for women to change their minds, and Joan was old for a first pregnancy – perhaps she had not wanted to risk dying in childbirth.

One of the maids picked up Joan’s cloak, intending to lay it over the body. As she did so, a little pottery jar dropped out. Had it landed on the flagstones, it would have shattered, but it fell on a rug, then rolled under the bench. Bartholomew bent to retrieve it.

‘A tincture containing pennyroyal,’ he said, after removing the stopper and sniffing the contents. He poured a little into his hand, then wiped it off on his leggings. ‘Not the herb, but the oil, which can be distilled by steaming. It is highly toxic.’

Mother Coton nodded her satisfaction at being right. ‘It is the plant of choice for expelling an unwanted child.’

‘Then someone gave it to her,’ said Edith firmly. ‘She did not take it of her own volition.’

Mother Coton looked as if she might argue, but then raised her shoulders in a shrug, and when she spoke, her voice was kinder than it had been. ‘You should rest now, Mistress Stanmore. It has been a long night, and things will look different in the morning.’

One of the maids escorted her out, while the other took away the blood-soaked rugs and finished cleaning the floor. She was efficient, and it was not long before all evidence of traumatic death had been eradicated – with the exception of the cloak-covered corpse. Edith stared unhappily at it.