The moment he left, Abby leapt up and began inspecting the physician’s supplies, turning bottles to inspect their labels. Jacob could only watch in horror. No one may simply rifle among the professional and personal effects of a man of such distinction, he thought.

  Bramwell’s voice rang from another room: “If you seek poisons, Abigail, allow me to spare you the effort. I possess many, each employed in my research of medical treatments.”

  Sheepishly, she retook her seat. Jacob glared at her like a disapproving schoolmaster.

  “Foxglove may be used to treat heart conditions and dropsy,” Bramwell explained as he returned with a silver tray of expensive porcelain cups. “Hemlock may be used for spasms and arsenic as a general health tonic.” He set the tray down. “All in small doses, you understand.”

  “Which do you believe killed Goody Grimston?” chipped in Jacob, clearly fascinated.

  “I could not say.”

  “What if I were to ask the same?” said Abby.

  “Then I would reply, belladonna.”

  Jacob’s mouth fell wide open.

  Bramwell went on, regardless. “In my practice I am well acquainted with its symptoms, which include dilated pupils, hallucinations and convulsions, such as Grimston exhibited.”

  “Do you keep belladonna, sir?” asked Abby.

  “Aye, I cultivate the same and indeed experiment with many poisons. Any reputable physician would do so,” he replied, pausing for effect. “However, you should remember that, in the form of the plant deadly nightshade, belladonna grows wild in English hedgerows. Its berries are as black as night. Look carefully, and you will find them in Brampton.”

  They sipped their tea. Abby had never tasted the drink before, it being an expensive luxury, and she found it strange and bitter. After all the talk of poisons, feeling paranoid, she left her cup largely untouched. Jacob, who operated in higher circles, was acquainted with both tea and coffee - another exotic import, which had become increasingly popular among London’s men of business - but frankly preferred ale.

  Talk turned to Goody’s final utterance: “The b…”.

  “It may well be as the magistrate, Mr Bennett, stated that night: ‘The Brampton witches’,” Bramwell suggested. “As far as I am aware, the farmer fervently believed in their existence.”

  Abby adjusted the hem of her dress. “However, he might also have been saying…”

  “‘The beer’,” cut in Bramwell.

  “We must speak with Barty Nettlewood concerning his cellar,” she told her fellow inquisitor.

  As they departed, Jacob asked the physician whether he knew Alice Wilkins.

  Bramwell looked momentarily thrown. “Naturally. Why do you ask?”

  Jacob explained that they knew the stablemaid worked on the estate, and they needed to talk with her. (He did not add that he preferred to ask the rude physician for her whereabouts, rather than the pompous servant, Edgar. Both had made him feel small; one smaller than the other.)

  Abby was more blunt. “You seemed surprised by the question?”

  “Alice Wilkins is noted for her volatile temper and possesses… a certain reputation. A man of my standing finds it prudent to avoid her association.” He opened the door for them. “Mr Standish. Abigail Harcourt.” His gaze lingered on her. “I trust you will honour me with another visit. Perhaps next time in a less professional capacity.”

  Chapter twelve

  The Stablemaid

  Lord Fairfax’s stables were a good half-mile from the physician’s quarters, yet still within the sprawling estate. As the mist lifted, the drizzle continued. The inquisitors passed through ornamental gardens, laid out geometrically, as well as kitchen- and herb-gardens.

  Jacob noticed a cluster of plants bearing shiny black berries. Deadly nightshade, he felt sure, and he wondered out loud, “Bramwell’s poisons?”

  Sheep and cattle were dotted about the yellowing, sun-dried fields and orchards, and water meadows were visible in the distance. Grazing horses, gathered in a fenced enclosure beside a wide, low slate-tiled stone building, signalled their destination.

  Alice Wilkins was inside, in one of a dozen stalls, grooming a muscular black horse with a white forehead and fetlocks. Other horses, fine specimens used by Fairfax for hunting, peered from their stalls, curiously eyeing the visitors. The pervading bouquet - new to Abby and Jacob - was distinctive: hay and straw mingled with manure.

  So engrossed was the stablemaid in her brushing that she did not notice the inquisitors watching her, their arms resting on the gate of the stall. Both were accustomed to horses, from the hackney coaches of London. Never had they encountered a beast as majestic as this one.

  “May I stroke him?” asked Abby.

  Startled, Alice let out a gasp and swivelled to see where the voice had come from. Instantly, she was in Abby’s face, thunder in her eyes. Fearing she may be physically assaulted, Abby recoiled, and, as quickly as it had risen, the stablemaid’s rage vanished. The rapid mood-change was as disturbing to Abby as the initial threat had been.

  Before she knew it, Jacob was between them, squaring up to the stablemaid. Although he was significantly taller, Alice looked as powerful as the thoroughbreds she handled.

  Abby pulled him gently aside. “’Tis fine, Jacob. I’m sure we can speak with civility?”

  “Depends. Who in the blazes are you?” the stablemaid replied.

  “You wear perfume,” Abby observed, noting the scent of bergamot and mint that had enveloped her.

  “What of it?” Alice retorted. “It masks the odours of the stable.”

  When they were finally introduced and the stablemaid was comfortable with their credentials, Alice opened the gate to join the inquisitors. As she did so, Abby moved to approach the horse.

  Alice shot out an arm, barring her way. “No one touches Lord Fairfax’s horses,” she growled. “Only myself, the stable master, and Lord and Lady Fairfax. Lest there be dire consequences.”

  Abby had planned to begin the questioning boldly, straight into the stablemaid’s night out with her former fiancé - Paulina Pepys’s supposed suitor - Will Farlow. Since that now seemed unwise, she asked instead about her history with the Fairfaxes, to break her quarry in gently.

  Alice informed Abby that her father, John, was the current stable master, and that his father, grandfather and great grandfather before him had all looked after the horses on this estate, dating back to the 16th century. They discussed the estate and her duties, and Abby mentioned that they had just come from Bramwell’s.

  Having lulled her into a false sense of security, the inquisitor began in earnest. “You were at The Bull inn on the night of Goody Grimston’s death?” (A question, not a statement, though she already knew the answer.)

  Alice, however, was equal to it. “You know I was. You were there.”

  Abby was about to reply when Jacob butted in: “Aye, with Will Farlow!”

  The stablemaid exploded not with rage, as Abby had anticipated, but with hilarity. It took a while for her to calm herself. “Is that what you think? That I lay with that goat, Will Farlow, when he is intended for the sister of your Mr Pepys! Oh my!”

  She opened the gate to return to her grooming, careful to close it behind her. “He wishes to rekindle a fling that was as brief as a candle’s flicker. Thus, he offered to pay for my supper. I would not share his bed again, were he the last man on this earth. And I told him so.”

  “I can imagine you did,” Jacob muttered to himself.

  “Who do you believe caused the death of Goody Grimston?” Abby asked.

  “How would I know?” Alice grunted with exertion while she brushed. “I groom horses and clean out their mess. I’m no witch-finder.”

  “You believe his death was the work of witches?”

  The stablemaid shrugged. “’Tis what Goody said.”

  “You were friends with Goody?”

  She stopped brushing and straightened up. “Has somebody been talking?”

  Since they had not - at least not about Alice Wilkins - the stable fell silent, but for the snuffling of the animals.

  “Who is it? Who has spread lies about me?” Alice snarled.

  No one had.

  She went on, clearly seething. “It couldn’t be Archie Bramwell…”

  Jacob coughed, quite innocently, having inhaled an airborne mote.

  “What’s he said?” The stablemaid advanced on them once again.

  Jacob held his ground, motioning for Abby to stand behind him.

  “I presume he told you how Goody Grimston trampled over his prized herb garden? How he destroyed a precious plant vital to his research?” Reaching the gate, Alice kicked it hard. “How he flew into a rage and threatened to have him dispatched?”

  Jacob shook his head. He had not.

  Abby poked her head out from behind Jacob. “What about you, Alice Wilkins? Would you wish Goody dead?”

  The stablemaid jabbed Jacob’s chest. “Wish Goody Grimston dead? She asks me if I would wish that dullard fool dead?” Suddenly, her mood changed. Something had crossed her mind that upset her. A single tear escaped Alice’s eye and she turned around, ashamed of her distress.

  As the stablemaid regained her composure, a story emerged.

  Goody Grimston had been employed by Alice’s father, she told them, to supply hay and straw for the estate’s horses. He was unreliable, tardy, prone to drunkenness, and often delivered fewer than the agreed-upon number of sheaves. One day the previous year, exhausted of patience, Alice’s father had fired him on the spot.

  That same night, someone - though everyone knew precisely who - wedged open the stall-gate of Lord Fairfax’s favourite horse, Shadowfax. The horse escaped the estate grounds, escalating a frantic search the following morning, only for the poor creature to be found lifeless in the river.

  Apoplectic, Fairfax managed to force Goody into court, through his influence over the magistrate, Bulstrode Bennett. Alas, Alice said, the evidence was circumstantial and the proof non-existent.

  The strongest punishment that could be handed out, in due application of the law, was a fine and a public apology. Fairfax declined the apology, lest he cut the man down himself.

  Alice and her father were fortunate to escape with their livelihoods, thanks to the family’s generations of service.

  “I value horses more than men,” Alice concluded bitterly. “But I could not extinguish a man’s soul, not even one as dark as Grimston’s.”

  “Did you trust her?” Jacob asked Abby, as they made their way back to the village.

  “I don’t know who to trust,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

  Jacob stopped walking. “Did you notice, around her neck, a delicate silver chain? And tucked into her belt, a silk handkerchief which was finely embroidered?”

  Abby stopped too. “I did not. You’re suggesting…”

  “That such items would be beyond a stablemaid’s pay.”

  “She has another source of income?”

  Jacob shrugged.

  Puzzling silently, they continued onward.

  Chapter thirteen

  Will Farlow

  It was mid-afternoon by the time the inquisitors reached The Bull, weary yet buoyed by their achievements. The grey clouds had disappeared, replaced by a watery sun.

  Their interrogations had been largely successful. Goody was likely poisoned, they had learned. The physician - though he had concealed the fact - had reason to do away with the farmer, as did the stablemaid, who had been more forthcoming.

  It was more than they could have hoped for, so early in their investigation, the housemaid and the failed purser’s apprentice.

  Although the interrogations had been predominantly Abby’s, Jacob felt some pride. He may not have contributed the lion’s share, but these were early days in his new career - as Mr Samuel Pepys’s personal inquisitor, no less - and he felt he was learning fast. Certain insights had surely been his, he considered… Aye, had he not coughed at that moment, Alice Wilkins would never have blurted out Archibald Bramwell’s motive for murder.

  He would repay Mr Pepys’s trust in him yet.

  Before they ordered food, and both were starving, the inquisitors were keen to quiz Barty Nettlewood. If Goody had indeed been served poisoned beer - the scientific method of dispatch - then who had served him? Surely not the jovial innkeeper himself?

  Come to think of it, Abby realised, she had omitted his name from her list of possible suspects, as well as that of his wife.

  • Barty Nettlewood

  • Hatty Nettlewood

  When Barty arrived at their table, he closed his eye not covered by the fake eye-patch. Flailing his arms around, he alighted upon Jacob’s face and began tracing the outline of the inquisitor’s nose with his fingers. “I cannot see, sir!” he wailed. “I am blinded!”

  “Try swapping over your patch, sir,” Jacob suggested.

  The innkeeper did so, closed the exposed eye, and continued his charade. “It is no use, sir! Spare a shilling for a blind man!”

  “Mr Nettlewood!” barked Abby, instantly curtailing the alleged hilarity.

  Unfortunately, the innkeeper’s testimony only muddied the waters. He had personally served Goody and Anne Grimston’s beer, he told them. He had filled a jug from a barrel behind his counter, then refilled their tankards directly from that, standing at their table.

  He recalled the Grimston’s being in good spirits - she having bartered her baked goods for the drinks, so they cost nought - and that they had toasted his good health, both drinking the same decanted brew.

  “Goody died; Anne did not,” Barty concluded. “It is not possible he was poisoned.”

  Abby screwed up her eyes and rubbed her chin. “You saw them both drink?”

  Barty nodded.

  Jacob raised his finger. “What if…?” he trailed off.

  “Please, Jacob, continue,” she urged, open to any theory.

  Jacob was keenly aware that he would likely embarrass himself. “I do not comprehend the science of poison,” he began. “However, I wonder… Is there a poison that does not act immediately? Which takes effect only after a delay?”

  Abby’s face lit up. “You’re suggesting the poisoned beer wasn’t the one poured by Barty at the table, but a prior drink he had already consumed? Thus, anyone present might have added the poison to his brew?” She turned to Barty and asked, “Did Goody partake of more than one beer?”

  “You saw him yourself. He drank several.”

  Jacob pulled his periwig down over his forehead. “I do apologise, I am…”

  “No, Jacob! You have it!” She grasped his hand across the table and shook it delightedly. “Goody Grimston was already poisoned when Barty poured that draft!”

  “Pray, lower your voice!” Barty hissed. “All this talk of poison is bad for business!”

  A hand slammed down onto the table between them, with such ferocity that their tankards jumped. All three looked up to see an unshaven young man, his face contorted with drink and ire. In his other hand he held a clay flagon that seemed empty.

  “I hear I am the talk of Brampton!” he announced, spittle flying from his lips.

  Barty rose and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, Will Farlow, or I shall have to throw you out.”

  Farlow pushed him to the floor. “You and whose army, little fat man?”

  Jacob stood, looming taller than Farlow. “Pray, Mr Farlow, sit with us,” he said. “We will explain.”

  Jacob could see his addled mind turning over.

  Hesitantly, Farlow sat. “Bring me cider!” he ordered Barty, pushing his flagon at the innkeeper. “And be quick!”

  The fresh alcohol seemed to raise the young man’s spirits, and Jacob wondered whether it was a lack of cider, rather than learning of their investigation, that had made him so irate. One thing was for certain: in Brampton, word very quickly got around.

  Farlow appeared to have taken a tumble: his long waistcoat was ripped, his right cheek grazed, and his breeches were filthy. Yet his twinkling blue eyes exuded a ready charm. To Abby, who had met his sort before, he looked like trouble.

  “Why have you been asking questions about me? Who are you?” Farlow demanded.

  He was the first person in the village not to know who the inquisitors were… Then they remembered: he hailed from Huntingdon, the neighbouring town, two miles away.

  When Jacob explained their purpose in Brampton, it did little to quell Farlow’s suspicions. “What has that to do with me?” he demanded to know. “I’ve never met this Goody Grimston.”

  “He’s the man accusing your paramour, Paulina - my master’s sister - of witchcraft,” Abby explained. “And now he is dead.”

  Farlow rolled his eyes. “What of it?”

  “The witch-finder, Simon Hopkins, may be riding to Brampton as we speak,” said Abby.

  “What business is that of mine?”

  They were getting nowhere.

  Out of the blue, Farlow drunkenly shoved Jacob’s shoulder. “Who’s this lump? Can he not speak?”

  The inquisitor glared at him. “Aye, I can speak. So answer me, Will Farlow: Where did you sleep last night?”

  “With Alice Wilkins, with whom you dined on the night of Goody’s death?” Abby added.

  Farlow smirked. “Aye,” he replied, laced with sarcasm. “I lay with Alice.”

  “She says you did not,” Jacob countered.

  “Everybody lies.”

  “Do you lie, Will Farlow?” Abby asked.

  With a wink, he replied in a stage whisper, “I laid with Paulina Pepys.”

  “I do not believe him,” said Jacob. “Paulina’s father would never countenance such a thing.”

  “Who are you people?” Farlow retorted, slurring. “On whose authority do you interrogate me?” Rising, he upended his flagon into his wide-open mouth and guzzled down the dregs, though plenty of it splashed down his shirt-front. With a dramatic flourish, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You will, pray, excuse me? It is a long walk back to Huntingdon.”