The Witch Hunter's Tale (12 page)

“Mr. Breary was a good man in many ways.” Will sounded as if the words were being ripped from his chest, and for the first time that evening he began to weep. “And he took me in when no other man in the city would even speak to me. He believed me, not Joseph’s lies. He defended me when nobody else would.”

“But there was more to him.” Martha took his hand.

Will nodded as the tears coursed down his cheeks. “Mr. Breary had taken a paramour of late,” he said at last. “I do not know who she was, but the signs could not be missed. I saw cryptic notes on his desk, listing only a time and place. When the time came, he would disappear for a few hours. He never told me where he went, and I knew I should not ask.”

“It could have been anything,” I replied. “A business dealing he could not yet share with you, or something to do with the city.”

Will shook his head. “I wish it were. But he hid nothing of his business from me. And when he came back he seemed more relaxed and vibrant than I’d ever seen him. A meeting for business would hardly do that to a man.”

I considered Will’s point for a moment before I realized why he’d been so reluctant to tell me of his suspicions.

“Will,” I said, my voice rising. “You knew that he was mired in such sinful courses,
and
that he intended to marry me, yet you said nothing of it?”

“I know,” he said. “I was going to tell you tonight, but it’s not the sort of thing I could bring up during supper.”

“Perhaps after he served the sweetmeats?” Martha said, trying to ease the tension in the room. “Mr. Breary could have presented the delicacy and let Will present the debauchery.”

Will and I smiled despite ourselves. I knew that he had done his best under difficult circumstances, and he seemed so miserable that I had to release my anger.

“Well, you did no harm,” I said at last. “And now we must consider our best course of action.”

Will and Martha agreed.

“Mark Preston seems the most likely culprit,” Martha said. “But how could we prove it?”

“What about Rebecca Hooke?” Will asked. “She had even more to lose than Joseph. Joseph would remain an Alderman even if he lost control of the witch-hunt. But if Rebecca lost her place as the Searcher, she would be as powerless as before.”

I nodded in agreement. “It is possible. The thought of losing yet another office to me—first that of a midwife then of a Witch Searcher—would drive her mad. But she is hardly strong enough to beat a man to death. And I cannot see her lying in wait for Mr. Breary on a night such as this.” The wind rattled the windows, as if to underscore my point.

“She would have hired someone,” Will said. “There are ruffians enough in the city.”

“Might she have sent James?” Martha asked.

Will and I shook our heads simultaneously.

“Not James,” Will said. “A fool such as he could never change his spots.”

I nodded in agreement. James Hooke was Rebecca’s only son, and if he’d taken after his mother, he would have been an imposing figure indeed. However, while he had his mother’s clear blue eyes, he also had his father’s kindly soul and weak mind. Twice in the past, he’d become embroiled in evil schemes, but never as the prime mover. He simply was too stupid to avoid the trouble that the world brought in his direction.

“Mark Preston is the most likely suspect, and he knows it,” I said. “We would have to approach him with caution.”

“Then let’s begin somewhere less dangerous,” Martha suggested. “We could start with Mr. Breary’s mistress and see where she takes us.”

I nodded in agreement. “Preston will think we’re letting the constables do their jobs. If we are discreet, he may not realize that he is our quarry. At least not right away.”

With that matter decided, Will climbed the stairs to his chamber, leaving Martha and me alone.

“You don’t believe Mark Preston killed Mr. Breary,” Martha said. It was not a question.

“He may have, but only with Joseph’s permission,” I said. “But you saw Will’s face. If I persisted in accusing Joseph, he would have rebelled entirely. But Preston is so close to Joseph that stalking him will do, at least for the moment.”

“But how will we find Mr. Breary’s mistress?” Martha asked. “I’ve heard no gossip about it, and if Will doesn’t know, who does?”

“We can fight that battle in the morning,” I said. “But I think I know who to ask.”

*   *   *

Our search for George Breary’s mistress got off to a slow start when Tree appeared at my door, eager for breakfast and Elizabeth’s company.

“I’m going to walk across the river,” he announced. “Other boys have done it, and they’re no braver than me!”

Elizabeth, of course, was enraptured by the idea, and imagined Tree to be as heroic as David had been when he took the field against Goliath. By the time we’d finished our pottage, Tree and Elizabeth were so ardent for their adventure, I could hardly deny them. So Will, Martha, and I trailed after the children as they raced down to the King’s Staith on the north side of the river.

“It is a wondrous sight,” Will said. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve never seen it like this.”

“Is it safe to cross?” I asked.

Will hopped off the staith onto the ice and stomped his feet. “Solid as stone,” he replied.

A group of children had gathered at the edge of the river, and some of the braver boys had ventured out onto the ice, arguing over who would be the first one to cross. Tree joined them and, with his chest thrust forward, announced his intention to lead the way. No other boy volunteered, so to my trepidation—and to Elizabeth’s delight—Tree tiptoed further onto the river. Every few steps he looked back over his shoulder at us, his face shining with excitement.

His expression turned to horror when the ice gave a terrific
crack
. He turned to face us, his mouth a tiny
O
as he realized what was about to happen. Then the ice opened up, and in an instant he disappeared.

At that moment the world around me slowed to a crawl. As if in a dream, I heard Will and Martha crying out in horror, the other boys shouting, and Elizabeth wailing in fear. After a terrible moment, Tree’s head and shoulders reappeared. I could see his mouth moving as he cried out for help, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the ice. As if guided by another hand—God’s, perhaps—I jumped down to the ice and took a few tentative steps toward Tree, as though treading softly would lessen my weight.

As I drew near him, the ice began to creak and crackle beneath my feet, and soon these sounds were all I could hear. I took another step, heard another
crack
, and stopped. If I retreated, Tree would die. If I continued toward him, I would join him in the river and we both would die.

As I gazed into Tree’s eyes, I became aware that another boy had come out onto the ice, and that he was shouting at me.

“Lie down!” he shouted at me in accented English. “You must lie down!”

I stared at him. What could he mean?

“You must crawl out to him on your … your
buik
,” he cried, patting his stomach. “Your belly!”

Then I understood. As slowly as I could, I lowered myself onto my stomach. The ice seemed to quiet a bit, and I took a shallow breath. I hardly felt the cold as I pushed myself inch by terrible inch toward Tree. Our fingertips just touched once, and with one more push forward I held his hands in mine.

His teeth chattered madly as I pulled myself backward and he slowly emerged from the river. His lips had turned a frightening blue and his breath came only in fits. I continued to crawl backward until I felt someone (Will, it turned out) grasp my ankles and pull both Tree and me to safety.

Without a word, we bundled Tree in our cloaks and raced toward my home. I counted it as a blessing, perhaps even a miracle, that despite our haste we did not slip on the ice-covered stones. Within minutes, we had buried Tree in goose-down quilts, and Hannah brought him a hot bowl of pottage. Once his chattering had slowed enough for him to talk, he began to tell an enraptured Elizabeth his account of the morning’s adventures. The fact that he had nearly died seemed not to matter to either one of them.

I later learned that the boy who had told me to lie on my belly was a Hollander who’d come to York with his father and been trapped in the city when the river froze. I thanked the Lord for the boy and the good he’d done us. After a time, Elizabeth climbed under the covers with Tree and the two of them drifted off to sleep.

With that fright behind us, I sought Will and Martha so that we could begin our search for George Breary’s mistress and, through her, his murderer.

*   *   *

Helen Wright was often described as a
bawd
, a
pimp,
or a
putour
, but such terms hardly did her justice. While she
did
secure whores for any man who would pay her price, this was only the start of her work. If there was an illicit need in York, she would find a way to meet it. She owned alehouses that specialized more in doxies than drink, and if a whore needed a tenement for her work, Helen would rent her a room. She provided “wives” for merchants who came to York for a trading season, and if anyone in the city required a secret room for an adulterous tryst, Helen could provide it. It was the last service that gave us hope she might help us find George’s mistress, for he did not bring her to his home, and he was too well known to rent a room at one of York’s inns.

In order to avoid the unwelcome attention of city officials, Helen lived just outside the city walls, so Will, Martha, and I began the long walk to York’s southern gate. As we crossed the Ouse Bridge I looked down at the hole in the ice that Tree had made, and I said a prayer of thanks that God had not seen fit to take another of my little ones.

We crossed the bridge into Micklegate, the southernmost of the city’s wards. South of the river, the streets were wider and the houses far larger. And while I had to make do with a small courtyard behind my house, Micklegate’s more substantial residents enjoyed large and carefully tended gardens. Will had grown up here, and when I looked down St. Martin’s Lane, I could just make out the house where he had lived, the house that he had thought might someday be his. I glanced at his face and found him staring resolutely ahead, unwilling to look upon on his former home. My heart ached for him, and I took his arm. Martha must have seen the same thing, for she reached over and squeezed his hand. He ignored both of us.

Within a few minutes, the massive stone gate called Micklegate Bar appeared before us, and the street became more crowded as travellers and merchants made their way in and out of the city. During Parliament’s siege, the King’s men had patrolled the city walls, but now they served more as a road for people making their way around the city than as a defense. We slipped in behind a southbound carriage and followed it through the gate. Though it had been nearly eighteen months since the King’s men had burned the suburbs, few of the houses had been rebuilt. Who would spend so much money while the war still raged? We all knew that if the war returned to York, so too would the burning.

Helen Wright, of course, was an exception to this rule. She had enough money to buy nearly any house inside the city, but every reason to live beyond the walls. Her house stood three stories tall, and it was every bit as grand as I remembered. I could not help feeling apprehensive as we approached, not because of her wealth and the way she’d earned it (or at least not
only
because of those things), but because during my last visit, in the midst of that terrible and bloody summer, I had accused her of murder. I did not know what kind of reception we would receive.

Martha had been thinking the same thing. “She’ll be happy to see you,” she murmured as we approached the door.

“Perhaps you should speak for us,” I replied, only half in jest. While Helen and I often fought, she had developed a certain fondness for Martha. This was born, I think, out of a sense that they had much in common. And perhaps they did, for Martha had narrowly escaped a life not unlike Helen’s, and there could be no doubting that they were both whip smart and had learned how to survive on their own. The only difference was that while Martha had escaped from criminality to midwifery, Helen had risen from whore to bawd.

Will knocked on the door, and within a few moments Helen’s man, Stephen Daniels, appeared. He smiled when he saw us, and a chill ran through me. While he’d never threatened me or mine, violence hung about him as surely as it did about Joseph’s man Mark Preston. Daniels stood nearly half a foot taller than Will, and there was no mistaking his strength.

“Lady Bridget,” Daniels said with a bow. “I am quite sure that Mrs. Wright will be pleased to see you. Can I tell her what this concerns?”

“We are here about a murder.” Only then did I realize I’d said almost exactly the same words the first time I’d visited.

Stephen remembered as well, and he laughed out loud. “Of course you are! You should come in, then.” He opened the door and led us into Helen’s parlor. As on my last visit, the room announced Helen’s wealth and elegance: Rich fabric covered finely wrought furniture, and splendid paintings adorned the walls. It was not what I’d originally expected from a country girl who found herself awash in cash, but Helen had surprised me in many ways.

On this visit, she did not make us wait for long. She swept into the parlor, resplendent in silk and lace, and I felt my old prejudices come roaring back. Will had once pointed out that she and I had much in common: We both dealt in the city’s secrets and matters of the body, and through our own efforts we each had gained a measure of power within the city. Whatever the merits of his argument I had no interest in dwelling upon it, and I pushed it from my mind.

Helen smiled at Will and Martha, and—to my surprise—at me as well. I felt quite sure that any happiness she felt grew from the fact that, once again, I’d come to her for help. Nothing would give her more pleasure than to see me beg.

“Lady Hodgson, it is good of you to visit. Tell me what you need.” She nearly laughed as she spoke, and I could feel anger rising within me. I took a deep breath to cool my blood. This was not the time to vent my spleen.