The Witch Hunter's Tale(32)

“Oh God, no,” I cried out.

George Breary lay against the side of a building, and it was clear that he’d been beaten terribly. The left side of his face was covered in blood. I knelt by his side and took his head in my hands.

“Is he alive?” Will asked.

“I think so,” I said. “We must get him to my house.”

I took George’s cloak from his servant, and laid it over him. Will and the servant took George by his shoulders, while Martha and I lifted his legs, and together we carried him back to Petergate and toward my house.

Hannah cried out when she saw our grim burden and hurried to find towels and blankets. We laid George on the couch in the parlor, his head on a pillow. His skin had taken on a bluish tinge, and Martha added more wood to the fire. We wrapped George in a blanket, and I washed the blood from his face. As I did so, it became clear just how terrible the beating had been. His skull was broken in several places. I could not see how he could survive such grievous wounds.

“Martha, take George’s servant, and fetch Dr. Baxter,” I said. I did not think that binding George’s wounds would make a difference, but I could not simply let him die in my parlor.

Martha nodded and began to wrap herself against the cold.

“Wait,” I said. I placed my hand on George’s chest but felt no movement. “Get me a mirror.”

Hannah handed me a small glass, and I held it close to George’s nose and mouth. The glass stayed clear.

“Ah, God,” I said softly. “Never mind Dr. Baxter. Find the vicar and fetch a Justice of the Peace.”

George Breary was dead.





Chapter 9

In the hours that followed, a parade of city officials marched through my parlor. Some came to pay their respects, others to question us about George’s murder. Mercifully, Joseph saw fit to absent himself on this occasion, though other Aldermen assured me that he knew of George’s death and would not rest until his murderer had been hanged. Given Joseph’s antipathy for George such assurances rang hollow, but I held my tongue.

It was three in the morn when my guests finally left and only George’s body remained. It awaited the arrival of the Lord Mayor’s men, who would take it to his church for burial. I sat for a moment and looked at my friend’s face, allowing sorrow to wash over me for the first time that night. George could play the part of a fool, to be sure, but after Edward’s death he had remained true to me and, more important, had helped Will regain his feet. In short, he had proven himself to be a kind man and a loyal friend at a time when few seemed inclined to these virtues. While I would not have married him, he had been my friend, and in a way I did love him. I did not know who had killed George Breary, but I was determined to find out and see him hang.

A soft knock came, and Martha admitted the Lord Mayor’s men. They wrapped George’s body in a wool shroud and disappeared into the night. Will, Martha, and I returned to the parlor. I settled in my chair while Will and Martha eased themselves onto the couch. Hannah had disposed of the bloody pillow, and now there was no sign that a man had so recently breathed his last on the very spot. Martha leaned against Will, laid her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. I allowed them that rare moment of intimacy before I brought them back to the terrible events that had just played out.

“How are you, Will?” I asked.

He looked at me, his eyes bloodshot from fatigue and sorrow. I knew that he recognized the ramifications of George Breary’s death. He had lost a friend and mentor, of course, but also his last best chance to obtain the power and prestige that his ancestors had enjoyed. From his youth Will had dreamed of following his father into city government, and while the road had been far from smooth, George Breary had been ready to guide him. Now Will was naught but a wealthy man’s impoverished son, dependent for his survival on the goodwill of his twice-widowed aunt.

“What do you think happened?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Will replied.

“It might have been Joseph,” I ventured. “We have to consider it.”

Will stood and began to pace the room, unwilling to meet my gaze.

“No,” he replied. “It’s not Joseph. I’ll not deny that he is a hard man, but he is not a murderer.”

“If Mr. Breary really had summoned another Witch Finder to replace him, it would make sense,” I persisted. I was not sure how far to push Will in this matter. No matter how turbulent their relationship had become, it was no easy thing for him to accuse his brother of murder.

Will started to reply, but Martha spoke first.

“It might have been Mark Preston without Joseph’s knowledge,” Martha said. An image of Preston’s deformed hand flashed through my mind. He might not be able to charge a pistol anymore, but he could certainly wield a club.