The Witch Hunter's Tale Read online

  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.

  “Thank you,” I said. I knew she wanted me to add Mrs. Wright, but I would not do her that honor, no matter how much we needed her help. “Once again, it is tragedy that brings me to your door, and I can only hope that you will be as helpful as you were last summer.”

  “I assume you are here about Mr. Breary’s murder.”

  “We are,” I said. “We have heard…” I paused. “We have reason to believe that Mr. Breary…” I stopped again. I could not defame my friend to such a woman.

  “Mr. Breary had a mistress,” Martha blurted out. “And since he never brought her to his home, we thought he might have rented a room from you. We need to find her.”

  Helen nodded. “You don’t think the Justices will find her on their own?”

  “They don’t know she exists,” Martha replied. “And even if they did, they would hesitate before parading his sins before all the city.”

  “Fair enough,” Helen conceded. “And you have indeed come to the right place. Mr. Breary had a head for government and an eye for business, but his pillock led him nowhere but astray.”

  I stared at Helen for a moment, surprised by her forthrightness—I’d expected minutes, if not hours, of denials. I could not help wondering what her motive might be.

  “You know who his mistress was?” I asked.

  “Aye,” she said, the smile returning to her face. “I rented him a room from time to time, and had Stephen watch his comings and goings. He saw her regularly.”

  “And you’ll tell us?” I could not help worrying that Helen was simply toying with me or that she would announce some new and extravagant demand in exchange for the woman’s name.

  “Aye, I’ll tell you,” she said. “She’s Agnes Greenbury, the Lord Mayor’s wife.”

  Chapter 10

  “Agnes Greenbury,” I repeated. My mind worked furiously to make sense of Helen’s words. “She is but a girl.”

  Will could hardly hide his smile. “She might be a girl, but she’s as comely as any in the city.” Martha stared daggers at him, but he paid her no mind. “When she came to York, the alehouses would talk of little else. Many of the lads wondered how long it would be until she wandered away from that old toad, but none thought it would be so soon.”

  “Or that she’d choose yet another ancient,” Martha remarked.

  As distasteful as it was to consider, I had to admit that Will’s memory matched my own. When Matthew Greenbury, the
Lord Mayor, had been widowed two summers before, the whole town assumed he would remarry within a few months; it was the way of the world. But, led by his pintle rather than common sense, Greenbury had chosen a girl of no more than seventeen years, younger even than several of his grandchildren. So strange was the match that when Agnes first appeared at his side, many took her for his stepdaughter rather than his betrothed. The Lord Mayor showered his bride with the finest silks and jewelry, and soon became the town laughingstock. But behind the laughter was envy, for every man in York wished that he were the one bedding down with Agnes each night.

  “Why are you telling us this?” Martha’s eyes narrowed and bore into Helen’s. I recognized the look—it was the one she gave to bastard-bearers whom she suspected of lying about the true father of their child. “You don’t make a habit of announcing your clients’ business to the world.”

  “A valid point,” Helen conceded. “If you had asked about nearly anyone else, I would have told you to pike off. But today our interests coincide.”

  “You haven’t answered the question,” Martha replied. “And you’ll have to explain yourself before we go charging into the Lord Mayor’s parlor accusing his wife of adultery, and perhaps of murder.”

  A look of annoyance passed across Helen’s face, and I counted it as a small victory. After a moment she replied. “Since last summer’s killings, the beadles and Justices have been nothing but a hair in my neck. They’ve arrested my doxies and closed my alehouses. As if my girls were the cause of all the trouble! Things cannot get much worse for my business, and if you bring down the Lord Mayor they might get better. Besides, I’ve never had much use for that miserly old cuff.”

  I wasn’t entirely convinced that Helen had told us the truth, but at least we had a name. We managed to take our leave without further exchange of insults (no small achievement there), and began the journey back through Micklegate to our side of the city. We now walked into the wind, and our cloaks billowed behind us.

  “Why should we believe her?” I asked as we passed through the bar and into the city. I was being peevish, but I could not help myself.

  “Aunt Bridget, if you weren’t going to accept her answer, why did we come all this way?” Will demanded.

  “She admitted that she wanted to see the Lord Mayor fall,” I replied. “And she would have no problem lying if it would serve her needs.”

  “You asked her who Mr. Breary’s mistress was, and she told us,” Martha cried. She could not hide her exasperation with me any better than Will. “We should follow the scent and see where it takes us. If for some reason Helen Wright has deceived us, so be it. We discover Agnes’s innocence and move on.”

  I knew I could not allow my antipathy for Helen to obstruct my better judgment and grumbled my agreement.

  “Why don’t we call on her right now?” Martha asked. “They’re on this side of the river, aren’t they?”

  “They’re on the same street as my brother’s house,” Will replied. “And if Agnes is innocent, we could pop in at my brother’s for dinner and ask Mark Preston whether he murdered Mr. Breary.”

  I smiled a little at the image and said a prayer of thanks that Will could attempt such a jest. For some time after his father’s death Will was loath to even mention his brother. I agreed with the plan, and we turned toward the Lord Mayor’s home.

  “How will you get her to see you?” Will asked. “She’s not one of your clients.”

  He was right, of course. Why would a newly married girl want to meet with a midwife? I considered the question and felt a smile play across my lips. “I think I have the answer for that.” By the time we arrived at the Greenbury’s home, my plan was complete.

  The Lord Mayor’s footman bowed when we approached and admitted us to the entry hall where another servant greeted us. He was dressed in fine silks that announced the Lord Mayor’s wealth, and he had a haughty air about him. As soon as I laid eyes on him, I knew my plan would work.

  “Lady Hodgson, how are you this morning?” he asked. “I am afraid the Lord Mayor is not in. Would you like to leave him a message? I will be sure that he receives it today.”

  “Thank you, but I am here to see Mrs. Greenbury,” I replied. “It concerns … a private matter.” I allowed my voice to trail off and cast my eyes to the floor.

  “I’m afraid it is impossible,” he replied. “Mrs. Greenbury does not like unexpected visitors. Perhaps you would tell me what this concerns.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Please tell her that I have come to discuss her menstrual discharges, and the best course for retention or restoration.”

  In a welcome irony, the blood drained from the servant’s face and he stared at me, mouth open but unable to speak.

  I smiled and waited as his Adam’s morsel bobbed up and down.

  “I will see if she will speak to you,” he said at last. “I will take you to the drawing room and have her meet you there. Your gentleman will have to wait here, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Will looked annoyed, but he could hardly object. A man could not be a part of the conversation I’d proposed.

  Martha smiled approvingly as we followed the servant into the drawing room, and why not? I’d learned such tricks from her, after all. It seemed strange how naturally deception came to me, but we lived in strange times.

  Agnes Greenbury flew into the drawing room, a tornado of silk, lace, hair, and fury. She strode past Martha without a glance in her direction and stopped with her face mere inches from mine. Despite, or perhaps because of, the fury that burst from every pore, I could see why Matthew Greenbury had risked universal scorn to marry this girl. She was astonishingly beautiful, and she exuded so much energy that even I found it a bit unnerving. What man—especially one nearing the end of his life—could refuse such a combination? Marrying this girl would be akin to seizing lightning in his hand.

  “You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I have you thrown into the street, you whore.” Her dress was made from the richest silk and cut in the latest fashion, but her voice shouted of the northern moors. I doubted if she’d seen a paved road before she came to York. Where had the Lord Mayor found such a girl, and what must she make of her new life?

  Such coarse language from so gorgeous a creature left me speechless, but as so often happened, Martha came to my rescue.

  “George Breary,” she said.

  Agnes’s face twitched, and I knew that Martha’s shot had found its mark.

  “I don’t know who that is,” Agnes said to Martha, though her eyes never left mine.

  “Of course you do,” Martha replied, circling behind Agnes. She knew she’d found one crack in Agnes’s armor, and now she sought another. “You’ve been jumbling him for God knows how long. It’s the talk of all the town, or it will be soon enough.”

  Agnes looked briefly in Martha’s direction before returning her eyes to me. A thin sheen of sweat had appeared on her forehead. Though she’d only been in the Lord Mayor’s house for a few months, she’d learned how to get her way. She could not understand why her fit of ill humor had not convinced us to leave her be.

  “What do you want?” she asked at last. “Why are you here?”

  “Last night George Breary was murdered,” I replied.

  She didn’t even blink.

  “What, no tears for your paramour?” I asked. “He was beaten and left to die in an alley, and you have nothing to say?”

  “They brought the news last night,” she replied. “I knew he was dead before you did.”

  “I doubt it.” I could tell that the scorn I felt for this girl had crept into my voice, and to put her on her heels I decided to give it free rein. “I doubt you know half so much as you think. You haven’t the slightest grasp of the world around you, or of what the future holds for light-skirted queans like you. If you did, you’d not play the harlot so thoughtlessly.”

  “Not that you’ll be playing that role for long.” Martha continued a
s if we were one. “Your future holds naught but the hangman’s rope.”

  Agnes’s eyes flashed in Martha’s direction again, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She did not answer.

  “We don’t think you killed him yourself,” I said. “But surely a girl like you would have no trouble finding some fool to do it on your behalf.”

  “But why would she bother, Lady Bridget?” asked Martha. “If he was a mere dalliance, he’d hardly be worth the trouble.”

  “Ah, but what if he had fallen in love with her?” I said. “Tell me Agnes, was he trying to convince you to abandon your husband? Perhaps Mr. Breary threatened to tell him about your wanton ways, and you killed him to keep your secrets.”

  “No!” The word burst from Agnes’s lips, and her regret was both immediate and clear.

  “You’d have no trouble at all finding someone to commit murder,” I said. “If you made the right promises and lifted your skirts at just the right time, you could convince a man to do nearly anything. Was it one of your servants? A soldier from the garrison? Who did this for you?”

  For a moment it seemed as if Agnes intended to answer, to confess that we were right, that she had arranged George’s murder. But without warning she broke my gaze and started for the door. Martha blocked her path. With no way out, she turned to face me.

  “I’ll scream,” she said. “The servants will be here in moments.”

  “Yes, they would,” I agreed. “And what would you tell them? That a gentlewoman detained you in your own house and accused you of murder?”

  “Not even your gossips would believe such gabbing,” Martha said. “Then you’d be counted a foul slattern and a lunatic.”

  Tears sprang to Agnes’s eyes. I imagine she hoped they would melt my heart, but they did no such thing. I had little doubt she kept tears at the ready in the way a sentry keeps his pistol charged. Where bluster and flirtation failed, weeping might find a way.