Chaos

by A D Swanston

  ‘What is your name, midwife?’

  ‘Abigail Cooper, sir. I examined the girl in Newgate with two others. We all agreed.’

  ‘What did you agree?’

  ‘She carries a devil’s mark on her left thigh. It is unmistakable.’

  ‘How is it unmistakable?’

  ‘I have seen many such marks, sir, and they were all the same. This one is no different. It is in the form of a woman’s teat.’

  ‘How do you account for such a mark?’

  ‘It is made by the teeth of a familiar sucking blood from the witch.’

  Knoyll’s eyes swept the room. ‘I see. Have you any doubt about this, Mistress Cooper?’

  ‘None, sir. I saw it myself. A familiar spirit’s mark.’

  ‘Thank you, mistress.’ Abigail Cooper sat down. ‘Are there others here who would speak in support of the accuser?’

  There were two, both elderly women, who did so. One repeated everything Alice Scrope had said; the other claimed that Joan did not attend church on Sundays and had caused her house to be infested by mice. The clerk dutifully wrote it all down.

  Throughout, Joan had sat silently with her head bowed, dabbing with a handkerchief at her eyes. When Knoyll addressed her, she glanced up but did not reply. He said, ‘It is now the accused’s turn to speak. Joan Willys, what do you say to the accusation made against you that you are a witch?’ Joan looked down at the floor and said nothing. When Knoyll repeated the question she remained silent.

  ‘If you do not answer my questions, Joan Willys,’ he said, ‘you will certainly be referred to a grand jury.’ He looked around the room. ‘A year in Newgate might loosen her tongue.’ There was a ripple of laughter, but Joan did not even look up.

  Knoyll tried a volley of questions. ‘When did you become a witch? Where did your familiar come from? Do you know of other witches?’ Still Joan said nothing, even when Katherine whispered to her.

  The silence was broken by the magistrate. ‘In the name of God, child, you are foolish. You give me no choice,’ he thundered. ‘An indictment will be sent to a grand jury and thence, I do not doubt, to the next sessions. You would do well to speak there lest you are made to suffer pressing.’ But even the threat of being crushed to death did not bring a word from Joan.

  Was the girl hiding something or was she simply terrified? Christopher pushed his way to the front. ‘Mr Knoyll, the accused is my housekeeper and I would speak for her.’

  ‘Dr Radcliff, I have made my decision. The accused has not co-operated in her examination and must be tried. And she is not entitled to witnesses to speak on her behalf.’ His eyes swept the room and he laughed. ‘Where would we be if a woman accused of being a witch could produce whomever she liked to a hearing? We would be here for weeks.’

  ‘I do not seek to be a witness, sir, but rather to speak in her stead, as it is plain that she cannot do so herself. She is frightened and cannot at any time speak clearly. It is only just that someone speaks for her.’

  The clerk shrugged his shoulders and addressed the magistrate. ‘I am unsure, sir. It is irregular, but I know of no law against it.’

  Knoyll threw up his hands. ‘Oh, very well, Dr Radcliff, but be quick.’

  ‘I shall endeavour to be quick, sir. In answer to your first question, Joan Willys denies that she is a witch or that she has ever practised witchcraft. She has no so-called familiar spirit and she knows of no other witches. How would she, having no knowledge of witches’ work? Further, the cat in her house belongs to her infirm mother and is fed on scraps and an occasional spoonful of milk and she speaks to it only as any woman might speak to a pet animal. The poisons found she used for the treatment of ailments. In small amounts they can be beneficial. It is the dose that makes the poison. These being the facts, it is clear that her accuser, the woman Alice Scrope, has made a malicious accusation which should be dismissed.’ True or not, it was the best Christopher could do.

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘Because Joan Willys knows her to be a thief and has said so.’

  ‘Is there evidence of this?’

  ‘I know of none but have no doubt of the truth of the accusation. The woman Scrope is a liar and a whore.’

  Alice Scrope was on her feet at once. ‘It is the witch who is the liar and the whore. I am her victim and seek justice,’ she screeched.

  ‘And you shall have it, goodwife,’ replied Knoyll. ‘What of the devil’s mark on her, Dr Radcliff? How do you account for that?’

  ‘I hope Joan Willys will forgive me if I say that she is not well favoured. There may be many marks upon her skin, but not one of them was made by the teeth of a familiar – cat, rat or spider. I can also say that while she has worked as my housekeeper, she has been reliable and efficient in her duties.’

  Knoyll’s eyes narrowed. ‘For how long has she been your housekeeper, doctor?’

  ‘Not long. A matter of days.’

  ‘Hardly long enough for you to form a valid opinion.’

  ‘There is no evidence against her, sir. The accusation is false and malevolent, made out of the spite and rage that we have just seen.’

  ‘Have you anything more to say, doctor?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘That is a comfort. As you are speaking for the accused, kindly ask her to stand.’ Joan stood up but did not raise her head. ‘The recent increase in cases of witchcraft has led the Privy Council to issue instructions to magistrates to observe a special presumption on account of the fact that a witch’s work is by its very nature secret. The presumption is that if an accusation is lawfully and honestly made, the accused shall be referred to a grand jury. I will therefore be referring Joan Willys with the depositions taken today.’ Still Joan did not raise her head but in the room there was a murmur of agreement. ‘The constables will return you to Newgate to await the sessions at Easter.’

  ‘One more question, sir,’ shouted Christopher. ‘Who has paid for this accusation and who will pay for the case to go to trial? Has the woman Scrope the money to do so?’

  Knoyll ignored him and marched out of the room. The clerk gathered his papers and followed. Smirking foully, Alice Scrope, flanked by her two witnesses, flounced out behind him.

  Joan was taken out by two constables. She was weeping. Christopher smiled at her but she did not see him. Katherine followed behind her. As she passed, Christopher said, ‘I did not know about the searching.’

  Katherine barely glanced at him. ‘Would it have made a difference if you had? Were you not too busy about your master’s business to spare a thought for a poor, innocent woman made to suffer searching?’

  She was gone before he could reply but the arrow had hit its mark. He had let Joan down.

  CHAPTER 14

  Yet he could not dwell on it. Not on Katherine, not even on Joan, made to suffer by an unjust process that came close to presuming guilt on the feeblest of evidence. He would turn his mind to her when he could. For now, whatever Katherine might think, he had the earl’s work to do. It was back to the mint.

  It was as if Richard Martin, self-important, defensive, obstructive Richard Martin, Warden of the Royal Mint and senior member of the Goldsmiths’ Company, had travelled the road to Damascus and seen the light as Saul had seen it. He welcomed Christopher into his office, offered him wine and inquired politely after his health. Only when his visitor was comfortable did he turn to business.

  ‘Dr Radcliff, I regret that our last meeting was less than satisfactory. I have assured the Earl of Warwick that it was no more than a misunderstanding and that you will naturally have my assistance in apprehending these coiners in any way you request.’

  Christopher swallowed hard. Whatever Warwick had written to Martin had brought about an instant and remarkable transformation. The Puritan earl could not have minced his words. ‘Thank you, warden. I request that each member of the mint staff who was here at the time of the Pryses’ dismissal be brought to me to be questioned. I will start immediately.’
r />   Martin’s smile revealed two rows of small, white teeth. They reminded Christopher of a rat’s. ‘I had anticipated that, doctor. There are three men to whom you should speak. Use this room and I will send them in one at a time.’

  The first man could not have been less than fifty and could hear only if Christopher stood close and shouted at him. The deaf man remembered nothing of note about John or Hugh Pryse except that they were father and son and the son was fond of ale. Christopher got no more from the next one and was beginning to wonder if Martin was having sport with him. The third man, however, was more interesting.

  Edward Gibson had been working at the mint for five years. He was a well-fed, jocular fellow who claimed to be twenty-eight years old and to have been on friendly terms with Hugh Pryse. ‘We often drank together,’ he said, ‘and a few other things too.’

  ‘What other things?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘Nothing against the law, sir. Just ale and women and a game of dice when we had the money.’

  ‘Do you still enjoy these pastimes, Gibson?’

  Gibson shuffled his feet. ‘Not often, sir, but is it not Hugh you want to know about?’

  ‘Hugh, yes, and his father, John. You must have known both of them.’

  ‘I did, sir, although I tried to keep my distance from Hugh’s father. He was a miserable old goat, as ill-tempered as his son was cheerful.’

  ‘Good workers, I am told.’

  ‘They were, sir. I am sorry they’ve gone, for all John’s cussing and grumbling.’

  ‘What did he cuss about?’

  ‘The noise, the supervisors, the rest of us, not enough money. One day it was too hot, the next too cold. John Pryse would always find something to cuss about.’

  ‘Why did they leave?’

  ‘There was a fight. Hugh’s woman lay with a supervisor, or so he thought. He knocked the fellow down, kicked him where it hurts most and would have kicked him again if John had not pulled him off.’

  ‘Who was the supervisor?’

  ‘Don’t recall his name. Matters little – he’s long dead from the pox.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘The supervisor complained and wanted Hugh in front of the magistrate. I think a deal was struck because John and Hugh were both soon gone and we heard no more about it.’

  Christopher nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There is one other thing, sir. I believe the Pryses were inclined to the old ways.’

  ‘How so?’

  Gibson lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard. ‘I am one who cares not a jot for how a man chooses to worship – Protestant, Puritan, Jew or Catholic – but others do. Hugh never spoke of it but I do know he carried a rosary in his purse. I happened once to see it.’

  ‘Thank you, Gibson. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, sir, not that sits in my mind.’

  ‘Where did the Pryses live?’

  ‘Southwark, sir, not far from the bridge.’

  ‘Could you point out their house to me?’

  ‘I believe so, yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. I will speak to the warden.’

  Martin was back at his desk. Christopher stood in front of him. ‘Why did you not speak of the Pryses, Mr Martin?’ asked Christopher. ‘You must remember them.’

  ‘Indeed I do, but the matter was a source of some embarrassment and I had hoped not to reopen the wound. I was in error, of course. I realize now that they should be found and questioned.’

  ‘And so they will be. Edward Gibson knows where they live. I shall also need your assistance.’ Gout or no gout, Martin must suffer a little discomfort in the cause of justice.

  ‘Mine? Of course, doctor. When do you plan to go?’

  ‘Now, Mr Martin, now. There is sufficient light left and it is not far to Southwark.’

  They threaded their way across London Bridge, between the new-built mansions of the rich and the cottages and hovels of the poor. The bridge heaved as ever with merchants, tradesfolk, carts and beasts. Unusually, at the great stone gateway where traitors’ heads were commonly displayed, only one spike was occupied. A gaggle of noisy urchins threw stones at the blackened skull and shrieked with delight when one of them hit it.

  Under the arch whose wooden galleries extended over the river on both sides, and they were in Southwark. If the contrast between Goldsmiths’ Hall and the alleys off Cheapside was stark, it paled beside that in this borough. Christopher never felt at ease there.

  Gibson led them to a narrow, cobbled lane, coated with layers of mud and muck and running westwards, roughly parallel to the river. This area, to the east of the bear-baiting and bull-baiting rings in Paris Garden, was infested with stews and dice houses. Outside the control of the city aldermen, it was a place of vice and violence, populated by whores and beggars, cutpurses and vagrants. Further away from the river stood the shops of the bakers and confectioners for which Southwark was famous and the workshops of the many joiners and carvers and furniture-makers who had arrived here from France and Holland. It was exactly where a man might go to hide.

  Gibson and Christopher walked as quickly as the mud would allow, leaving Martin struggling to keep up, limping along with the aid of a stick and blowing hard. After a few minutes they came to a dark lane leading away from the river. ‘It is down there,’ Gibson said. ‘Do you want to go down there?’

  Christopher looked at Martin, who shook his head. ‘Of course, Gibson,’ he replied. ‘We will not find the Pryses by standing here.’

  About forty paces into the lane, Gibson pointed to a mean cottage in the middle of a row of three, all roughly built of stone and timbers so black and rotten that they might have been washed up on the riverbank. Their doors and windows were marked with red plague crosses. ‘That is it,’ he told them.

  Christopher hammered on the door with the handle of his poniard and shouted for John Pryse. There was no reply and no movement inside. It was the same with the cottages on either side. He glanced up and down the lane, saw no one and put his shoulder to the door. It was locked but a few hefty blows and it would break.

  ‘Hold, Dr Radcliff,’ cried out Martin. ‘If there has been plague here, we would be unwise to enter.’ He had a point but Christopher was in no mood to leave none the wiser about the Pryses. Without them, or some information about them, he would be back at the start of the game with his chess men unmoved.

  He tried again but the lock held. He was about to give it a kick when an old woman, her back bent from the load of washing she was carrying, a clay pipe clenched between her teeth, appeared from the direction of the bridge. Christopher called out to her. ‘Goodwife, we seek John Pryse and his son Hugh. They lived here. Do you know them?’

  The washerwoman eyed him suspiciously, took the pipe from her mouth and sent a stream of brown spittle to the ground. ‘Long gone and left the plague behind them. Daresay it’ll be back come the spring.’

  ‘Do you know where they went?’ Christopher took a coin from his purse and held it for her to see.

  ‘No. Dead and buried for all I care.’ She held out a bent hand. ‘I’ll take the coin though.’

  Christopher flipped the coin to her. It bounced off her arm and into the dirt. ‘Take care, goodwife,’ he said. ‘A penny won’t keep the plague away.’

  ‘Well now, doctor,’ said Martin, as the old woman shambled off, muttering to herself, ‘are we to knock on every door and question every man and woman? Or will you break this door down and search for the Good Lord knows what?’

  Christopher ignored him and kicked hard at the door. A timber splintered and when he kicked again, the lock broke and the door swung open. ‘I doubt there has been plague here,’ he said. ‘If there had been, the house would have been boarded up. More likely whoever lived here made a feeble attempt to keep curious eyes away with the crosses.’ He stepped inside.

  The washerwoman was right. Whoever had lived here was long gone. He coughed dust from his mouth and held a hand over his face aga
inst the musty stench of vermin. At first he could see little but when his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he made out a low wooden bench and a plain chair. There was nothing else.

  A single door led off the room. He pushed it open. The room beyond was small, barely larger than a cupboard, and windowless. A wooden box stood in one corner. In it were a hammer, a chisel and a pair of dies. He held the larger die to the light from the doorway but could not make out the stamp.

  Martin and Gibson were waiting at the front door. He showed them the dies. ‘Taken from the mint, almost certainly,’ said Martin, ‘although the stamps are too worn for me to tell what they are.’ He held them out.

  ‘Keep them, Mr Martin,’ said Christopher. ‘I have what I need and I thank you for your help. If you think of anything more, Gibson, kindly tell the warden, who will tell me.’

  ‘I will, sir. Glad to have been of service.’

  ‘Now, Mr Martin, I shall leave you and Gibson to return to the Mint. I must put my bloodhound to work.’

  He crossed the river by wherry and hurried to Cheapside, where he found Ell sleeping. ‘The devil’s prick, Dr Rad,’ she grumbled when he woke her, ‘is an honest whore not to get any sleep?’

  ‘Sorry, Ell. I need your help.’

  ‘Funny money, doctor, or bodies that get up and walk?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You haven’t heard then. That gentleman of mine who was found in the lane with his throat cut and taken to the deadhouse. He’s gone and nobody knows how.’

  ‘Somebody must know, Ell. Bodies do not remove themselves. Another visit to the coroner for me but for you I have a different request.’ He told her about the Pryses. ‘They might be dead or they might be alive and up to coining those testons. Can you go to Southwark and ask about?’

  ‘For a crown or two, Dr Rad, I will. Pay me now or later?’ Christopher gave her a crown. He always gave Ell a coin even when her intelligence was of no value. The earl’s comptroller did not know what was useful and what was not and never grumbled about the money he spent. ‘One now, another later. Must keep you wanting more.’