The Midwife's Tale(17)

“There are two pieces of good news about last night,” I said to Martha as we crossed the bridge. I kept my voice as low as possible, and the hubbub from the crowd meant only she could hear me. “The army is convinced that the rogue we encountered last night was killed by another of his kind. They will look first among their own ranks, and doubtless give up before long. They know what kind of man he was, and he will not be mourned. Mr. Hodgson also said that Mr. Cooper might not have been murdered at all. They only know that he died suddenly.”

“Oh no, my lady, he was murdered,” Martha replied. “Poisoned, actually.” I stopped and stared at her.

“Why in heaven would you say such a thing?” I asked. “The rumors are awful enough as it is, and I don’t need you adding to them!”

“It’s not a rumor, my lady. While you were with Mr. Hodgson, I talked with the other servants. They told me everything.” I was scandalized that Edward’s servants would betray his business, and she knew it. “Well, it’s not as if they deliberately eavesdropped. What with all the coming and going, it would have been impossible for them not to overhear what was said. The Lord Mayor and his man came, the surgeon was there, and Mr. Hodgson even summoned an apothecary. If Mr. Hodgson wants to keep his secrets, he should raise his voice less often. His servants said he was quite upset by the news.” She had a point. I relented.

“Well, what else did you hear?” I asked.

“Mr. Cooper’s wife discovered him in the parlor. He died so suddenly, she thought he’d suffered a stroke. Mrs. Cooper summoned servants, neighbors, and the vicar, and they all agreed with her. But a house-cat began to drink the milk from his cup, and within a few minutes it began to yowl fearfully and died shortly after. That’s when the neighbors began to suspect poison. They sent the servants for a stray dog, and gave it some of the milk. It died the same way.”

“So if the cat hadn’t drunk the milk, his wife would have buried him and nobody would have been the wiser.”

Martha nodded. “Those fools see the hand of God in it.”

I began to reprimand Martha for her blasphemy, but the words died on my lips when I realized the implications of her news. “Whoever poisoned the milk put in just enough to kill Stephen, but not so much that he showed symptoms of poisoning.”

Martha immediately saw what I was thinking. “Someone was either very lucky or very good with poison.”

I agreed. “Did they say what poison it was?”

“The surgeon said it was ratsbane, but none was found in the kitchen.”

“Do they have any idea how the poison got into the milk?”

Martha shook her head. “It must have been someone in the household. His wife? Or perhaps a servant? Nobody else could have put the poison in the milk unobserved.”

“Esther would never have done such a thing,” I said. “And what maidservant can use poison so precisely? Could you?”

“I have many useful skills, but poisoning is not among them. One servant said she heard someone talking with Mr. Cooper before the body was found. Perhaps a visitor was with him when he died, and slipped something into his drink.”

“God save us,” I said. “Perhaps the rumors of an assassin are not as fanciful as I thought.” I paused. “Be sure that in the future you do not follow the example of my brother’s servants. Many women’s secrets are made known in the birthing chamber, and neither a midwife nor her servants can reveal them.”

“No, my lady,” she said. After a moment she asked, “My lady, I have a question about the city. Today we have been in Holy Trinity, Micklegate and St. Martin, Micklegate, but have yet to see a gate or even the city wall.”

“At the moment, you are on Micklegate,” I said. She looked around her, and I could not help laughing at her confusion. “It is one of the peculiarities of the city. The streets are called gates: Micklegate, Walmgate, Petergate, and so on.”

“If the streets are called gates, the city gates are … what?”

“The gates are called bars, oddly enough. There are four of them in the city. You came in Monk Bar on the north. That’s the poorest part of the city, and as you’ve seen it can be dangerous at night.” She smiled ruefully. “There are many others, and it’s a bit bewildering, but it will seem familiar soon enough.” We continued down Coneystreet, home to York’s best inns and shops, before reaching Stonegate, which led to my house. Along the way, Martha studied the churches and shops that would help her find her way in the future.

“The Thursday Market is down that street,” she noted when we reached St. Helen’s church. “Hannah told me that a cannonball killed a maid there last week.”