The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

‘No one is above suspicion, madam,’ said the serjeant, drily indicating that even the lady of the house herself was a candidate. ‘I need to interrogate every servant immediately, to get at the truth.’

The two soldiers that he had brought with him rounded up all the staff and drove them into the back yard, where they stood in trepidation. William, wearing his most ferocious expression, repeated the news he had given to Eleanor Giffard and then demanded that anyone who had any information must give it that instant or suffer the consequences, which included a hanging for conspiracy to murder.

Edward Stogursey typically protested that he objected to being humiliated like a common criminal, but William pointed out that he was the best candidate, due to his knowledge of herbs, plants and drugs generally – and as the most senior servant, his easy access to every household activity.

‘The poison was sprinkled or smeared into the victim’s boots and hose!’ he thundered. ‘I am going to discover who did that, even if it means putting everyone to the Ordeal!’

This was a blatant bluff, as the Ordeal as means of divining guilt had been abolished in the previous century, but his meaning was clear and there were moans from some of the men and muffled shrieks from the two women.

‘Who would have dealt with the master’s boots, such as cleaning them?’ rasped Hangfield, glaring around at the servants huddled in the yard.

A small voice piped up, hesitantly. ‘Me, sir, but I didn’t do anything bad, honest!’ It was Henry, who came forward and dropped to his knees in front of the coroner’s officer. ‘I loved the master, sir; he was always kind to me.’

Eleanor gave a sob and ran forward to pick up the little lad to comfort him. ‘Of course you did nothing wrong, Henry, we all know that!’

There was a sudden commotion at the end of the short line of servants as one man made a sudden dash for the back gate. One of the soldiers ran after him and sent him crashing to the ground before he could escape, dragging him back to throw him in front of William Hangfield.

‘So, you do more than cooking here, John Black! Since when do cooks see to their master’s boots and hose, eh?’

The fat man crawled to his knees and tried to embrace William’s legs in supplication. ‘I thought the powder was doing him good, sir, after his illness in the winter,’ he blubbered unconvincingly.

The serjeant gave him a kick that sent him sprawling.

‘You damned liar! And it must have been you that put the ragwort or whatever it was in his food that caused that disorder of bile!’

‘He said it would do him good… I did it from the best of intentions,’ wailed the cook, with the prospect of the gallows opening before his eyes.

‘And who was “he”, may I ask?’ shouted William, relentlessly. ‘Where did this evil powder come from, eh? And who paid you to put it in his hose and boots?’

The man grovelling on the ground whispered a name, and the officer gave him another kick.

‘Men-at-arms, come with me!’ he yelled. ‘And bring this wretch with you!’

At a shabby house in a side lane off Corn Street, the group that had left the Giffard residence came to a halt outside the door. William Hangfield hammered on it with his fist and when there was no response, repeated the action with the pommel of his dagger.

‘Open up in the name of the King’s coroner!’ he yelled, but again there was no reaction from inside the dwelling.

‘There’s someone in there, sir,’ called one of the soldiers, who had seen a shutter open slightly on a window to their right. ‘I saw a face looking out for a second, then it was slammed shut again.’

‘Right, give him another minute, then kick this door down!’ ordered the serjeant. As no movement was heard inside and the door remained firmly closed, one of the menat-arms relinquished his hold on John Black and began attacking the stout oak door. He had nothing but his foot to smash against it and it was soon obvious that he was making little impression.

William grabbed the other arm of the cowed cook so that the other soldier could join his companion. Using their shoulders and feet, they thundered against the planks for several minutes until eventually they weakened the fastenings of the bolt inside so that with a splintering noise the door swung open.

‘Find him! He’s here somewhere!’ howled William, still hanging on to the sagging John Black.

The two men rushed into the house and began searching the few sparsely furnished rooms on the ground floor. There was a shout from somewhere in the back and William answered with an urgent cry.

‘Hold him, don’t let him get away!’

However, when he reached the room, still dragging the cook, he saw his command had been unnecessary, as the fugitive was sitting calmly on a chair, his hands folded on his lap.

‘Erasmus Crote, you’ll hang for this!’ said Hangfield fiercely. The physician shook his head and held up a small empty flask.

‘I’ll not end on the gallows, unless revenge leads you to string up a corpse,’ he said mildly. ‘I’ve just swallowed all that remained of the poison that killed Robert Giffard. There’s no antidote. I’ll be dead within a couple of hours at most.’

William grabbed the bottle from his hand and stared at the yellowish-brown dregs that lay in the bottom. ‘We’ll make you vomit, wash your stomach out with water!’ he said wildly.

Erasmus shook his head and smiled at the officer. ‘It would be useless; I took enough crushed yew seeds to kill a dozen cows. It’s far better this way – better for us all.’ His eyes moved to the fat cook, cowering in William’s grip. ‘So you betrayed me, John Black! I suppose it was to be expected.’

The cook shook his head vigorously. ‘I had no choice. They were blaming it all on me. I would have hanged!’

‘You’ll hang anyway,’ grated William, ‘in place of this evil man, if what he says is correct about the poison.’

Black began blubbering again and Hangfield contemptuously pushed him back into the custody of one of the soldiers.

‘You still seem quite healthy, Crote!’ he snapped at the physician. ‘We’ll keep you locked up and, if you don’t die, you’ll swing from the gallows tree.’

‘Give it time, officer,’ replied Erasmus calmly. ‘Though already I can feel the first twitches and racing of my pulse.’

‘Why have you done this evil thing?’ demanded Hangfield.

The lean physician, his sallow face resigned to death, sighed. ‘Envy, officer! Just envy, pure and simple. You see, I loved my profession, yet have been dogged by ill luck and feelings of inferiority all my life.’

William frowned. ‘I don’t understand you, man.’

Erasmus gave a slight twitch as one of his shoulders had a spasm. ‘I was a good doctor, but never had a fair chance. I never was properly trained, I picked it up from years as an apprentice in Dublin, walking the wards of a poorhouse and following a drunken doctor around a public refuge. I never had the chance to study the theory or read the famous texts, and never had the opportunity to listen to learned teachers.’

He sighed again and in spite of himself, Hangfield began to feel a little sorry for this gaunt man.

‘Even those two buffoons who call themselves physicians in this city had the benefit of proper education, one at St Bartholomew’s and the other at Montpellier, which he never let us forget.’

‘What has this to do with murder?’ growled William.

Erasmus Crote suddenly put a hand over his heart, feeling a sudden racing of the beats. ‘It’s started, there’s not much time,’ he muttered. ‘There must have been more left in that flask than I expected – but all to the good.’