The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

‘Possibly a good apothecary might make a better guess,’ suggested Blundus. ‘After all, we are physicians, dedicated to curing people, not killing them. Apothecaries spent more time collecting and extracting plants than us, so you could ask one of the better ones in the city.’

Humphrey, determined to keep the lead in any dialogue, nodded at this. ‘A reasonable idea, but surely it matters little what it was that killed Giffard – what you need to know is how it was given to him, for that should lead you to his killer. I see no other means other than through his mouth, so maybe those who claim that all his food was tasted are lying?’

‘Could it have been in an enema or an ointment?’ suggested William Blundus, in a glum voice that indicated he had little hope of this being true.

‘How could an ointment kill him?’ said the coroner’s officer, rather scathingly.

Blundus shrugged. ‘Just a suggestion. Many drugs are absorbed through the skin – otherwise it would be pointless in us prescribing salves, lotions and ointments.’

‘Well, I’ll enquire,’ replied Hangfield, in a tone that indicated he would be wasting his time. ‘But maybe the coroner will take up your idea that an apothecary might be able to help us.’

Within the hour, William was back in the castle, where he routed out their old clerk, Samuel, to dictate a brief résumé of what he had learned, which was almost nothing.

‘The coroner has gone somewhere, he’ll not be back here until the morning,’ announced Samuel in his quavering voice. ‘He said that he was having a meeting with the sheriff and the mayor before chapel to discuss the physician’s death.’ The old man snorted in disgust. ‘Just because the fitz Hamons and other wealthy merchants are upset over losing their doctor, we all have to run round in circles to appease them.’

William sighed, as it meant getting up early in the morning. He lived in a little house at the north side of the city and as it was obligatory for all the castle’s officers to attend early Mass in the chapel at the seventh hour in the summer, he would have to leave home before he was properly awake.

He trudged back to his house in the early evening, enjoyed a good meal of pork and beans that his wife prepared for him and told her of the day’s events. His six-year-old son, Nicholas, listened open-mouthed at the tale and, though he did not understand much of what his father was saying, he knew the dread implications of the word ‘murder’, which usually ended with a public ceremony at the gallows just outside the city wall.

It was an ill-tempered group that met in the sheriff’s chamber early next morning. Nicholas Cheney and Richard de Tilly had both been at a feast in the Guildhall the previous evening, and the notorious lavishness of the Guild of Vintners, especially when they were celebrating the inauguration of a new Master, had left them with aching heads from the abundance of wine provided. The coroner had been at a different, more private celebration after attending a cock-fight and was also feeling as if the drummer of a war galley was performing inside his skull.

They listened in silence as William Hangfield read out his report of his activities the previous day and elaborated on a few of the points, to make it sound as if there was slightly more substance than it actually possessed. When he had finished, the silence continued for a moment, until it was broken by a rustling sound as the overdressed mayor fished around in his belt-pouch and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment.

‘Before we start discussing this shocking affair once again, what do you make of this?’

He slapped the parchment on to the sheriff’s table and smoothed it out with a podgy hand.

‘Some urchin slipped it into my under-clerk’s hand as he arrived at my chamber this morning. The boy ran off as if the Devil was chasing him, but even if we had caught him, he would only have said that some stranger gave him a penny to deliver it.’

The coroner, who had flashing zigzag lights in his eyes as a harbinger of a migraine, did not attempt to read it. ‘What does it say?’ was his only question.

Sheriff Cheyney picked it up, being proud of his literacy in a society where that was mostly confined to clerics and merchants. In fact, the mayor could not read or write and the contents of the note had been read to him by his under-clerk.

‘A scrawled hand, I suspect to disguise the penmanship,’ muttered the sheriff. ‘It reads, “Look to the killer in he who woos the lady.”’

‘And what in Hell’s name might that mean?’ growled the coroner, as the effort of thinking seemed to make his headache worse.

‘It’s blatantly obvious,’ said the sheriff impatiently. ‘Someone is claiming that Eleanor Giffard had a lover who wished to rid her of the encumbrance of a husband.’

The mayor had already worked this out for himself and the dangerous significance of it was not lost upon him. ‘We would be entering hazardous waters if we took any notice of this foul accusation. It is obviously nothing but some evil libel made up by some malicious enemy.’

Nicholas Cheyney was inclined to agree. ‘Even if only a breath of such scandal were to become common knowledge, Maurice, Earl of Berkeley, and his powerful retinue would descend upon us like avenging angels, to defend the honour of their kinswoman.’

‘To say nothing of the fitz Hamon family, if they became embroiled in this foul defamation,’ growled the coroner, the flashing lights in his eye becoming more aggravating.

‘Why should they be involved, for God’s sake?’ demanded the mayor.

Fitz Urse turned to his officer. ‘Tell them what we saw at the Giffard house yesterday, William.’

Rather reluctantly, Hangfield related how they had called upon the widow and found her closeted alone in her solar with Jordan fitz Hamon, the lady’s chaperone having been banished outside.

The sheriff, to whom this revelation was new, looked thunderous, while the mayor slammed his hand on the table and jumped to his feet.

‘I knew this would lead to trouble!’ he bellowed. ‘This must not be made public knowledge, whatever happens! Imagine the scandal if the son of our most prosperous ship owner – and most generous benefactor to the city – was suspected of murder.’

‘And even more if he was tried at the Eyre of Assize and hanged,’ added the sheriff, with grim satisfaction.

The coroner overcame his headache to add fuel to the flames of anxiety. ‘You are assuming that it is a man who is the culprit… but what if the wife wanted to be free to marry a younger man? Would it not be an even greater calamity if the daughter of Maurice of Berkeley was found guilty of poisoning her husband?’

The sheriff held up his hand for quiet. ‘Before we begin to rant and rave about the calamity that might happen, had we not better decide whether this scrap of parchment has any shred of truth in it? And if not, then let us forget it.’

His rational approach calmed the other two men.

‘If true, it is a serious allegation,’ said the mayor heavily. ‘For a man to be alone with a married woman, especially if her handmaiden has been sent out of the room, can only suggest some impropriety.’

‘So can we talk about who might have sent it – and why?’ agreed the coroner. ‘Either he has some knowledge of the poisoning – or is falsely trying to lay the blame for it on to another person.’

‘With what object?’ blustered the mayor. ‘Could it just be spite – or perhaps he is just a deranged madman, out of his wits?’

‘You keep saying “man”, but it could equally well be a woman,’ objected the sheriff. ‘They are well known for both their devious cunning and for being fond of poison for their murderous deeds.’