The Deadliest Sin (39 page)

William Hangfield was well used to fitz Urse’s unattractive appearance and repugnant personality, but for some reason the abrasive coroner seemed to tolerate his officer far more than most
other people with whom he came into contact.

‘What do you want?’ he growled, peering suspiciously from his bloodshot eyes.

‘I’ve had a death reported,’ replied William blandly. ‘One that’s a bit out of the ordinary.’

‘Let me see,’ grunted fitz Urse, holding out an unsteady hand to grab the parchment that his officer held. Having read the brief message, he looked up at William, who stood in front
of his desk.

‘I didn’t know the bloody man was even ill,’ he grumbled, getting laboriously to his feet. ‘I could have done with a decent doctor myself, the way I feel this
morning.’

‘What do you want me to do about it?’ asked William. ‘I presume you’ll want me to go down there straight away?’

The coroner rasped his bristly chin. ‘With someone this important in the city, I’d better tell the sheriff. And you’d better see the family and find out why they think
he’s been poisoned.’

He lumbered towards the door, heading for the offices of Sir Nicholas Cheyney, the Sheriff of Somerset, who occupied several chambers on the opposite side of the hall. As he reached it, he
turned to give further orders to his officer.

‘A lot of important people in the city will be very put out by the loss of their favourite doctor.’ he grated. ‘So make sure you get this right, or we’ll both be in the
shite!’

William Hangfield strode out of the castle and across the bridge over the wide western moat to the gate at the end of Wine Street. It was becoming warm already and he was glad that he had not
worn his cote-hardie. He had on a loose brown linen tunic down to his thighs, being sufficient over his leggings. He had found his chaperon, a cloth headpiece with a tail on the side, too warm and
had tucked it into his belt alongside his dagger and pouch. Pushing his way through the crowded street, now filled with porters, beggars, street musicians and goodwives doing their daily market, he
reached the High Cross, the junction of the four main roads, and turned left down High Street. He knew every inch of the city and most of the county beyond, so he was able to walk unerringly to the
Giffard house, a large stone-built burgage, its size and quality indicating the prosperity of the lately deceased owner.

He knocked on the heavy oak door from which Erasmus Crote had been turned away the previous day, but received no reply. As he was about to hammer it again, a small figure appeared around the
corner of the house. It was the same lad who had delivered the message to the castle.

‘The household is all at sixes and sevens,’ the boy announced. ‘The mistress is too upset to organise the servants and Edward Stogursey is trying to deal with some of the
master’s patients who have turned up for treatment.’

William put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Never mind, lad, it will all settle down,’ he said kindly. ‘But I must speak to someone straight away about your
master’s death. Do you know anything about it?’

The boy shook his head fearfully. ‘Nothing at all, sir. I am only a boot-boy here and am below the notice of anyone in the family. I think Edward is the one you should speak to.’

The coroner’s officer followed the lad around the corner of the house, through a gate into the garden. Behind the main house was a smaller building, which was used as the doctor’s
consulting room. It had a separate entrance onto the street at the side.

‘Edward will be in there, dealing with patients,’ explained the lad, whose name was Henry. He led William Hangfield into an open lean-to, where three or four well-dressed people, who
looked to be of the merchant class, were seated on a bench waiting to be seen.

An inner door opened and a man whom William recognised as the wealthy owner of a tannery came out. They nodded to each other as Henry darted inside and emerged with a short, dark-haired man. The
coroner’s officer had seen him about the city and rightly assumed that this was Edward Stogursey. It was common knowledge that this household steward also acted as the doctor’s
dispenser.

‘I think it was you who sent a note to the coroner by the hand of this boy?’

Stogursey nodded and invited the official to enter the physician’s room. Closing the door, he motioned William to a stool and stood before him in a slightly submissive attitude.

‘Things are very difficult, Serjeant,’ he began in a low voice. ‘My mistress is naturally beside herself with grief at the loss of her husband in suspicious circumstances and
there is no one else in the household but me who can hold things together.’

‘Are there no relatives that you can call upon?’

‘None hereabouts, sir. My master came to Bristol from London a good number of years ago and his wife is, of course, the daughter of the Lord of Berkeley Castle. They have no children, so
there is no one to direct what is to be done.’

‘You say “suspicious circumstances”, but what evidence is there for that?’ demanded the officer.

‘The mistress called the infirmarian of Keynsham Abbey to see the master yesterday. He said he was sure it was a case of poisoning, but had no idea by what – or how it could be
treated.’

This was news to William Hangfield, and changed the whole nature of the case.

‘I will have to speak with Mistress Giffard at once,’ he declared in a voice that allowed no argument. ‘I realise she is distressed at the loss of her husband, but if what you
say is true, then this is an allegation of murder.’

Edward Stogursey nodded his understanding. ‘Of course, sir. I’ll seek out my mistress now and advise her that she should speak to you.’

William wondered whether it was significant that this servant felt he should ‘advise’ his employer, rather than inform her. Before Edward could leave the room by an internal door,
the coroner’s officer stopped him.

‘Before you go, tell me exactly how many people live in this house. I assume there are servants like yourself, as you say there are no other family members?’

‘There is myself, of course, the most senior servant and an assistant to the doctor in his professional duties, since I acquired some knowledge of the apothecary’s trade from
him.’

William interrupted him with a question. ‘You have no medical training apart from that?’

Stogursey shook his head. ‘I have never been to any medical school nor have been apprenticed to a physician. All I know I picked up from working for Robert Giffard, God rest his
soul.’

‘Who are the other servants?’ persisted the coroner’s officer.

Edward Stogursey held up his hand to count off the fingers. ‘There is Hamelin Beauford, the bottler, then John Black the cook, Edith the housekeeper, Betsy the skivvy, my lady’s
handmaid, Evelyn – and of course, Henry, the messenger. Outside, we also have a groom, Hugh Furlang, and a stableboy.’

‘I will need to speak to them all in due course, but I first have to talk to your mistress.’

Edward Stogursey vanished and about five minutes later, returned to ask William Hangfield to accompany him to Eleanor Giffard’s parlour. This was an airy room on the first floor,
overlooking the garden. She stood by the window to receive him, tall and elegant in a black gown. He knew her by sight from seeing her at various city functions as although Bristol had about
fifteen thousand inhabitants, most officials were able to recognise the upper members of society.

‘I regret very much having to trouble you at this sad time, lady,’ said William after making a small bow. ‘But you will appreciate that this is a matter of urgency, if it is
true that there are suspicions of foul play.’

Eleanor inclined her head to acknowledge his apology.

‘I understand that you are the servant of Ralph fitz Urse. I am slightly acquainted with him; I think he was a patient of my husband’s at one time.’

‘Probably for a drink problem,’ thought William, but held his tongue.

‘I am his officer, appointed to help him by the sheriff. It is my duty to collect facts and report them to him.’

Eleanor motioned him to sit on a stool, while she sank onto a padded chair at the side of the window. Edward Stogursey stood near the door, as if to act as a chaperon or a guard.

‘I was told that he had been unwell for some time.’ William began. ‘When did this begin?’

As he spoke, he assessed the lady’s manner, as he often did with people he was questioning. She was poised, elegant and showed no outward signs of grief in the form of reddened eyes from
weeping. However, experience had taught him that this was no guide to a person’s true feelings. She sat impassively, her hands folded in her lap as she spoke.

‘Until recently, Robert has always been in good health. He loved hunting and riding and his appetite for his medical work was unlimited.’ She paused and looked over at Stogursey.
‘Edward, remind me when it was that your master first appeared to be ill?’

‘Late in January, or perhaps early February, my lady. One day I remarked to him that he looked slightly bilious, and during the following week this became obvious. His eyes became yellow
and he had pains in his belly.’

‘But he recovered?’ asked Hangfield.

This time Eleanor Giffard provided the answer. ‘He had to go to London for some meeting of physicians at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. He was away for almost two weeks and when he
returned, he was free from the disturbances of bile and felt quite well. But within two months, other signs began to appear and it was this that made him think he was being poisoned back here in
Bristol.’

‘Why should anyone wish to poison a well-known doctor, who does nothing but good in the city?’ asked William, in genuine puzzlement.

Eleanor turned up her hands in bewilderment. ‘My husband claimed that other doctors in the the city were envious of his prime position as the most favoured physician, but I can hardly
believe that.’

‘Did he have any evidence of that?’ asked the coroner’s officer.

She shook her head. ‘I doubt it, but he seemed wedded to the idea. It would be a most extreme means of disposing of a professional rival.’

William also thought it an outlandish theory, but he had to pursue all avenues, however bizarre.

‘When he fell ill, was he treated by one of these doctors?’

Edward Stogursey spoke up here: ‘My master said that he knew more medicine himself than the other three physicians combined and would not let them near him.’

This sounded more than a little arrogant to Hangfield, but again he kept his peace.

‘So what happened? Surely he must have made some effort to receive treatment.’

‘He prescribed what drugs and potions he felt useful,’ said the widow. ‘Then Edward here made them up and administered them.’

‘They were bland and empirical salves, the accepted treatment for trying to get rid of toxic substances,’ said the dispenser. ‘Charcoal to absorb noxious material and general
supportive treatment. There is little else one can do, especially if the nature of the poison is unknown.’

‘Did your master suggest what the poison might be?’

Stogursey nodded. ‘We spoke at length about it, sir. But there are scores of plants and fungi in the countryside that can maim and kill. There is not enough difference between their
effects to identify them.’

‘Though, at the first bout of illness in February, he did wonder if something like ragwort might the cause,’ cut in Eleanor Giffard. ‘That is well-known to cause disorders of
the bile, especially in livestock.’

Edward looked dubious. ‘Though I defer to my master’s far greater knowledge, it seemed unlikely. Firstly, because ragwort, that yellow weed that abounds in the countryside,
flourishes and flowers in high summer, so would not be available in February. Also, how could it be administered? For a horse or donkey to be poisoned by it, they have to eat considerable
quantities.’

Eleanor was not going to let her husband’s opinion be dismissed so lightly, especially by a servant.

‘He said, when faced with these objections, that ragwort was even more poisonous when the plant is dried, making it dangerous for beasts to eat hay that contained the dead weed. So it
could be collected in the summer and used in the winter.’

‘But if large quantities were needed, how could it be administered?’ asked William.

‘It could be markedly strengthened by extraction as a tincture,’ admitted Stogursey, somewhat grudgingly.

Eleanor became impatient. ‘But we waste time and breath, sir. The jaundice passed off and the symptoms of the latest illness was quite different.’

‘How so, madam?’ asked the officer.

‘My poor husband developed palpitations of the heart, sometimes so severe that he fainted. He also had tremors of the limbs and feelings of great coldness.’

‘Unfortunately, such symptoms are so common in a whole range of poisonings that they do not help much in identifying the cause,’ added Edward Stogursey.

William pondered the answers for a moment. ‘You say he refused to be seen by any of the other doctors in Bristol – but did he not seek an opinion from elsewhere? He must have known
some eminent physicians who might be able to help.’

The elegant widow nodded at this. ‘I sent for one myself, only yesterday. We had good reports of the new infirmarian at Keynsham Abbey, a man well-qualified at one of the finest schools in
Europe.’

‘And what was the result, madam?’

Eleanor shook her head sadly. ‘We had left it too late, I fear. He came and agreed that some form of poisoning was the most likely cause, but said that the effects had gone too far. He
held out no hope for my husband’s survival – and tragically, his opinion was proved right within a day.’

Hangfield noticed that the widow’s iron resolve appeared to be weakening. She became pale and her strong voice faltered.

‘I have troubled you too much at this time of melancholy, Mistress Giffard.’ He rose from his stool and bowed again to the woman in black. ‘I will leave you to your grief and
return to make my report to the coroner. It will be necessary for me to speak to all your servants later – and I will have to hear what the physician at Keynsham has to say, but I will not
trouble you again, unless some new matter arises.’