The Play's the Thing (The Chronicles of Christoval Alvarez Book 7) Page 12

  Cuthbert was questioned in particular about how he had seen Master Wandesford taken ill, vomiting and collapsing on to the table.

  Once we were all seated and the clerk had finished scribbling his notes, Sir Rowland spoke again.

  ‘This inquest has been called because there has been an allegation of foul play in the demise of the deceased. Who has made this allegation?’

  Feeling more sick than ever, I rose to my feet.

  ‘I do, your worship.’

  One of the sergeants waved me over to stand in front of the coroner’s chair. Brought face to face with me, he seemed for the first time to recognise me. I saw him give a slight start. Perhaps some official had handled my request for an apothecary, not Sir Rowland himself. He must have heard me sworn in, but it had been a tedious business, so perhaps he had allowed his attention to wander. His lips twitched in the shadow of a smile, which I took for a good sign. After my mission for the Muscovy Company, I thought he respected me. I began to feel a little less nervous.

  ‘Dr Alvarez,’ he said, ‘I understand that when you attended the deceased, having been called to him by Master Cuthbert Burbage, you made certain observations which caused you to suspect that he had been poisoned.’

  ‘That is so,’ I said. ‘However, I had noticed certain signs earlier in the evening, before we sat down at table.’

  He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward, resting his chin on his clasped hands.

  ‘Are you saying that the deceased had already been poisoned before he arrived at the inn?’

  ‘Not fatally poisoned, nay. By the symptoms he exhibited, I would say that he had previously been given a very small dose, one that had not proved fatal, but which had begun to work upon his body, causing trembling, slurred speech, sweats, and enlarged pupils of the eyes. He complained of dizziness, pains, and blurred vision. When he walked, he was unsteady on his feet.’

  ‘You are sure he had not simply taken too much drink?’

  There was a snigger from the crowd, quickly reprimanded by one of the sergeants.

  ‘Nay, your worship, the symptoms were not those of excess drink. The effect on the eyes of belladonna poisoning is quite unmistakable.’

  ‘And is it your belief that this previous dose, if such it was, overcame him during the meal?’

  ‘Nay. He received a further and fatal dose in a glass of wine.’

  I reached into my satchel and drew out the phial. There was a gasp of delighted excitement from behind me. At last matters were becoming interesting. ‘There was still a little of the wine in his glass,’ I explained. ‘I took the precaution of emptying it into this phial. Before sealing it with wax, I tasted a drop. The wine had been poisoned with belladonna. Two of the witnesses here saw me place the wine in the phial and seal it, Master Hetherington and Master Shakespeare.’

  Simon and Will stood up and affirmed that they had seen this done.

  I then described Master Wandesford’s final throes.

  ‘Before he died,’ I said, ‘he indicated that he recognised the taste in the wine, and that he had been given it before. He died before he could tell me when it had been given him or by whom. I therefore assume that it was not administered by the inn or its people, but by someone who had given it to him on an earlier occasion.’

  ‘Are you able to name this person?’

  I shook my head. ‘I am not. The person who placed the poison in the glass must have been nearby, but it was quite dark where Master Wandesford was sitting and by the time I reached him from the other end of the table, people were moving about.’

  ‘Master Cuthbert Burbage has already told us that he cannot recall who was sitting where at that end of the table.’ The coroner looked over at the benches where the guests at the dinner were now sitting. All looked uneasy. It seemed certain that whoever had added the belladonna to Wandesford’s wine must be there amongst them.

  ‘I understand you have asked for another opinion on the contents of this phial.’ Sir Rowland held out his hand and I set the tiny bottle down on the table in front of him. Such a small thing, to determine the cause of a man’s death.

  ‘Master Winger,’ the coroner said, ‘please examine this sample and give us your opinion.’

  The apothecary came to the table and picked up the bottle. I moved to one side so as not to block the light. He took a small penknife from a sheath on his belt and cut away the wax which secured the cork. He smelled the contents, then tipped a drop on to his forefinger and touched it to his tongue.

  The coroner looked at him enquiringly, but Master Winger did not speak until he had spat into his handkerchief, replaced the cork, and set the phial down on the table again.

  ‘Belladonna,’ he said, ‘without a doubt.’

  ‘The phial might have been tampered with, and the poison added after the dinner,’ the coroner said coolly.

  I felt my stomach clench in horror. Was he accusing me of fabricating the evidence?

  Master Winger shook his head. ‘I have known Dr Alvarez for many years and can state that he is a man of honour and a physician of impeccable reputation. I would take my oath on this being a sample of the wine drunk by the deceased.’

  Sir Rowland nodded. ‘You may both resume your seats.’

  I collapsed on to the bench, my legs shaking. I had not foreseen that the coroner would cast that kind of doubt over my evidence.

  Sensing my alarm, Guy muttered, ‘He had to ask that, don’t you see? Otherwise one of the jurors might have raised the question.’

  Perhaps he was right, but my head was truly swimming now.

  Cuthbert was questioned again, but could only remember a few of those who had been sitting near him.

  ‘I apologise, your honour,’ he said. He was looking worried and distressed. ‘I had spent most of the dinner conversing with Lord Hunsdon, on my left, with my back turned toward that end of the table. As Dr Alvarez has said, it was quite dark. Apart from scolding some of the boys who were making a noise, I hardly spoke to anyone to my right. It was only when Master Wandesford fell forward and the glasses were smashed that I realised anything was untoward.’

  ‘Very well. You may sit down.’

  The coroner turned to his clerk, who passed up the notes he had been taking. While he was reading through them I heard the clock from one of the nearby churches strike twice. On the one hand it seemed impossible that so much many hours had passed, but on the other we seemed to have been sitting in this hellish room for ever. I could feel a rivulet of sweat running down my backbone, and the strands of hair which had escaped from my cap were clinging unpleasantly to my temples. The heat pressing in from all those crowded around me aggravated the rising heat of my own body. The bench was too narrow, and without a back, so that my spine was cramped and aching, while my feet had swollen so that my shoes pinched. But all of this was as nothing, compared to the charnel house stench of the room. Even the eager observers had begun to find the atmosphere too much to endure. Perhaps a quarter of them had slipped away, as I observed to Guy.

  ‘Probably not gone far,’ he said. ‘They’ll be refreshing themselves at the nearest ale house and come back for the verdict. They won’t want to miss the climax of this free entertainment.’

  The open window was almost exactly opposite us, facing west, so that as the sun moved round it fell more directly on us. When I looked up, I thought my vision, distorted by my headache, was conjuring up black blotches around the window frame. Then I realised that the blotches had a life of their own, and were made up of clusters of flies. Lured away from other enticing smells in the neighbourhood, the fishmongers’ and butchers’ stalls, the town middens and uncleared gutters, the flies were drawn to the object of the inquest. Singly, in two and threes, in whole colonies, they swarmed about the coffin in such numbers I could hear the buzz of their wings even over the chatter in the court. It was intolerable.

  With great daring, I rose from my seat and approached the coroner’s chair, and bowed.

  ‘Sir Rowland,�
�� I said softly, ‘I am sorry to presume, but might the lid of the coffin be replaced? There are a great many flies, and the miasma which rises from the dead can be of great harm to the living, especially if it is spread by flies.’

  He looked startled at being approached, but after a moment’s thought he nodded and turned to one of his sergeants.

  ‘Dr Alvarez is right. We should not endanger the health of those present. The jurors and the witnesses have viewed the deceased. The lid of the coffin may be replaced.’

  As I returned to my bench, I could not avoid a glance into the coffin. It was hard to equate the object crawling with flies to the neat person of Master Wandesford. It was the ultimate degradation. Whose hand had been raised against this harmless old man and brought him to such a humiliating end? Nothing that had been said so far during the inquest had brought us any nearer to an answer. Would the authorities in London make any attempt to find the murderer? Or was the victim of such little importance that no search would be made?

  As I took my seat, Guy smiled at me. ‘That was well done. Poor fellow. It is only decent to cover him up.’

  ‘Decent, and an attempt to avoid the spread of sickness,’ I said, ‘though it may already be too late for that.’

  The coroner had laid down his papers and the sergeants once again attempted to silence the talking in the room.

  ‘Dr Alvarez,’ Sir Rowland said, ‘I have a further question.’

  I stood up again and stepped forward. Had I called too much attention to myself with my request? But it seemed the coroner had a genuine question concerning the case.

  ‘Your worship?’ I said.

  ‘I have been told that on occasion, some persons will take belladonna to induce visions. In your opinion, could that be the case here? So that the death might be either a form of felo de se or of accidental death, due to consuming too large a dose?’

  It was the same point Dr Nuñez had raised when I had discussed Wandesford’s death with him, and once again I argued against self administration on the basis of what I knew of the deceased’s character. Also questioned, on the grounds that they had known him longest, Guy and Master Burbage supported my argument. We were all three questioned as to whether we had any knowledge or suspicion of any individual who might wish the deceased harm. All three of us stated that we had no such knowledge or suspicion, and were permitted to resume our seats.

  The coroner now turned to the jurors.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you have heard the evidence of how the deceased met his death during a dinner in the garden of this inn. The witnesses are agreed that he collapsed while sitting at table and died very shortly thereafter. You must now withdraw and consider your verdict as to the cause of death. I will summarise for you. First, do you find the deceased to be Oliver Wandesford, copyist, late of the parish of St Botolph’s? Second, did the deceased die of natural causes? Third, if you do not believe he died of natural causes, what do you conclude caused his death? Do you accept the opinion given by the physician Dr Alvarez and the apothecary Master Winger that his wine contained belladonna and that this was the cause of death? Fourth, do you judge the poison to have been added to the wine by the deceased himself or by some other person, with malice aforethought? Finally, can you name this person?’

  Some of the jurors looked worried at this barrage of questions to be answered, others nodded wisely, as if passing such judgements was a regular feature of their lives.

  ‘You will be taken to a private room,’ the coroner continued, ‘and the door will be locked. No food or drink will be provided. When you have come to an agreement as to your answers to these questions, you should knock on the door and you will be returned to this court of inquiry, where we shall hear your verdict.’

  I saw that all the jurors had gaped in disbelief at the news that they would be given no food or drink. It was now early afternoon and none of us had taken anything since early morning. They must all be as hungry and thirsty as I was. I suppose it was a certain way to ensure that they would reach their verdict quickly.

  The coroner stood, and we did likewise. He withdrew to the small parlour as the jurors were ushered by the sergeants out of the main door and across to a room opposite, which I believe was the private parlour of the innkeeper’s family. The audience began to slip away after them, no doubt in search of an ale house or ordinary, to take some refreshment while they could.

  Simon leaned across Guy and me to speak to Master Burbage.

  ‘Must we also remain here, without food or drink? I am like to faint away if they take too long over their deliberations.’

  ‘I believe we must remain here,’ Master Burbage said, ‘but I see no reason why we should not ask the innkeeper to provide some refreshment.’

  The innkeeper was only too willing, having already lost a day’s trade to the holding of the inquest. It was not long before he had pot boys scurrying in with jugs of ale, followed by his wife and maidservants with bread, cold meats, cheese, and fresh salad greens.

  ‘I would avoid the meat,’ I warned, but not everyone heeded me. The rest of the food I believed would be safe enough.

  Lord Hunsdon did not join us, but demanded a private room and withdrew to it with his two attendants. He was probably in breach of some law and should have remained with the rest of the witnesses, but I think no one had the courage to reprimand him.

  The ale was cool and did something to slake my thirst. The room, too, became less oppressive, now that everyone but the witnesses had departed. We walked about, shaking the stiffness out of our limbs from so long sitting, and enjoying the release from being packed together like herrings in a barrel.

  I piled chunks of bread with cheese, onions and lettuce, and walked as far as the door while I munched it. I had realised how thirsty I was, but only now became fully aware of my hunger.

  ‘You may not leave the court,’ one of the sergeants said officiously, barring my way to the door.

  ‘I do not intend to.’ I was fairly brusque, for I was hot and tired, and my head was no better. ‘However, we all need air. Have you opened the door to the street? There will be no breeze, but a little of this foul air might disperse before everyone returns.’

  He inclined his head, and ordered one of the pot boys to open the street door and wedge it in position. I could feel a faint, very faint, movement of air, which might disperse some of the miasma.

  Gradually all the witnesses wandered back to the benches and the inn servants cleared away the traces of our scrappy meal. From across the corridor beyond the door came the sound of loud knocking.

  ‘God be praised!’ Will said. ‘I hope that means the jurors have come to some decision.’

  A few minutes later, the jurors were once more escorted to their benches, closely followed by Lord Hunsdon, who hitched his chair a little further away from us, as if to make clear the fact that he was not part of our disreputable company, rogues and vagabonds as all players are known to be. I now found myself sitting next to Master Winger.

  ‘I thank you for supporting my diagnosis,’ I said.

  ‘There was no mistaking it. Definitely belladonna, and the symptoms you described are certainly those of belladonna poisoning. Do you remember that case of the boy who had eaten the berries?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said grimly, ‘who could forget it? That was what made it easy for me to identify the symptoms.’

  Our discussion was interrupted by one of the sergeants calling upon us to rise. The previous crowd had pushed back into the room, having acquired some new faces, all looking eagerly at the jurors. The coroner and his clerk returned from the small parlour, where I had no doubt they had been regaled with rather better fare than we had.

  We all sat down. The coroner turned to the jurors.

  ‘Who speaks for you?’ he asked.

  The fat butcher stood up, oily with importance. ‘I do, your worship.’

  ‘How do you find on the first count? Do you find the deceased to be Oliver Wandesford, copyist, late of the p
arish of St Botolph’s?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Second, did the deceased perish from natural causes?’

  ‘Nay, your worship. We do not believe he died from natural causes.’

  The clerk made a note.

  ‘Third, what do you believe was the cause of death?’

  ‘We believe the evidence that the death was caused by belladonna added to the deceased’s wine during the dinner.’

  The coroner nodded. I supposed he must appear neutral and leave the verdict to the jurors, but I thought he had probably already made up his own mind.

  ‘Fourth, do you believe this was a case of felo de se, the diseased having caused his own death, or do you believe the poison was administered by a third party, with malice aforethought?’

  The butcher cleared his throat. He was hoarse, and growing hoarser. He must be longing for something to drink.

  ‘On the evidence of those who knew him, your honour, we do not believe the deceased added the poison himself. We believe it was given to him by someone else.’

  Once again the coroner nodded. The clerk was writing briskly.

  ‘Finally, do you find yourselves able to name the perpetrator of this deed?’

  ‘Nay, your worship, we do not.’

  ‘Very well. You may resume your place.’

  Throughout this interrogation, the room had fallen totally silent. Now, as Sir Rowland rose to his feet, I could hear the silken rustle of his gown.

  ‘The verdict of this court, therefore, is that the deceased, Oliver Wandesford, was murdered by person or persons unknown.’

  Chapter Seven

  The day after the inquest Simon came to my room, barely able to contain his laughter.

  ‘There has been a development with the inquest,’ he said.

  I could not see how anything related to the inquest could be amusing him, so I waited.

  He pulled one of my chairs away from the table and sat on it back to front, resting his chin on the back rail.