The Witch Hunter's Tale (11 page)

I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach, and suddenly
I
was the one who needed to use the jakes. “George…,” I started to interrupt, but he would not be stopped.

“Under the best of circumstances, we would make a powerful couple, and I would still make this proposal,” he continued. “But even if my maneuver against Joseph and Rebecca is successful, the circumstances remain most dire, for they will not give up so easily.”

He paused for a moment, and I steeled myself for what I knew he would say next.

“I think it would be best for both of us if we were to marry,” he said at last. “You, Martha, Elizabeth, and even Hannah would benefit from my protection. And I would…” He trailed off as he tried to think what benefit — beyond my wealth of course — that he would reap from such an arrangement.

“George,” I repeated, but once again he ignored me.

“I will not have an answer tonight,” he said. “Whether it is yea or nay, I will wait until you have had the chance to think about my offer at length. Please tell me you will consider it.”

I could only nod in response.

“And in the event you decline,” he said, “I trust you will keep the matter between us.” He nodded curtly and hurried from the room as if he were a guest who had pocketed the silver plate from supper.

Martha poked her head into the parlor, a puzzled look on her face.

“Later,” I said before she could even ask the question. “Outside.”

Once we were outside, however, we found conversation to be nearly impossible, for the evening had brought a gale-wind that threatened to tear the clothes from our bodies. We would have had to shout in order to be heard. We bent before the snow and wind, and trudged toward our home.

Just before we reached St. Michael le Belfrey, I thought I heard a cry from behind us, and stopped to look back. I could tell from Will’s and Martha’s reactions that they had heard it as well, and the three of us peered into the dark.

“What was that?” Will shouted over the wind. I shook my head.

“It must have been the wind,” Martha replied. “When it passes through the belfries it moans something strange. And what bloody-minded fool would be out in this if he could help it?”

I cast my eyes behind us one more time, but nothing moved save the blowing snow. “Let’s go,” I said at last, and we hurried home.

The three of us tumbled through the door, eager to put the cold wind and the terrible, distant cry—if that is what it was—behind us. Hannah took our cloaks and hurried us into the parlor where a fire burned bright and warm. “I’ll be back with some chocolate,” she said, and bustled off to the kitchen.

“So what did he need to speak to you about?” Will asked. I studied his face before I spoke, wondering if he’d known about George’s proposal before I did. It did not take him long to confess.

“I warned him not to ask you,” Will said desperately. “Not in that way.”

Martha looked between us in utter confusion. “What are you talking about, Will? What happened?”

“Mr. Breary had a second proposal for me, didn’t he, Will?” I said. “And when you came to me this afternoon, you knew what he would ask me but you said nothing.”

“Aunt Bridget, please,” he cried. “I told him he should not ask you, but he would not be deterred. There was nothing I could do!”

In truth I was not angry with Will, for I knew he was right: He could not have dissuaded George from his offer. Like so many men who found success in business, once George settled on a course, there would be no changing his mind regardless of what contras presented themselves; challenges were to be overcome, not yielded to. Finally I released Will from my gaze and turned to Martha.

“Mr. Breary asked me to marry him,” I said.

“What?” Martha cried, her face the very picture of alarm and astonishment. “You didn’t … What did you say?”

“He wouldn’t have an answer,” I replied. “He wanted me to reflect on it until tomorrow.”

A look of uncertainty crossed Martha’s face. She had an opinion on the matter—and I had a good sense of what it was—but did not want to overstep her bounds. Though it undoubtedly took a heroic effort for her to hold her tongue, she managed admirably.

“He said he could better protect us from Joseph and Rebecca,” I said. “And I suppose he might be right.”

Of course I had no intention of marrying George, but I
had
said I would consider the matter. Martha stared at me with ill-disguised surprise, but before she could speak her mind, a knock came at the door.

“Who is out on a night such as this?” Hannah asked as she carried a tray of steaming chocolate into the parlor. “Are you expecting a mother’s call, my lady?”

“I’ll see who it is,” Martha said, and slipped out of the parlor.

She returned a moment later, a look of concern on her face. “There’s a lad here who says he’s Mr. Breary’s footman,” she said. “He has brought Mr. Breary’s cloak.”

Will and I hurried to the door, and found a young man waiting. He held a heavy wool cloak in his arms and looked at us expectantly.

“Why have you brought Mr. Breary’s cloak?” I demanded. “Did someone tell you he was here?”

“After you left, my lady, he dashed after you,” the lad replied. “I called to him, and said it was too cold, but he would not stop. I thought he must be following you, so I came here.” Martha, Will, and I exchanged worried glances. I think we all remembered the cry we’d heard as we neared St. Michael’s.

“Is he not here?” George’s servant asked at last.

“Get lanterns,” I said to Martha. “One for each of us. We must search for him.”

*   *   *

We hurried up Stonegate to St. Michael le Belfrey where we’d heard the cry. I prayed that the sound had indeed been the wind, and that George had ducked into an alehouse to escape the cold. It would have been the sensible thing to do, and (except for his marriage proposal) George was nothing if not sensible. I could only hope that his desire for my hand had not driven him to some new idiocy. Within a few minutes we arrived at a point where four narrow streets came into Petergate. We stopped and peered into the darkness each street offered. Miraculously, the wind hadn’t blown out any of the lanterns, and we huddled together as we considered our options.

“It could have come from any one of these streets,” Will said.

“Let’s search in pairs,” I said. I knew Will had a sword hidden in his cane, and I took some comfort from that, but it appeared that George’s servant was unarmed. “Will and Martha, you start there.” I indicated the nearest street. “The lad and I will look in the next one over. Don’t go too far in. We’ll meet back here. And if you hear anything, cry out.” I was not sure we would hear anything in the wind, but we had no other recourse.

Will and Martha nodded then disappeared into the darkness. The servant followed me into the second alley, and we held our lanterns high in an effort to dispel the shadows. The close-built houses crowded us from the sides and the eaves loomed above. George’s servant seemed a timid creature, and he began to fall behind. At that moment I realized that despite my frequent visits to George’s house, I’d never seen the boy before and had no idea if he truly was George’s man. Was it possible that I’d fallen into some sort of trap?

I whirled to face the lad and found him just a few yards behind, lantern held high, his hands otherwise empty. In the guttering light I could not read his face.

“You should take the lead,” I said. I would rather have a clear path back to Petergate if I needed to escape.

As he passed me, me we heard a voice cry out three times—there could be no mistaking this for the wind. I raced back to Petergate. I could hear George’s servant behind me as I tore down the street toward Will and Martha. I found them crouched over something—or someone. When I arrived, my fear was made real.

“Oh God, no,” I cried out.

George Breary lay against the side of a building, and it was clear that he’d been beaten terribly. The left side of his face was covered in blood. I knelt by his side and took his head in my hands.

“Is he alive?” Will asked.

“I think so,” I said. “We must get him to my house.”

I took George’s cloak from his servant, and laid it over him. Will and the servant took George by his shoulders, while Martha and I lifted his legs, and together we carried him back to Petergate and toward my house.

Hannah cried out when she saw our grim burden and hurried to find towels and blankets. We laid George on the couch in the parlor, his head on a pillow. His skin had taken on a bluish tinge, and Martha added more wood to the fire. We wrapped George in a blanket, and I washed the blood from his face. As I did so, it became clear just how terrible the beating had been. His skull was broken in several places. I could not see how he could survive such grievous wounds.

“Martha, take George’s servant, and fetch Dr. Baxter,” I said. I did not think that binding George’s wounds would make a difference, but I could not simply let him die in my parlor.

Martha nodded and began to wrap herself against the cold.

“Wait,” I said. I placed my hand on George’s chest but felt no movement. “Get me a mirror.”

Hannah handed me a small glass, and I held it close to George’s nose and mouth. The glass stayed clear.

“Ah, God,” I said softly. “Never mind Dr. Baxter. Find the vicar and fetch a Justice of the Peace.”

George Breary was dead.

Chapter 9

In the hours that followed, a parade of city officials marched through my parlor. Some came to pay their respects, others to question us about George’s murder. Mercifully, Joseph saw fit to absent himself on this occasion, though other Aldermen assured me that he knew of George’s death and would not rest until his murderer had been hanged. Given Joseph’s antipathy for George such assurances rang hollow, but I held my tongue.

It was three in the morn when my guests finally left and only George’s body remained. It awaited the arrival of the Lord Mayor’s men, who would take it to his church for burial. I sat for a moment and looked at my friend’s face, allowing sorrow to wash over me for the first time that night. George could play the part of a fool, to be sure, but after Edward’s death he had remained true to me and, more important, had helped Will regain his feet. In short, he had proven himself to be a kind man and a loyal friend at a time when few seemed inclined to these virtues. While I would not have married him, he
had
been my friend, and in a way I did love him. I did not know who had killed George Breary, but I was determined to find out and see him hang.

A soft knock came, and Martha admitted the Lord Mayor’s men. They wrapped George’s body in a wool shroud and disappeared into the night. Will, Martha, and I returned to the parlor. I settled in my chair while Will and Martha eased themselves onto the couch. Hannah had disposed of the bloody pillow, and now there was no sign that a man had so recently breathed his last on the very spot. Martha leaned against Will, laid her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. I allowed them that rare moment of intimacy before I brought them back to the terrible events that had just played out.

“How are you, Will?” I asked.

He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot from fatigue and sorrow. I knew that he recognized the ramifications of George Breary’s death. He had lost a friend and mentor, of course, but also his last best chance to obtain the power and prestige that his ancestors had enjoyed. From his youth Will had dreamed of following his father into city government, and while the road had been far from smooth, George Breary had been ready to guide him. Now Will was naught but a wealthy man’s impoverished son, dependent for his survival on the goodwill of his twice-widowed aunt.

“What do you think happened?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Will replied.

“It might have been Joseph,” I ventured. “We have to consider it.”

Will stood and began to pace the room, unwilling to meet my gaze.

“No,” he replied. “It’s not Joseph. I’ll not deny that he is a hard man, but he is not a murderer.”

“If Mr. Breary really had summoned another Witch Finder to replace him, it would make sense,” I persisted. I was not sure how far to push Will in this matter. No matter how turbulent their relationship had become, it was no easy thing for him to accuse his brother of murder.

Will started to reply, but Martha spoke first.

“It might have been Mark Preston without Joseph’s knowledge,” Martha said. An image of Preston’s deformed hand flashed through my mind. He might not be able to charge a pistol anymore, but he could certainly wield a club.

Will considered this for a moment and gave me a curt nod.

“That is possible,” he said. “If Joseph spoke ill of Mr. Breary, Preston might have killed him without asking permission.”

“Very well, Mark Preston,” I said. This concession seemed enough for the moment, so I left well enough alone.

“Is there anyone else?” Martha asked. “Can you think of anyone who might have profited from his death? Who might have been jealous of his success?”

Will pondered the question for a moment and, to my surprise, his ears pinked as if he’d thought of something unseemly.

“What is it?” Martha asked. She had noticed the change as well.

“It is nothing, I’m sure,” Will said. “It could not be.”

“Obviously it
could
be, or else you wouldn’t have thought of it,” Martha replied. “What is it? You must tell us.”

Will hesitated yet again.

“Will, the man is dead,” I said. “He has no more secrets. If he had some unsavory business dealings he would not be the only one in the city.”

Will shook his head, as if hoping to drive the thought from his mind. “It is not business,” he said. A pained look crossed his face, and I knew he could not hold out much longer.

“You must tell us,” Martha said.

After a moment, Will looked me in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Aunt Bridget. I could not tell you earlier. I would have said something if you had agreed to marry him.”

This threw me into confusion. “Will, why must you apologize to me? What is it?” I could not imagine a sin—in business or otherwise—that would have hurt me.