The Butchers Funeral: A Medieval Murder (4 page)

Having already emptied two cartloads across several streets, he really needed to take this one out of city, rather than discretely spreading the contents.  It did not pay to cut too many corners; someone may get suspicious.  Fortunately, the cart was not too heavily loaded, but he would be damned if he was going to take it all the way to the dump.  Time for another shortcut, after all, there were different types of corners he could cut.  He turned left as he passed the old city walls.  No-one knew who had built them, but whoever had made the effort had dug a nice ditch that was fed by a small river, except when it was really dry.  Time for his next favourite trick, dumping the waste into the ditch.  As long as he did not do it too often, a combination of the river water and rain would flush out his waste.  Besides, the ditch was known to many as Shitebrook as a large number of people used it as a latrine or place to throw their night-soil.  The night-soil collectors probably dumped their surplus here as well, although they could get paid twice for selling their wares for use on the fields.  Tonight he would get paid just as well dumping the cartload here as elsewhere, as long as he did not get caught in the act.

Something out of place caught his eye, a shape that should not have been in the ditch.  He parked his cart and walked over to inspect the curious item.  The shape was familiar, too human.  There was just enough light, thrown from the various open doors and windows of the nearby buildings, and as he got closer he could clearly see the outline of a person.

'Hey you!  Wake up.'  There was no response.  He prodded the person, 'Bloody drunks.' He muttered, but there was still no response, even after he shook the shoulder.  No resistance, no movement, but still breathing.  He quickly recognised the person, it was the butcher and he simply did not look right.  Maybe there would be a reward for returning him home, at the very least the butcher would owe him a favour, perhaps a nice regular discount.  He quickly about dumping his cartload in the ditch, not too far away, before loading the unconscious butcher into the vacated space.

Dye had run down the stairs in response to the banging on the door.  She had been worried sick as Col had not returned and she had been getting ready to go out and find him.  He simply hadn't been right and fearing the worst she had opened the door to the muckraker who had brought her husband back.  Col had been in an awful state and once the two of them had taken him upstairs to bed, she had sent the muckraker to find Donald Alvin, the barber surgeon, who she knew was still in the city.  She gave the muckraker several coins for his trouble.  Albin, the apprentice, had been woken by all the noise and she had set him to making some nettle tea that she had forced Col to drink, it should bring down the temperature he was running.

With the arrival of Donald Alvin, she was had step back into a less active role, deferring to his skill and experience.  Nevertheless, Dye continued to dab at Col's forehead with a cool, damp cloth, as the barber surgeon made his diagnosis.

'Doesn't look like the booze.  Has he any recent cuts that may have got infected?'

'No,' she replied, 'He's always careful with cuts and would have said something if one was playing him up.'

'Where there other things were wrong with him?'

'Just getting old.'

'What else was he like when you last saw him?"

'Well, when he left he seemed disorientated, clumsy.  He was slurring a bit as well and kept talking, not to me, to someone else.  If he weren't so ill, I'd have been worried he was seeing spirits.'

As they talked, Col started convulsing again and they both had to hold him down.

'Did you give him that potion I gave you?' Alvin asked as the convulsions passed.  He was beginning to suspect that the combination of symptoms could be linked to this.

'He had it in a pie before bed, after he got in from the tavern.'

'Had he been drinking a lot?'

'Yes, but no more than usual when he's out.' She seemed to think about it, ‘Actually a bit less than normal as there wasn't much business to be had.'

'Might be it though, that potion has belladonna in it and it doesn't go to well with lots of alcohol.  Did you only give him the dose I suggested?'

'No, I put all of it in because I wanted a quiet night.'

'A small dose would have helped him sleep through, but the whole lot with alcohol isn't so good.  Didn't you realise that a large dose might not be good for him?'

Dye briefly looked blank before her face crumpled 'I did, I thought a good dose would do him in.  But look at him, it's not worked.'

'Oh it's working all right.  Sometimes the potion is weak, sometimes strong, but all of it will be more than enough to put him in his grave.'

'Please, you can't tell.  Anything, don't tell.' She begged.

Alvin looked at her thoughtfully.  She was desperate, but he had no intention of taking advantage.  If anything, she could easily blame him, claiming he recommended the full potion.  As an itinerant worker, his reputation was everything and the truth would not matter if he were accused.  Besides, there was that time when they had shared something else.  She had clearly liked him then and he still felt fondly toward her and somewhat protective, hence why he had given her the potion in the first place, so that she could have some peace and quiet from the attentions of her husband.

Much later, a while before dawn, Alvin returned to his lodgings having exhausted his treatments for Col Butcher.  Time would tell.  Alvin had purged him to clear out as much of the poisonous overdose as possible.  Dye had been instructed to give her husband strong spirits every few hours to stimulate his humours.  The alcohol would probably not be a complication at this stage, it was more important to rebalance the humours.  He had heard that the Moors used pape to counteract belladonna poisoning, but pape was not easily come by in England and he had mixed all he had left to make a small amount of dwale, and in that potion it would probably not be sufficient.  He had already tried to obtain pape from the apothecaries in the city, but they had none, nor had they had any for a while.

The dwale might still be a possibility, but as Alvin thought it through he discounted the idea because the hemlock in the potion would not be ideal and it would only deal with the more manic symptoms.  Henbane was an alternative and readily available, if you knew where to look, but he would not be able to get some until daylight. Perhaps if he mixed some henbane into his dwale, he could create a potion that would work?  He was not keen on the idea as his skill was with surgery, not potion making, and while he had heard of apothecaries mixing henbane into dwale, along with paper and hemlock, he was not certain if the potion would work the way he intended.  Nevertheless, Alvin did not rate the skills of the local apothecaries and he feared that if he requested their help they would accidentally give too great a dose of the more powerful ingredients, so it was all down to him.

It was early the next morning that Alvin first heard of the death of the butcher.  He had only just left the lodging house, on his way to find some henbane, when he overheard several storekeepers discussing the latest gossip.

'Butcher's dead you know.' Said one, 'He was found in the middle of the night and they say he was seeing spirits.  Didn't last out the night.'

'That poor woman, left alone so young.' Said another.

'Should think she'll be glad of the relief.  Don't want to talk bad of the dead, but we all know what he was like.' Replied the first.

Alvin did not bother to interrupt them, but instead hurried to the Butcher's shop.  It was not yet open and he knew that the worst had occurred as all the neighbouring stalls were set out and a brisk morning trade was already developing.  He knocked several times on the shuttered front door, hard so that he could be heard upstairs.  That had drawn some looks from the passers-by in the street.  Soon everyone in the city would know that he had been treating the Butcher, not that this would damage his trade as people were always dying during surgery, and there was always a need for his trade.  However, there was the risk that Dionisia could accuse him of providing a poison which she had innocently administered.  That would certainly end his trade, and possibly his life, but he did not think that it was likely that she would say anything as she had deliberately given too much of the potion.  Eventually Albin, the apprentice opened the door to him, quickly ushering him in. 

Upstairs he had found Col Butcher dead, pale as many of the recently departed were.  His wife was beside herself with worry, shocked at the outcome of the night.    She had explained that her husband had departed while she dozed during her vigil.  Dye was naturally upset, but they had quickly straightened their stories, neither wanting the other to get into trouble for the death: him for providing a poisonous potion; her for giving her husband too much.  Donald was certain he could trust her.  After all, they had shared many times together over the last couple of years, when her husband was busy.  He still felt strongly enough for her that he would not give up her mistake, and he expected that the feeling was mutual.  Besides, she had actually intended to give too high a dose, so she would not hand him in to the Constable and risk the story getting out.

'
Grab
'im lads!'

              Hands quickly seized Donald Alvin, restraining him on the bench in the tavern.  He had gone there for a few drinks after the funeral of Col Butcher.  Dusk had passed along with several drinks, relieved that both he and Dionisia Butcher had been able to keep their secret quiet.  He had been planning to move on to his next tour of the towns and villages in the morning.  Best away from the city and the complications that had arisen.  He had only stayed around to give Dye moral support in keeping their stories straight.

'We'd like to 'ave a little chat with you Master Surgeon.'  The town constable addressed him, deferentially using his trade title.  Through the alcoholic fog Alvin remembered his name was Eric, 'If you would like to come with us now, sir.'

Eric was polite and controlled, with his short and stocky build he could easily have been a great deal blunter.  Bearing the scars of uncountable tavern fights, the constable was built so solidly a blacksmith would have thought twice about taking him on.  He had three assistants with him, equally menacing, but also all taller.

'Getting up.' Donald slurred as he rose to his feet, the hands adjusted their grip but did not let go.  Through a combination of staggering and manhandling, they left the tavern, going around the corner so a more private chat could occur.  The bystanders in the tavern stayed put, interested, but knowing that it was unwise to mess with the city constable when he was about his work.

'We'd like to have a word with you about Col Butcher and his recent demise.'  The constable asked.

'What about him?'  Alvin was slowly gathering his wits, but could not resist some sarcasm, 'Do you want me to check if he's dead?  You'll have to dig him up first.'

'Were you treating him when he died?' The question was asked in a calm tone, the constable ignoring Alvin's attitude.

'Yes, everyone knows that.'

'What were you treating him for?'

'His wife summoned me when he came home late at night, confused and sick.  I checked him over to see if there was any help I could give.' He paused to think about it, 'I wasn't much use as there was nothing that needed sawing and I can't do much else with potions.  I was on my way back the next morning when I heard that Col died during the night.'

'So you didn't give him anything or treat him in any particular way?'

'Only what you would do for drunkenness and to check that he had not done any real damage to himself.  I was concerned about getting his humours back in balance and purged him a little.  He was out of sorts and I thought he may have hit his head while drunk.'

The constable gave him a knowing look, 'You see, we have a witness that says you gave him some sort of potion.'  There was a pause while the constable studied Alvin's reaction, 'Might it have been something to make him worse?'

The risk he was running suddenly became clear to Alvin.  He sobered in seconds, but on the surface maintained the appearance of drunkenness.  It would be his word against someone else if he was formally accused and he had to convince the constable of his innocence, quickly and before the matter progressed to such a level.  Everything was balanced on his reputation and the nature of the accusation against him.  Was it Dye who had sold him out about the sleeping potion?  Perhaps to save her own skin?

'No, I gave him nothing.'  He trusted Dye to keep to their agreed story, it must have been someone else.

'Not even something that his wife could use to poison her husband?'  The line of questioning was getting uncomfortably close to the truth.

'Why would I do that?"

'Well,' the constable paused as if thinking it over, 'perhaps you thought that the two of you could be rid of her husband, making the way open for you?  Or maybe, the two of you were involved with some of that shady business that Col always used to indulge in and you delivered poison on behalf of one of his rivals?'

'I did not such thing,' Alvin did not need to pretend to be indignant at the accusations, 'I'm a healer, not a murderer.'

'People become many different things when love is involved.  It was said that you used belladonna.  Isn't that the plant that the Devil himself tends every night?'