The Poisoned Chalice

Chapter Thirteen In which Crowner John meets the Chief Justiciar

The meeting with Hubert Walter was set for the tenth hour on the morning of Tuesday, but John de Wolfe was active about the town before that. In the grey light of a winter dawn, he went first to the hospital of St John to see whether Fitzosbern had survived the night or whether he had a murder on his hands. Brother Saulf was in the cell when he arrived and looked as if he had been there all night. ‘He is much better, Crowner, after throwing up most of his guts into a bucket, thanks to the salt-water purges.’

John looked past the monk and saw Godfrey, deathly pale, lying motionless on his side. ‘He looks dead to me,’ he said dubiously.

‘No, he’s asleep now – a proper sleep, not the twitching coma you saw last night.’

‘Has he spoken at all?’

The Saxon brother shook his head. ‘Only the muttered gibberish we heard when he first came here. Let him sleep then we’ll see if his senses have returned.’

He shut the door firmly, keeping John and himself outside. ‘Do you think he was truly poisoned?’ asked John.

‘It seems likely, but he might also have had some kind of apoplexy, though I’ve not seen one quite like this before.’

With that, the coroner had to be satisfied, but at least it looked as if Fitzosbern would live to sin another day. John left the priory and made his way back to his house, where last night he had arranged to meet his two assistants. Matilda was still asleep in the solar and he was happy not to disturb her.

A few moments later, a small procession left Martin’s Lane, the coroner striding ahead of Gwyn, who held a wooden tray with the remains of Godfrey’s roast fowl and the small box of herbs, all covered with a white cloth. He was followed by Thomas de Peyne, carefully carrying the chalice, still half full of wine, and the stone bottle.

The trio marched out into the high street and down to the crossing at Carfoix, ignoring the curious glances of the stall-holders and shoppers who stood back to make way for them. As John waited for a loaded ox-cart to pass, he looked behind and one of his rare grins spread across his face at the sight of his two companions: his over-sized Cornish henchman, solemnly bearing a cloth-covered tray, and the unfrocked priest, reverently clasping a silver goblet of wine, looked like two acolytes bearing the Sacred Host down the main street of Exeter.

They had not far to go, as on the other side of Fore Street lay the apothecary’s shop. As John neared it, the door flew open and three struggling figures erupted on to the roadway.

Two men-at-arms from Rougemont were dragging Edgar of Topsham from the shop, the apprentice yelling at the top of his voice for them to let him go. Behind him, Nicholas of Bristol peered from the doorway, wringing his hands in agitation. When the soldiers saw the King’s coroner, they stopped in their tracks, but did not loosen their grip on Edgar. ‘Sheriffs orders, Sir John,’ said one apologetically.

As soon as he saw the coroner, the captive appealed desperately to him. ‘Save me, Sir John, these men are abducting me! Tell them it’s a mistake, they must have the wrong man.’

The elder soldier shook his helmeted head. ‘We’re arresting you, not abducting you. And it’s no mistake. The sheriff said Edgar of Topsham – and that’s you, son.’

Edgar began to babble protests, but John could do nothing for him at this stage. ‘Go quietly, Edgar, it’s no use struggling. I’ll see what I can do to straighten all this out. And I’ll send word to your father so that he can come to see you and the sheriff.’

With this, the apothecary’s apprentice had to be content, as John jerked his head at the guards and they marched Edgar away, up the hill towards the castle.

John, followed by his two disciples, crowded Nicholas back into his shop and shut the door. The leech was still twittering with concern at the unceremonious loss of his assistant. ‘This is nonsense, what has he done to be treated like that?’

John was patient with him. ‘You know full well that he has threatened Godfrey Fitzosbern several times and he attacked him on Saturday.’

The apothecary nodded spasmodically, the corner of his mouth drooping all the more in his agitation. ‘He came back on Saturday bruised and battered – that foul man used him atrociously, he could have been killed!’

‘Well, Fitzosbern could have been killed last night, by all accounts. He was poisoned and his life hangs in the balance today.’

A little exaggeration never did any harm when you are trying to get co-operation, thought John. ‘Naturally, Edgar is the prime suspect – you can’t blame the sheriff for wanting to question him.’

Nicholas’s jaw dropped, temporarily hiding the slackness of his mouth. ‘Poisoned? What has that to do with Edgar?’

John sighed as he began explanations about the silversmith’s affliction ‘Edgar had promised to kill him and he is almost a fully qualified apothecary, with much knowledge of poisons.’

The leech looked from face to face, as if seeking sanity in a world suddenly gone mad. ‘But anyone could put poison in his victuals. Every old wife and village peasant knows of plants and toadstools that have noxious effects.’

John did not reply, but motioned Gwyn and Thomas to put their burdens on the shop counter. ‘I want you to examine these, to see if they contain any harmful substance – and if so, what it is,’ he announced.

The apothecary stared at the exhibits incredulously. ‘But most poisons are undetectable!’ he protested. ‘There is almost no way in which they can be tested. Our knowledge is hopelessly poor about such things.’

He drew himself up to his full sixty-two inches. ‘And not only me. Not an apothecary in England has any better methods.’

The coroner was unmoved. ‘Just do your best, Nicholas. Look, this one might be easier. What do you say about this?’ He picked up the small wooden box and handed it to the leech, who glanced at it perfunctorily.

‘That’s simple. It contains a mixture of ground herbs useful for countering inflammation,’ he proclaimed.

Gwyn scowled ferociously at him, his ginger eyebrows dropping towards his equally auburn moustache. ‘How can you tell when you’ve not even opened it yet?’

In spite of his distress, the apothecary could not resist a superior smirk. ‘Because it’s written on the lid – see?’ He pointed to the obscure symbol on the top. ‘And I should know what’s in it, for I gave it to Fitzosbern only yesterday.’

There was a silence.

‘You gave it to him, yesterday?’ repeated John slowly.

‘Yes, of course. He came in late in the afternoon, complaining of pain in his throat and a fever. I examined him and saw this recent slash on his neck, which was going purulent. I bathed it and put some lotion on it, then gave him these herbs to take thrice a day to try to assuage the sepsis.’

‘You gave him the medicament yourself?’

Nicholas nodded. ‘Of course. I took it from here.’ He turned and pulled out a small wooden drawer from a double row of similar receptacles along the wall behind the counter. Holding it out, they saw that it was half full of a brown powder similar to that in the little box.

‘Was Edgar in the shop when Fitzosbern came?’ demanded John. The apothecary looked uncomfortable. ‘He was, but he turned his back on the silversmith and remained so in the corner of the shop, pretending to work at something.’

‘So he had nothing to do with the prescription or the treatment?’

‘Nothing! He kept well out of the way, for obvious reasons.’

John digested this. ‘Did you leave them alone here at any time?’

The apothecary considered for a moment. ‘Only when I had to go into the store room behind the shop to get a supply of these little boxes as we had none left in the shop.’

‘Was that for long?’

‘Only a few minutes – and I had to get a pan of hot water from the fire in the hut at the back, to bathe his wound.’

A few more questions drew a blank and John had to be satisfied with what he had already learned. Emphasising the need to try to test the food and wine, they left for Rougemont.

At the lower door of the castle gate-house, the coroner gave his officer a last order before going over to the keep. ‘I want Bearded Lucy questioned again. I feel that she knows something else, above what she admitted to us last week.’

Gwyn cleared his throat noisily and spat on the ground. ‘Can I persuade her a little?’ he asked hopefully, scratching his crotch.

‘Only with your voice, understand? I don’t want her broken in half or anything like that. Take Thomas with you, in case you frighten her to death. Then he can shrive her soul. But get some information from her first!’

He strode away across the inner bailey, his mantle streaming behind him like the plumage of some great black crow.

The meeting in Richard de Revelle’s chamber had been going on for some time when John arrived, but none of that part concerned him, as they had been discussing county administration and the collection of taxes. When he slipped on to a vacant bench, they were still arguing about the Stannery Towns, the semi-autonomous communities scattered around the edges of Dartmoor, where the tin-miners had ancient rights, including their own courts – and, with the miners of Cornwall, even a form of local parliament.

None of this had any relevance to the coroner, as his jurisdiction was universal. He took the opportunity to study the large group assembled to meet Hubert Walter, who sat at the head of a square of trestle tables, with the sheriff on his right. On his left was John de Alecon, as the Bishop delegated such secular meetings to his staff. The other thirty men were mainly barons and court officials from the western counties and the travelling circus that went around with the Chief Justiciar.

Hubert’s lean brown face was following the discussion intently. He owed his power largely to having kept a firm grip on every topic and he had a compendious knowledge of every administrative quirk that the complex government of England and Normandy could devise. Today he wore none of the elaborate finery of the Church or his martial robes, but was dressed in a plain tan surcoat over a tunic of cream linen. His head was bare, unlike many of the others whose more gaudy dress was topped by a colourful assortment of head-gear.

Eventually the discussion reached the matter that had been a source of friction between John and his brother-in-law for almost three months. The Chief Justiciar was well aware of it, for both the sheriff and the coroner had complained to the itinerant justices when they visited Exeter in October, and de Revelle had raised the matter again when he last went to Westminster with his county taxation accounts.

Hubert Walter picked up a vellum roll on which one of his clerks had penned a note as an aidememoire. ‘The problem seems to be this,’ he summarised, with the clarity that had helped him reach the highest position in the land. ‘The sheriff has long been charged with keeping the King’s peace in this county, which in olden days – even before William came from Normandy – included the trial and punishment of criminals. Are we agreed on that?’

There were nods all around and a smirk from Richard de Revelle, who felt that his case was already won.

‘But our last King Henry became disenchanted with the integrity of many sheriffs – you will remember the Inquisition of Sheriffs in the sixteenth year of his reign, which effectively dismissed them all for their corrupt behaviour.’

This time it was John’s turn to smile and the sheriff’s to scowl. Hubert went on with his lecture. ‘Then by the Assize of Clarendon and the Assize of Northampton, he set up the visitation of the royal judges, which should come to every county at intervals of a few months, taking over the shire court from the sheriff to try those serious criminal cases which are Pleas of the Crown, not minor local appeals.’ He held up his hand. ‘I know what you might say, that these courts are irregular and often fail to keep to their timetable, especially in recent times. But judges are few and the distances are great.’

He stopped to drink some wine and water from a glass set before him.

‘Anyway, that is the strict law, yet I well know that all over England sheriffs are still holding the Pleas of the Crown, which they should not do.’[5]

One of the barons from East Anglia, a member of the Curia Regis, broke in at this point. ‘This is ancient history, Archbishop. What has it to do with these new coroners?’

Hubert did not like being interrupted, but tried to be patient. ‘You know well enough that there are two different perambulations of the King’s Justices around the country. In the old days, any subject wanting justice from the King had to chase him around England and France. Old Henry improved that by sending the judges to the people, albeit slowly. The justices, who come, hopefully, several times a year to hold an assize in each county, deal with the serious crimes, but the Justices in Eyre, who come very much more infrequently, investigate all manner of financial and administrative problems in the land. It is those to whom the coroner’s efforts are directed, to record every matter that may lead to an addition to the Royal Treasury.’

There was a silence, as not everyone understood his point.

Richard de Revelle spoke cautiously, picking his words with care as he did not wish to sound as if he was ignorant of the law which he was supposed to uphold in the whole of Devon. ‘How does this distinguish our roles in prosecuting crime?’

The Justiciar leaned forward with his elbows on the table. ‘Anything to do with money is the coroner’s preserve – amercements, fines, treasure trove, deodands and, especially, the murdrum fine. This is why the justices at the September Eyre in Kent revived this old Saxon office – Custos Placitorum Coronae – Keeper of the Pleas of the Crown.’

Richard de Revelle was growing restless. ‘But how do we resolve this nonsense between us, Archbishop?’

Hubert again held up his hand for patience. ‘When an obvious killing takes place – let us call it homicide – and there is no doubt about the culprit, for he may be seen committing the crime or caught with blood on his knife, then the dead body is a matter for the coroner, but the criminal is the responsibility of the sheriff. He must arrest him, throw him into gaol and wait the next visit of the Justices in Assize, who will try the case, either by jury or by the ordeal of water or fire. Then, if found guilty, the miscreant can be hanged or mutilated or undergo trial by combat.’

He paused for breath and to check that everyone was paying full attention.

‘But if a dead body be found, in any circumstances, where no suspect killer is known, then the coroner must hold his inquest and the village or town must make presentment of Englishry, to prove the victim is not a Norman. If they cannot do this, then the coroner must record the facts for the Justices in Eyre – not the Assize judges – so that when they come in due course, they can decide whether that village shall be amerced for the murdrum fine, however many marks they decide.’

John and Richard eyed each other across the table, unexpectedly united in scepticism at the smooth explanation.

The coroner was the boldest in speaking first, as he knew Hubert of old. ‘That is all very well in theory, Justiciar. It may have worked well enough in old King Henry’s time, but since then we all know that the visits of judges to both the Assizes and the General Eyre have become so infrequent that the system cannot work as you suggest.’

De Revelle was emboldened enough by this, to weigh in with his own doubts. ‘How can we accommodate all these suspects for so long? The county and the towns have to house and feed them – we will be spending more on building prisons than our taxes will allow!’

The Justiciar tapped his fingers tensely on the table. He did not relish criticism of his administration, yet he knew the dilemma that the law officers found themselves in. ‘There are too few judges and too many crimes and civil cases, Richard,’ he snapped. ‘I appreciate your problem, but we have to live with it, in these times of financial stringency.’

Those were coded words for the profligacy of his monarch in demanding ever-increasing revenue to support his army in France.

John tried to be reasonable and conciliatory, while reserving to himself the duties with which he had been entrusted. ‘Where unnatural death is discovered, I must be able to present the matter to the justices, whenever they come. I see the sheriff’s point, where obvious homicide exists, that speedy solution is required – but surely, not at the cost of summary justice. The Pleas of the Crown, homicide, rape, arson and the like, are too serious for arbitrary decision at a shire or burgess court. Those places have enough less serious matters to decide, without needing to burden themselves with murder. Surely that must be judges’ work?’

The argument went back and forth and no real decision was made, but an uneasy compromise appeared, based on a division between serious crimes where the miscreant was caught red-handed and those deaths where no obvious culprit was in view.

The meeting eventually broke up, with the general unsatisfactory feeling that things would probably continue as they were and that the sheriff and coroner would remain at odds with each other. John remained to join a relatively simple meal with many of those who attended the council and at last had a chance to talk with Hubert Walter. They reminisced about their time in the Holy Land, and the Justiciar also wanted to know the full details of King Richard’s capture outside Vienna. Hubert listened with interest, while the sheriff glowered in the background, jealous of John’s easy companionship with the man who now ran England. Others broke into the talk and soon they got down to the serious business of eating and drinking.

At the end of the meal, the Archbishop was escorted back to the Bishop’s palace and John had a chance to talk to Richard. ‘That was of little use in settling our problems, brother-in-law,’ he said.

Richard’s thin face showed his annoyance. ‘We will just have to try to work together, not against each other. If only these damned judges would put on a turn of speed, our job would be easier.’

John was philosophical about it. ‘We must stick to the law and not try Pleas of the Crown, however inconvenient it may be. So you carry on hanging your sheep-stealers and let the burgesses hang their coin-clippers, and leave the mystery killings to me and the judges.’ Suddenly he changed the subject. ‘And what about Godfrey Fitzosbern? He will live, so the brothers at St John’s tell me, but you have already arrested Edgar of Topsham. That won’t please his father. You’ll have Joseph around your ears before the day’s out.’

The sheriff banged the nearest table with his fist in frustration. ‘What else could I do? The fellow has repeatedly threatened Fitzosbern, he attacked him and now it looks as if he’s poisoned him! He must be put to the question, even if it does mean antagonising one of our most prominent merchants.’

‘What about Hugh Ferrars, his father, Reginald de Courcy and Henry Rifford?’ asked John, pointedly. ‘They have all threatened Fitzosbern. Are you going to arrest and torture all of them?’

De Revelle looked pityingly at the coroner. ‘Can you really see me trying to throw Lord Ferrars into gaol, eh?’

John nodded, knowingly. ‘I see how your mind works, Richard. Start at the weakest and work your way up. I wonder you don’t blame the poisoning on Fitzosbern’s two workmen.’

The sarcasm was lost on Richard, who for a moment tried to work out some way of incriminating these non-threatening suspects. He gave up and returned to Edgar. ‘He will be interrogated as soon as the Justiciar has left tomorrow, I’m too busy until then. If he refuses to confess, then he will be put to the peine forte et dure until he does tell us something.’

‘Like Alan Fitzhay last month, whom you nearly killed?’

Richard’s only response was to walk away, red-faced and angry, leaving John to march back to his chamber in the gate-house.