The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

There was a silence as the men digested these alternatives, until William Hangfield ventured to enter the discussion.

‘You asked why he sent this missive, sirs,’ he said respectfully. ‘Surely, another motive might have been to divert suspicion from himself by falsely blaming others?’

His master, Richard fitz Urse, supported his officer’s remark. ‘It is certainly something to bear in mind. I suppose we have no notion at all who may have sent this?’

The sheriff looked at the creased strip of parchment again.

‘It looks as if it was torn from a larger document, but nothing remains of that to assist us. The writing is in ordinary black ink and the penmanship is very irregular, though individual letters seem well-formed.’

‘And what does all that tell us?’ demanded the mayor aggressively, partly because, being illiterate, he was suspicious of anything to do with pen and ink.

‘At least that he was educated enough to be able to write this, and was not some gutter-cleaner or wharf-labourer,’ retorted the sheriff, restraining his desire to add ‘or a mayor’ to his list.

‘Most merchants’ clerks, clerics and even many choirboys can read and write to some extent,’ countered Richard de Tilly irritably.

The others ignored him as the coroner addressed the sheriff.

‘And you suggested that he – or she – disguised their handwriting?’ Nicholas Cheyney waved the scrap of parchment.

‘It seems strange that though the lines of writing are uneven and ill-spaced, most of the individual letters are well-formed.’

‘Are you suggesting that we search a city of fifteen thousand people to find someone whose letters match these?’ demanded the mayor.

The sheriff shook his head emphatically. ‘That would not only be futile, but impossible! I suggest that we lock away this scurrilous note somewhere safe, but bear its allegation in mind in case any other evidence comes to light.’

The coroner looked dubious. ‘I feel I must at least make some very discreet enquiries about the relationship between the younger fitz Hamon and Eleanor Giffard,’ he said. ‘What other motive can we imagine for this death? It is useless us sitting here, pontificating about it like a bunch of priests arguing about how many angels can sit on the point of a needle!’

He turned to his officer, who sat patiently waiting for someone to talk some sense.

‘William, we need you to question those damned servants more rigorously. They must know something – possibly about the widow and Jordan fitz Hamon. And get a decent apothecary to look at the contents of the late doctor’s pharmacy, to see if anything is there that might have caused the symptoms from which Giffard suffered.’

‘And maybe a good look at the kitchen, the larder and the storeroom might reveal something,’ added the sheriff.

A bell began tolling to summon the faithful to the castle chapel, and with some relief William rose and waited for the other men to leave, before they could find him even more tasks to perform. As they filed out to attend the early Mass, he wondered if there would ever come a time when murders were investigated by more than one coroner’s officer in a city the size of Bristol.

William Hangfield was a devout man and he was bringing up his small son, Nicholas, to be the same, the family attending their local church of St Mary-le-Port every Sunday. However, at the castle chapel that morning, his mind was more on the tasks the coroner had given him, rather than on his devotions. As soon as the Mass was over, he hurried down Corn Street to the shop of Bristol’s best-known apothecary, Matthew Herbert.

The coroner’s officer entered his shop, which opened directly on to the street, the shutter of the front window hinging down to provide a counter for the public display of pots of salve, bunches of herbs and bottles of lotions. Within the large room behind, several journeymen and apprentices sat at counters, busy grinding powders and mixing ointments. The walls were lined with shelves and rows of small drawers, each with a Latin name or cabbalistic sign painted on them to mark the contents. Bunches of herbs and even dried reptiles hung from the ceiling, and at the back of the shop, at a high desk set on a raised plinth, was the apothecary himself.

He was a grey-haired man in his mid-fifties, the most respected of his profession in the city. Matthew was the leader of the small apothecary group in the Bristol lodge of the Guild of Pepperers, which, through its monopoly of the spice trade, also embraced the purveyors of drugs and medicines.

William had met him several times, usually when he required some cure for his wife or son. Most of the city’s inhabitants went to an apothecary when they were ill, as doctors were too expensive. Probably, yet more people sought the help of ‘wise women’ than even an apothecary – and in the countryside, this was universal, as there was usually no one else in a village, other than some widow or midwife, who could deal with ill health.

Matthew Herbert recognised the coroner’s officer and came down from his high chair to greet him. When he discovered that William was there in his official capacity, rather than as a patient, he took him into a more private back room, which was a store filled with boxes, jars and bales, redolent with the aromatic scents of herbs.

‘You have no doubt heard of the sad demise of Robert Giffard?’ began William. ‘The coroner would be grateful for your professional assistance in the matter.’

Matthew’s bushy grey eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘I have heard of the untimely loss of our best physician, but how can I be of any help in that?’

The coroner’s officer explained the problem, leaving out any hint as to possible suspects in the case. ‘We have no idea what poison was used nor how it was given, but we wish to know if it might have been some substance already within the household, as naturally a physician will hold his own stock of healing drugs and potions.’

The apothecary was an intelligent and perceptive man.

‘You wish to know if some evil person within the household might have been responsible – or whether the vile act came from outside?’

William agreed that this was the general idea, but Matthew was not optimistic about a useful result.

‘I know that Robert Giffard held a wide variety of medicaments, as I have provided some of his patients with repeat prescriptions. Every physician will have a range of such materials to hand, as they tend to dispense themselves, rather than send their patients to an apothecary.’

He said this without any rancour, though William knew that it meant competition for his own trade.

‘If that infirmarian from Keynsham, of whom I have heard glowing reports, did not know what killed Giffard, I doubt that I can do any better,’ he continued. ‘But I am willing to look through his stock to see if anything fits the symptoms he suffered. Having said that, many substances in a doctor’s house can be lethal, just as the contents of this shop could kill half of Bristol if used improperly.’

He swept his hand around the room to make his point, as William wondered if he knew anything about Edward Stogursey.

‘The mainstay of that household appears to be a man who acted not only as a servant, but as the physician’s dispenser and even medical assistant. Mistress Giffard has indicated that she wishes this man to carry on dealing with their patients until a new physician can be found, which seems very irregular.’

The apothecary shook his head sadly. ‘You meant that fellow Stogursey? We in the Guild have been concerned about him, as he is usurping our professional status in the city. And to hear that he has also been “acting the physician” is even more disturbing.’