Havoc, in Its Third Year Read online

  “It is a simple question,” Brigge said.

  “No, sir,” Scaife conceded with reluctance.

  Brigge dismissed him and told Adam to make himself ready for the journey. The boy appeared downcast. As they left the house, he sent Dor-cas longing glances, which she did not return.

  THE VAGRANTS AT the new bridge came out from their shelters, and the crippled one called Starman came leading a boy and called to Brigge that here was the one he had put forward to be his shepherd, but the coroner passed without he cast them even a look.

  At Skelder Gate the watch challenged him but without show of especial insolency and permitted him to enter unmolested. Brigge rode to the House of Correction, and Taylor, the keeper, came in to offer him refreshment. Taylor, a man of extraordinary bulk and slow movement, looked so disheveled and pressed that Brigge asked if he was well. The keeper confessed he had not slept, that he and those with him had been kept very busy throughout the night.

  “When the inmates finished their labor,” Taylor explained, “we ordered them to their rooms, the men to go with the men, the women with the women, as we do every night. But they, having been incited, defied us and refused.”

  “You say they were incited?”

  “They were, your honor, and not for the first time.”

  “Who has incited them?”

  “The Irish tinker that is called Shay, sir. They should never have unbridled her.”

  Brigge experienced an unmistakable feeling of relief—fleeting and disturbing—on hearing that Shay was still alive.

  “She has taken advantage of the great numbers of inmates we have been lately forced to keep but cannot control,” Taylor continued. “We are full to overflowing, though still the governors send us more to keep every day.”

  “How has she incited them?”

  “She tells them they are unjustly kept prisoner.”

  “I can see that would hold a certain appeal for her congregation,” Brigge said.

  “She calls the governors rogues and puritan dogs and dissembling puritan knaves and hypocrites,” Taylor said. “I have heard her with my own ears say this and worse—that rich men have gotten all into their hands and would starve the poor, but what could rich men do against poor men, if poor men rise and hold together, for there are more poor than rich. Last night when Shay spoke to them, within the hour they were in a rebellion against us. At first I was greatly amazed by reason that some are notorious felons but for the most part the rest are feeble persons, in mind and body, many of them lame or old and infirm and dull-witted, habituated to instruction, and if there is any difficulty, the whip soon reminds them of their obedience.”

  “How are they now?”

  “They appear quiet, but I cannot say how long they will remain so.”

  “I will speak to the Irishwoman,” Brigge said.

  IN THE INMATES’ room there was little light. The coroner could make out the shapes of the looms and spinning wheels and other things belonging to the weaving and making of cloth, and perceived the prisoners were gathered at the far end of the long room. As he approached, he heard the murmur of Katherine Shay’s particular voice, lulling and hoarse and soft.

  The Irishwoman fell silent when Brigge came up. “Here comes a governor, we must honor him,” she said. “Have you come to bridle and whip us again?”

  Her mouth was still swollen and bruised from her bridling; her lower lip was fat and had recently been bleeding.

  “No,” Brigge said. “I have not.”

  “You have the appearance of an honest man, Mr. Coroner,” she said, looking him up and down. “If you say you have not, for myself I will say that I believe you. Perhaps you have come like St. Germanus to free poor prisoners from their captivity? I was relating to my companions and friends”—she swept a hand to encompass the miserable assembly that made up her audience—“of the time St. Germanus came to a town and passed before a jail crowded with innocent prisoners awaiting torture and death on the orders of the town’s rich governors. Do you know the story, Mr. Coroner?”

  Brigge knew the saints and knew the miracles they worked. But the inmates knew nothing of St. Germanus and they pleaded with her to continue her relation.

  “When the prisoners heard that Germanus was outside, they shouted for him to save them, raising a great clamor. Germanus went to the governors, but the cowards and dogs refused to see him and the guards hid from him. St. Germanus was not afraid of blood and dirt. He did not pass on the other side of the road and hide his eyes when he saw suffering. Instead he asked God for the help men would not give him. He walked up to the jail and threw himself on the ground and began to pray.”

  Her voice became low and trancing, a fanatical hedgerow preacher. Brigge found himself, like the inmates, impatient to hear her tell what happened next, though he knew the unfolding of the story.

  “Germanus prayed, calling on God to see that justice was done. Suddenly, the gates of the prison, though they were secured by chains and bars, flew open, and the iron bolts leaped back. The prisoners staggered out from their dark dungeons into the light, and as they came into freedom, the fetters that bound them fell away. The jail became empty and harmless, and Germanus led the prisoners through the town to celebrate the victory of kindness. No man came to oppose them. Germanus had restored them to the light and they would let no man force them back into darkness.”

  “Where does St. Germanus live?” an old woman asked.

  Shay rounded on her. “What do you mean, where does he live, you old fool?”

  The woman hesitated. “If we send word,” she ventured, “will he come here to free us?”

  Katherine Shay’s face reddened with anger. “I am surrounded by oafs and rattlebrains. St. Germanus is dead, you dullard!” she shouted. Seeing the look of despondency in the faces of her listeners only sharpened her rage. “Did you not listen to what I said? Was it not plain? Germanus was no more than the tool—it was God who worked the miracle.”

  She gave them time to comprehend what she said, but when she saw the bafflement in their eyes, she said loudly and deliberately, “When God decides to intervene again for the sake of the poor and oppressed, he will find another to do what Germanus performed.”

  “When will he decide?” another of the inmates asked.

  “How should I know this?” Shay shouted in exasperation. “All I know is that when Jesus came he did not go to the rich, but went instead to comfort the poor and take the part of the downtrodden and despised. God loves kindness and to end cruelty he will work all manner of miracles.”

  “Let us hope he shows you more kindness than you showed the child you murdered,” Brigge said. “I have questions to ask of you, mistress. Come with me.”

  A murmur went up, some of the inmates very agitated at the thought of her going from them, but she calmed and said she would go with the coroner for she could see he was no Pharisee.

  He led her from the room into a passage, where a guard stood by a closed door. “Who do you keep prisoner there?” Brigge asked.

  “Mr. Fourness,” the guard answered.

  “Open the door,” Brigge ordered.

  “I cannot,” the guard said. “I have not the key.”

  Brigge went forward to speak to Fourness through the door, but the guard stood in his way very determinedly. “I have strict orders that the prisoner is to have no conference with any man, save at the constable’s command.”

  Brigge glared at the man but saw he would not be overawed. He took Shay by the arm and led her forward to the keeper’s own quarters.

  “You have been inciting the inmates to insolency and rebellion,” he said.

  “I have done no more than show them the truth.”

  “Do you say you know the truth?”

  “I know the truth is not secret.”

  “Tell it to me then.”

  “Your kind is not prepared for the truth.”

  “What is my kind?” Brigge asked.

  “You that have, you that
rule.”

  “Did you not say I was honest?”

  “Hypocrisy struggles within you,” she said. “Those that have and rule must also have hypocrisy in their hearts, and hypocrisy blinds the hypocrite so he cannot see the truth.”

  “You say we are all hypocrites?”

  “I say you are hypocrites and parasites and the future will prove it so.”

  “Do you also claim to know the future?” Brigge asked.

  “I know enough of it,” she said.

  “You are too boastful,” Brigge said. “To know the future is nothing special. I know your future for it is not secret.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Your future is that you will hang,” Brigge said.

  “You admit you hang the innocent?”

  “Do you say you are innocent of the child’s murder?”

  “I know nothing of any murder.”

  “A child’s corpse was found in the room where you lodged. The women who searched your body found it in the condition of one who had lately given birth. You can see, can you not, how this points to your guilt?”

  For the first time Brigge perceived some agitation in the Irishwoman. He persisted, “If you are innocent, tell me and I will do all I can to help you.” Shay made no answer; she looked away, then back again. Brigge thought he saw tears coming in the corners of her eyes. “If the child died and it was not any of your doing, you must tell me,” he said coaxingly.

  Shay bit her lip.

  “Do you confess you gave birth?” he said.

  “I do confess it,” she mumbled.

  Brigge nodded slowly, making himself understanding and patient, confident he was at last about to get to the bottom of the matter. “Tell me what happened. How did the child die? Did you fall asleep, perhaps, and lie on him? Many mothers in their exhaustion innocently kill their babies thus.” Shay sniffed and wiped her eyes. She shook her head. “Tell me,” Brigge said, “is this what happened?”

  “No,” she answered quietly.

  “Did you drop the child unintentionally?”

  “No.”

  “Was the child born dead?”

  “I do not know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “Because it is not my child.”

  “Do not try my patience, mistress, or play me for a fool,” Brigge shouted at her.

  “Why so angry, John?” she said. “Why so vehement?”

  Brigge bridled at the sound of his Christian name in her mouth. He saw her for the trickster and temptress she was. He would not deny that she had perception, but it was a wicked perception, the whore’s perception, the triumphant perception of the woman who knew too well man’s motives.

  “I am no poor deluded beggar like those you incite,” he said coldly, “and you are no seer. You are the murderer of your child. I will be present to see you convicted of your crime and I will be present to see you hang for it. I look forward to both with pleasure.”

  Wanting no more to do with her, he called the keeper and had her returned to the inmates’ room. As he led Shay out, Taylor informed the coroner that his jury was now assembled and waited for him below.

  Twelve

  DOLIFFE WAS WAITING AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS. HE HAD the air of a man who had urgent business elsewhere and for whom the present matter was a nagging, inconsequential nuisance. He did not greet or acknowledge the coroner but turned at once to enter the room used for the keeping of kindling and coals, and often also for the corpses of inmates who were carried off by fevers and infections. The bodies lay on the floor, a disorder of torn rags and blue flesh smeared and powdered by coal dust and dirt. Their death smell was in the air but was not yet offensively high owing to the great cold of the chamber.

  “This will not delay you long,” Doliffe said. “We need do no more than record findings of death by visitation of God.”

  Brigge was trying to conjecture the sex of those muddled on the floor. Two women and a man? Two men and a woman? That one that was so frail and malnourished, was that a child?

  “You have heard how the Irishwoman has stirred the inmates to disturbance?” the constable asked Brigge. “Had you completed your inquisition at the first we should have been able to hang her and so saved the keeper and the town the great inconvenience she has since caused.”

  “Why have you not sent for Susana Horton?” Brigge asked, his tone direct, without hints of courtesy or apology.

  “By reason, sir, of vital work on which I am presently engaged on the town’s affairs,” Doliffe answered.

  “This vital work compasses the apprehending and imprisonment of Mr. Fourness?”

  “Indeed,” Doliffe said, meeting Brigge’s directness with an equal bluntness. “On what cause is Mr. Fourness detained?”

  “His offense, sir, is so odious and despicable I will not say what it is.”

  “Is he in league with the French or the Spanish,” Brigge said, unable to prevent himself from sarcastic jibes. “Perhaps he is one of the strange horsemen that ride at night.”

  The constable regarded him coldly. “These are matters of urgency and weight,” he said. “I am surprised you see fit to turn them into jests.”

  “Someone will have to reveal what Fourness’s crime is at some near time,” Brigge said. “No man can be held without he be brought to the bar and have charges put to him that he may answer.”

  “His arraignment will be time enough for men to hear the horrid things Fourness has done,” Doliffe said. “I myself will say nothing of it for such foul deeds should not be spoken of without it being necessary.”

  “This is a most convenient way for you to proceed.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “No one is more esteemed in the town for honesty, charity and wisdom than Fourness. Or for the suffering he endured for his opposing of Lord Savile. You know that anything you lay to his charge will inflame the people’s passions, for they know him to be innocent.”

  “They know nothing of the sort,” Doliffe answered with a frigid look. “And when they learn of his offense, I assure you, Mr. Brigge, what reputation Fourness had will vanish at a stroke.”

  The constable’s vehemence unsettled Brigge and made him think he had uncertain ground for his argument, that in speaking for Fourness he had gone beyond his proper business. He turned back to the corpses on the floor that were his business.

  The jurymen entered.

  “What are the names of these prisoners?” the coroner asked when they had settled.

  He would do no more than record the names of the dead and tell the jury to find they had died by visitation of God. There was little purpose in prolonging the proceedings, unless it was so Brigge might himself catch his death by the contagion of the place.

  Taylor pointed out the dead and gave their names.

  Isaac Mann …

  Christopher Sharp …

  Margery Farrer.

  On hearing the last name Brigge pushed the jurymen aside and went to see for himself. It was true. Margery Farrer, the girl who had gone to the barn instead of divine service, who had listened to her lover’s entreaties instead of Favour’s raving, accepted his caresses and not the host in her mouth. Now she was dead. Brigge peered at the corpse. It was wrapped loosely in a coarse blanket of undyed cloth.

  “How did she die?” Brigge asked Taylor.

  “Of fever, like the rest,” Doliffe answered for the keeper.

  “Help me with her,” Brigge said, snapping his fingers at Taylor and Scaife.

  Instructing Taylor and Scaife to take the arms while he managed the feet, Brigge began to lift Margery Farrer’s corpse clear of the tangle in which it lay.

  “Make room there,” Brigge said.

  The jurymen parted so they could put the girl down. The blanket had come away to reveal her nakedness. Brigge turned her over and saw that her back had been flayed so there was hardly an inch of skin between her arse and her neck.

  “How many times was she whipped?” he ask
ed.

  “She was chastised three times, given fifty lashes each market day until she would reveal the name of the man who sinned with her,” Doliffe answered. “You will recall that was our judgment.”

  He gazed at the body a while, then turned to the jurymen. “As you see, a perfectly perceptible instance of death by visitation of God,” he said.

  The jurors did not know whether he intended an ironical sense and they shifted uneasily on their feet. Brigge said, “Do you not agree?”

  They looked at each other in bewilderment, none speaking or answering the coroner. “Well?” Brigge shouted at them. “Have you not eyes? Can you not see?” He turned to the keeper. “Fetch some candles, Taylor. The poor light obscures their vision.”

  “The light is perfectly good,” Doliffe said, making it plain he considered the coroner’s performance to be tedious. “No candles are necessary.”

  Brigge looked over the jury. “You have heard Mr. Doliffe,” he said.

  “The light is good. So, having viewed the bodies before us, we can see by the signs on them that they came to their deaths by visitation of God and by no other means. Is that not so?”

  One juror, more forward than the rest, or perhaps simply more tractable, mumbled his concurrence and others took up his lead.

  “Draw up the inquisition and have these clear-sighted gentlemen put their signatures or marks to it,” Brigge told Adam, then hurried after the constable, who seemed eager to be gone.

  “Mr. Doliffe,” he called. The constable turned to face him. “I will return in five days to continue the inquisition on the dead child of Katherine Shay. That will give you ample time to have Susana Horton fetched back. If she is not here, it will be necessary for me to inform the high sheriff of your dereliction.”

  Doliffe looked at him with open contempt. “Inform as you please,” he said.

  HE WENT DIRECTLY to Ward’s End, to the house of Dr. Antrobus, which was neatly built of brick, but finding him not at home carried on to Mr. Wade’s house in Blackledge. There he found Wade together with his fellow governors Lister and Antrobus.