The Deadliest Sin (47 page)

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.’

He brought his eyes up to meet Hangfield’s again. ‘I was better at treating diseases of the skin that all of them put together – including Giffard, though he was a good
physician. But where did it get me? Nowhere! I scratched a living amongst the poor, treating sailors with scurvy, stevedores with sores on their jacks and urchins with ringworm, often for no
payment at all. Yet in King Street, all the rich and notable citizens, as well as half the nobles of the county, beat a path to Robert Giffard’s door.’

His head jerked back as a rictus of pain shot through his neck muscles.

‘I was envious of his status, envious of the large fees his rich patients lavished on him! I was even envious of his comely wife, though God knows that, as a widow, she would never have
looked twice at me. She was the daughter of a baron and Giffard himself came from a prominent family with high-placed friends in Westminster. What chance did I have of making a name – or even
a living – for myself against such competition?’

He jerked again and sweat began glistening on his forehead as he felt a rush of palpitations in his chest. The coroner’s officer now knew that Crote was soon going die, but hoped that it
would not happen until he had the complete story of this sorry tale of envy and professional jealousy.

‘And for that, you committed murder?’ he snapped, almost incredulous that a man who spent his life trying to heal the sick could take life so cold-bloodedly.

Erasmus Crote was now flushed and shivering, but quite rational.

‘You as a coroner’s assistant must have known many murderers who killed for gain, whether it be for money, lust, love or hatred. They were no different from my overweening ambition
to be looked up to in my profession, just as Giffard was a friend to all in this county who were its leaders. What difference is there between a thief who robs a merchant for his purse, and a
doctor who tries to wrest a good practice from another?’

William Hangfield pointed out the obvious fact to him that he had failed. ‘And what good has it done you, even if you had not been caught? Giffard’s widow has just imported another
good physician from London and with her lofty social connections, all the grand patients will remain there – especially now that it looks as if she will soon be taken into the bosom of the
fitz Hamon family.’

Erasmus seemed to droop in his chair, his inflamed complexion suddenly turning into a deathly pallor.

‘It is the story of my life, sir. Failure at everything, even the attempt to turn my life around. I wanted what Robert Giffard had and a growing obsession made me strive for it, without
regard for the consequences. Envy overrode everything else – I was mad with envious ambition and it has brought me nothing, except death!’

‘Was it you who wrote that letter to the mayor, to mislead us by hinting that it was Mistress Giffard’s lover who committed this crime?’

Erasmus nodded, then with a groan, his head flopped on to his chest and his arms dropped to his sides.

‘Is he dead?’ asked one of the soldiers.

Hangfield pulled back Crote’s head by the hair and thumbed up his eyelids to look at his pupils, then placed a hand on his chest.

‘No, not yet, though his heart beats like a kettle-drum played by a madman. Lay him on the floor. There is nothing we can do for him.’

At the castle later that day, the coroner’s officer related the whole sorry episode to Ralph fitz Urse and the sheriff, while Erasmus Crote’s corpse lay in the
dead-house and John Black was incarcerated in the cells in the castle undercroft to await his fate in front of the King’s justices when they next came to Bristol.

‘So why did this bloody cook agree to commit murder for the physician?’ demanded the sheriff.

‘Crote paid him money and the greed of John Black overcame any remorse at harming his own master,’ replied William. ‘He said he knew Eramus from often meeting him in an
alehouse and eventually, for a bribe, he agreed to put a strong extract of ragwort into Robert Giffard’s food.’

‘Must have been a big bribe to get him to risk his neck for an attempted murder,’ said the coroner.

‘The excuse that Crote gave him was that he only wanted to make Giffard ill for a time, so that he would be unable to look after all his patients and Crote could gain by offering them his
own services. However, Giffard going away for several weeks spoiled the plan, as his recovery, then the regime of the strict tasting of his food, restored him to health.’

The sheriff shook his head sadly, deploring of the evil of some men. ‘So then he decided to kill him, I suppose?’

The coroner’s officer nodded. ‘He devised the idea of placing yew poison in his footwear. Being a skin doctor, he knew it could be absorbed in that way, albeit slowly. Giffard again
became ill, but the villains did not reckon on the wife and this Edward Stogursey managing to keep the practice going. He gave Black more money, but also threatened to denounce him as his
accomplice if he refused to help.’

‘So he was determined to succeed or die, as he would be implicated if the cook was found out,’ summarised Ralph fitz Urse.

There was silence for a while as the sheriff and the coroner thought about this tale of jealousy and frustrated ambition that led to murder.

‘At least I’ll be able to finish the inquest on Giffard that should satisfy all the élite of Somerset,’ said the coroner. ‘A novel verdict, eh? Murder by
envy!’

‘Pride, vainglory, that’s the worst. It’s the father of all the other sins,’ the voice from the corner growled. ‘Every wicked deed in this
world was sired by pride, by man thinking himself more deserving than his fellows and wiser than God.’

His fellow pilgrims at the table craned round in surprised. Up to now on this journey, they’d not heard Randal utter more than a few words, so that some didn’t even recognise his
voice. And now that they had heard it, his tone only confirmed the opinion they’d already formed of the man, for his voice wasn’t a pleasant one, more like shingle being dragged out by
the tide.

As usual, Randal had taken his food over to the rickety bench in the far corner and had sat, hunched, eating and drinking alone, as if he was afraid his meats might be snatched from him. Even
inside the inn, he kept his hood pulled up over his head, the long points wound round turban-style, seeming ready to leave in an instant should the need arise. And in truth his fellow pilgrims
privately wished he would leave. Most of those sitting around the table had hoped he would go on ahead with the other group to Thetford, while those in the group who had braved the rain and
travelled on were much relieved he’d elected to stay behind. Randal’s presence unnerved everyone.

On the road, he’d always trailed a little way behind the group or kept well to the side of them, as wary as a stray dog. The others had tried to speak to him, but only received the
briefest of answers, which had revealed nothing about the man, and even when he did speak he had the disquieting habit of looking over the shoulder of the person he was addressing, as if there was
someone standing just behind them. The look was so intense, people would turn to see what he was staring at, but saw nothing.

There was more than enough to make even the boldest man wary on these roads. Any clump of trees or tall rushes might conceal a band of robbers lying in ambush or the next turn might find you
stumbling into the deadly embrace of the pestilence, if the chilling rumours were to be believed. Those were fears enough for any man. They didn’t need the additional anxiety of travelling in
the company of a fellow who gazed at things no one else could see. Only the mad or those who commune with ghosts and demons do that. In the large group they could avoid him, but now that they were
fewer in number, their unease returned.

Randal’s remark about pride might have been left hanging in the air like a stray wisp of smoke had it not been for Laurence, ever the genial host. He could tell from the moment the
group arrived that this man had not struck up any friendship among his fellow pilgrims, and reckoned this to be the perfect chance to draw him into companionship.

‘You have a tale for us, sir? Come, we are all eager to hear it, aren’t we?’ he said, nodding vigorously at the others to lend their encouragement to the man. But the grunts
and murmurs he received in return were not quite as enthusiastic as he hoped for.

‘Come closer. Join us,’ he urged, but Randal did not move.

He clasped his beaker of ale in both hands and stared into it as if he could see shapes forming in it. Katie Valier shuddered and found herself tucking her thumbs beneath her fingers to ward
off evil, as Randal began his tale of . . .

My tale takes place in the wealthy city of Lincoln, Randal began, not more than twenty years ago, though at times to me it seems like two hundred. It should be a holy city for
it’s a city of many churches, some reckon there to be as many as forty-six within its walls and that’s besides the great Cathedral, the Bishop’s Palace, the chantry chapels and
the religious houses. So there are a great many priests in the city and most have precious little to occupy their time, save for saying Masses for the dead, for which the wool merchants pay
handsomely.

But the hours that God does not fill, the Devil will. And there was in that city a group of five young clerics who regularly met in the evening to drink, eat and gamble at dice. Their chief
amusement was to set challenges for each other – dares, if you will – and wager on the outcomes. They frequented a tavern near St Mary Crackpole, which inspired the name for their
little circle – the Black Crows. The owner allowed them to use the cellar, trusting that the priests would not steal from the kegs and barrels. It suited both parties: the young men
didn’t want rumours reaching their superiors that they were spending long hours in the tavern and the innkeeper didn’t want the presence of a group of clerics to prick the consciences
of his other customers and put them off their drinking and wenching.

Randal paused to take a gulp of his ale and the pilgrims’ host, Laurence, chuckled heartily, nodding as if he understood the problem of entertaining clerics only too
well, but his laughter died away under the stern glare of Prior John Wynter, who clearly disapproved.

‘It seems to me this is a tale of greed or gluttony,’ the prior said coldly. ‘I hardly think that these young men can have had anything to be proud of. Shame is the only
thing they should have been feeling.’

‘Ah, but they were proud,’ Randal said. ‘Listen and you shall see.’

They sought out each other’s company because they considered themselves to be far more interesting than the dull-witted clergymen who infested most of the city. There was
one of the Black Crows in particular who took great pride in his talents and intellect, a young priest by the name of Father Oswin. He’d come to the attention of Bishop Henry Burghersh as
someone who would do well in the Church, destined for great things and high office, many said. Oswin could read and write prodigiously well in several languages in addition to Latin, standing out
markedly against his fellow priests, many of whom could barely gabble a Latin prayer by rote and that with little idea of what it meant.

Thus it was that Father Oswin, a man of no more than twenty-five, was selected, as one of the youngest men ever to be trained in the art of necromancy and other spiritual defences in the service
of the Church. Subdean William and a few other members of the Cathedral Chapter had counselled strongly against it. It took a wise head and a steady nerve to wield power over spirits and angels,
they said. No one under the age of forty was mature enough to handle such a role. But Dean Henry pointed out that wisdom did not necessarily increase with age. Many priests were just as addlepated
and vacillating at sixty as they had been at sixteen, probably more so, he added, pointedly staring at several of the members of the Cathedral Chapter. The will of the dean, as head of Chapter,
prevailed and Father Oswin entered into training.

Although Oswin was supposed to discuss his training only with his tutors, he could not resist the temptation to impress his fellow members of the Black Crows with little hints about the
mysteries he was learning and, out of curiosity and perhaps a little jealousy, they constantly pressed him to tell them more.

One cold December night, the members of the Black Crows began to make their way towards their favourite tavern. There was a bitter wind blowing, carrying with it a fine misty rain, which clung
to clothes and quickly soaked them.

First to arrive was Deacon Eustace, a thin-faced man with a long nose, which was always dripping and red, for he seemed perpetually to have a cold. He was dismayed to find himself the first, for
he hated being down in the cellar alone. It was a gloomy place. Barrels and kegs of wine, flour and salt were stacked around the mildewed walls, and slabs of salted goat and bacon hung from the
great hooks in the arched ceiling. The floor had once been the street on which Roman soldiers had marched and some in the town claimed their ghosts still did. It was only too easy to believe in
ghostly soldiers in the flickering candlelight, which sent strange shadows creeping around the barrels and boxes.

Eustace had just made up his mind to wait for the others up in the warmth of the crowded ale-room, when he heard footsteps on the stairs and John ducked his head under the arch. He grinned
cheerfully on seeing Eustace and clattered down the remaining steps into the cellar, stripping off his cloak as he came and shaking the rain from it. Eustace was still sitting huddled in his, for
even in summer he complained constantly about the cold and damp of the cellar.