She Died Unshriven Read online

  She Died Unshriven

  David Field

  © David Field 2019

  David Field has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  Published in 2019 by Sharpe Books.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Endnote

  Chapter One

  Thomas Lincraft clomped grumpily into the main room of the house in Barker Lane that he shared with his wife Lizzie and their two children, clearly in one of his stern moods. He sat down at the breakfast table and ran his hand casually through his black mop with its first few streaks of grey, clearly indifferent to his appearance, even though he would be on full public display in an hour’s time. His wife Lizzie, ever sensitive to his moods, leaned down and kissed the top of his head, at the same time tactfully sweeping several large dandruff flakes from the shoulders of his jacket.

  ‘There’s cheese this morning,’ she advised him breezily. ‘I kept it hidden from the kids, but the milk’s gone sour, so it’ll have to be small beer. Only one, mind – we want you at your best for the inquest.’

  His only reply was a non-committal grunt before he enquired after their two children.

  ‘They’re in the grassy ground, playing with that barrel hoop that Robert found; he said that Lucy could play with it as well,’ Lizzie advised him as she poured his beer, then took the jug away in case he was tempted.

  ‘See that you bring them inside if it comes on to rain,’ Tom instructed her as he cut himself a thick slice from the two-day old black loaf. ‘It looks pretty gloomy out there, but not half as gloomy as it’ll be indoors in the Shire Hall.’

  ‘Please don’t pick another fight with the Coroner,’ Lizzie pleaded. ‘You seem to be determined to annoy the man, and if you want to be appointed as County Coroner’s Clerk when Matthew Barton takes his pension…’

  ‘Who says I do?’ Tom argued. ‘You’re the one that wants me to become Greville’s lackey. For myself, I’m happy to stay a Constable.’

  ‘Not even the only Constable for the County,’ Lizzie reminded him. ‘There’s five of you, and you’re not even the most senior of them. But provided you doesn’t get up Greville’s nose, like you seem determined to do, then we’re bound to go up in life, given the number of bad folks you’ve brought to justice these past years.’ Tom’s immediate reaction was a snort.

  ‘If it means toadying up to that lazy old fool Greville, then I don’t want the job, so stop going on about it. It gives me a headache, some days.’

  It was the only real tension in the otherwise happy ten-year marriage that had produced two children. Lizzie was ambitious for her brawny, rough cut former carpenter husband to rise above what many regarded as a lowly status in the market town of Nottingham, but Tom had his own deeply ingrained reasons for wishing to dedicate his life to preventing injustice, since he’d seen it in action many years ago, in respect of two of his closest family members. This brought him into frequent conflict with County Coroner Sir Henry Greville, one of two appointees for the County of Nottinghamshire to this prestigious office under the Crown by virtue of the vastness of his estates and the closeness of his friends at the Court of Queen Elizabeth with Keeper of the Great Seal Sir Nicholas Bacon.

  Sir Henry regarded this office as no more than his natural entitlement, and clearly resented the many hours that it kept him from his preferred hunting pursuits; in consequence, he was a great cutter of official corners, and took great offence when Tom – who Sir Henry regarded as a nit-picking old woman – insisted on peering into the dark corners of every accusation that was brought to his attention, never concluding guilt until the last vestige of doubt had been expunged.

  What made matters worse was that it was not the proper function of a constable to investigate allegations of criminal conduct; a constable was merely required to bring in those accused of crime by others, in addition to apprehending those they saw blatantly committing offences under their noses. Tom had a reputation for pursuing doubts that he should be ignoring if he was to stick to the duties for which he was remunerated.

  His frugal breakfast complete, Tom fastened his short cloak by its throat clasp, picked up the staff of office that had rattled many a skull during alehouse brawls, kissed Lizzie goodbye, assured her that he would acquit himself respectfully, and set off down Barker Lane towards High Pavement, from which the sonorous bells of St Mary’s parish church boomed out their proud message that yet another nine o’clock communion had been celebrated. He turned into Stoney Street, acknowledging the occasional greeting with a silent nod, and within five minutes he was standing outside the Shire Hall, watching the eager spectators making their way through the open front doors.

  The inquest to which they were all attracted was a ‘county’ matter, so it would be heard in the Shire Hall, rather than the Guildhall, further down at Weekday Cross, which dealt with ‘town’ matters. He muttered with resignation as he made his way through the front door, then mounted the staircase that led up to the jettied first floor courtroom that was one of the few chambers in the modest market town that could host something as public, and as important, as an inquest.

  These were just as much a form of entertainment for those with nothing better to do as the regular Assize courts held in the same courtroom, to which the matter before them today would no doubt be referred by Coroner Greville, once he had achieved the result he appeared to have set his mind on. He would also no doubt, as usual, wish to see it concluded by dinner time, even though Tom retained lurking doubts regarding the formal evidence that they would be hearing.

  The dead girl was allegedly one Amy Brindley, formerly a maidservant in the manor house of Anthony Featherstone, the middle-aged hereditary Squire of Lenton Gregory, on the road west out of Nottingham as it headed towards Derby. She had been missing for some weeks, and what was believed to be her body had been discovered, in a woeful state of decay, buried in a paddock on the Featherstone estate, and Coroner Greville had wasted no time in ordering the arrest of Featherstone himself, on suspicion of the girl’s murder. This no doubt owed much to Greville’s unabashed Catholic leanings, whereas Featherstone was a regular, and highly regarded, ‘prophesier’ in the ‘Dissenter Chapel’ in Halifax Lane that Tom also attended, making no attempt to hide his angry contempt for the murderous intolerance of the Church of Rome that had taken the lives of his father and brother during the reign of the former Queen Mary.

  The courtroom was already near full, and buzzing with excited conversation, as Tom walked to the side table in order to confirm his attendance in response to the formal summons that had been sent by the Coroner’s Clerk, the ageing Matthew Barton, and he was then instructed to take a seat on the bench reserved for witnesses. Across the room were two other long benches, for the jury that the Coroner had summoned to the inquest into the death of Amy Brindley. The fact that only twelve had been called – the minimum number permitted by law – was a further indication that Coroner Greville regarded the matter as cut and dried, and Tom sighed as he took his seat, noting that Greville had cut another corner by summoning townsmen to a county inquest, because it was quicker, although of dubious legality.

  A few minutes after nine, the Clerk disappeared through a door behind the ‘bench’ at the far end of the courtroom, re-emerging only a minute or so later with Coroner Sir Henry Greville in all his finery, his florid face emphasised by the whiteness of the ruff at his neck, and his impressive height increased considerably by the fe
athered green bonnet. Everyone rose as he entered, and remained standing until the Clerk had announced the formal opening of business, to which he added the traditional – and no doubt compulsory – ‘God Save Her Majesty’, before inviting those in attendance to be seated. Sir Henry cleared his throat noisily and announced to the nervous looking men on the jury bench that

  ‘This inquest has been convened for today, the Nineteenth day of July in the year of our Lord 1571, in order to enquire into the circumstances of the death of a girl believed on credible evidence to have been one Lucy Brindley, a maid of some twenty four years, whose body was discovered buried on the land of one Anthony Featherstone. Witnesses shall be called, and evidence shall be heard, and it shall be your solemn duty at the end thereof to determine the cause and manner of her death. If it be your concluded opinion that said death may be attributed to the hand of another, then you must not shrink from so announcing, naming that other should it be within your ability to do so. I charge you all, in my capacity as Coroner for the County of Nottinghamshire, and in the name of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, to perform your solemn duty without fear or favour, and to render a true account thereof in due course, as you shall answer to God on the Great Day of Judgment. The first witness, Master Clerk, if you will.’

  The first witness was George Wolstenholme, Steward to the estate of Anthony Featherstone, a pinch-faced, somewhat haughty, individual who clearly regarded himself as a man of some importance as he stood solemnly in the place designated for witnesses, waiting politely for the questions to commence. Having given his name, age and occupation, he nodded enthusiastically when asked by Sir Henry ‘You knew the girl called Amy Brindley?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. She was employed as a general maid in the same household in which I have the honour to serve as Steward.’

  ‘And what were her duties, pray?’

  ‘General in nature, sir, as befits someone of that rank within a properly run house. She would light fires, see to the dusting of the main rooms, and make beds, as part of her regular duties. She would also serve wine and other refreshments on those occasions when the master had visitors.’

  ‘And were those occasions frequent?’

  ‘Not latterly, no, sir, since my master is somewhat advanced in his years, and not given to extensive socialising.’

  ‘Did this Amy Brindley give good service?’

  ‘So far as I am aware, sir. There were never any complaints about her work, if I might express myself in those terms.’

  ‘So had she applied for a letter of good name, you would have supplied her with one without any qualm?’ was the Coroner’s next question. Wolstenholme seemed somewhat ill at ease when asked this, so Sir Henry pushed a little harder.

  ‘Why do you hesitate, Master Wolstenholme?’

  ‘Well,’ the witness replied with a slightly flushed countenance and a pained expression, ‘It was only talk among the other servants, you understand, but she was said to be – well, one might say “free with her favours”, if I could put it like that.’

  ‘Promiscuous, say you?’

  ‘A rather strong word, if I might be permitted to say so without any disrespect to your good self, sir. But I had occasion to dismiss a coachman who struck my Assistant Steward, and when I enquired as to the cause of their dispute I was advised that Amy had been – well, “carrying on” would perhaps be the appropriate word - with the coachman when the Assistant Steward was under the impression that Amy and he had a – a – an “arrangement”, shall we say? Regrettably, it also transpired that said arrangement was of a “financial” nature, if I might express it in those terms.’

  The colour rose slightly in the Coroner’s face as he stared back intently at Wolstenholme.

  ‘We are both men of the world, witness. Are you saying that the lass charged money for her favours?’

  ‘So I was led to believe, sir. I had no personal knowledge of the truth of that, you understand, but . . . ’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ Greville cut him off. ‘But your previously expressed reluctance to supply this dead girl with a letter of good name was as a result of what you had learned of her acts of prostitution?’ Wolstenholme went even paler in the face as he nodded. ‘Again, a somewhat harsh description, if I might make so bold . . . .’

  ‘This is a coronial inquest, witness, not the swearing in of a bishop!’ Greville thundered. ‘I need the truth here, as do the good members of the jury who are sitting with me. Did the girl charge money for her sexual favours, or did she not?’

  ‘Regrettably yes, sir. Or so it would seem.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, on another matter, you testified earlier that the dead girl’s duties included making beds, is that not so?’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ Wolstenholme smiled, glad to be on more palatable ground.

  ‘Including the bed of the master and mistress of the house?’

  ‘There’s been no Mistress of the house these four years and more, sir, since the Mistress Arabella passed out of this life with the sweating sickness that took so many in this part of the country.’

  ‘So your master, Anthony Featherstone, is a single man?’

  ‘A widower only, but yes, sir.’

  ‘A widower is a man without a woman, witness – let us not play with words. I appreciate your loyalty to your master, and it is to be commended, but the fact remains that your master was without a female in his bed. Correct?’

  ‘Correct, sir.’

  ‘But someone who had duties that took her into that bedroom was the believed dead girl, Amy Brindley, also correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So the same Amy Brindley who is known to have sold her body to at least one member of the household had official duties in the bedroom of your master?’

  ‘Only domestic duties, sir. I would hesitate to suggest that they were anything other than that.’

  ‘Whether or not they were is a matter for the jury to determine, Master Wolstenholme,’ Greville smirked. ‘You are permitted to stand down, unless there is anything else you wish to advise the jury?’

  ‘No, sir – I’ve said all I know about the matter.’

  ‘Indeed, while at the same time advising the jury of additional matters upon which they might wish to speculate,’ the Coroner replied with a long stare across at the jury bench. ‘Very well, stand down.’

  Tom ground his teeth in silent displeasure as he heard the good name of a dead girl dragged through the mud for no apparent reason other than seeking to point the jury towards a finding that would best suit Sir Henry’s political and religious bigotry. It was bad enough that the poor girl’s future had been snuffed out like a candle, but to blacken her reputation like that with nothing to substantiate it but backstairs tittle-tattle was an unjustifiable additional indignity.

  Tom knew only too well how people could be condemned without any opportunity to defend themselves by the merest whisper and innuendo, even from those who had pretended friendship, and sometimes even kinship, with their victims. He pressed his lips tightly together, as if to ensure that his mouth would remain resolutely closed, when he heard the next witness being called. She was the overweight and slightly malodorous lady who had been sitting next to him, taking up more than her fair share of the bench space, and no doubt she was about to kick the tragic girl even harder in her remembrance.

  In response to the opening question, the lady boomed out her qualification for being the object of everyone’s attention.

  ‘Harriet Marsh, aged forty-three years, widow, and Housekeeper of the Featherstone manor house.’

  ‘And in that capacity you knew the dead girl?’ Greville enquired with an encouraging smile.

  ‘Yes indeed, sir – very well.’

  ‘We heard from the previous witness his belief that the girl was a whore. Would that accord with your assessment of her character?’

  ‘Most definitely, sir, to the point at which I had complained to the Master regarding her carry-on with the other servants, not to mention others she mi
ght be meeting with on her days off.’

  ‘So the Master – Anthony Featherstone – was aware that the dead girl was not above selling her favours for the right price?’

  ‘He most certainly was, sir.’

  ‘And what was his reaction?’

  ‘He did nothing of which I was aware, sir.’

  ‘You mean he did nothing to dismiss her from his service, or to chastise her regarding her immorality?’

  ‘Not so far as I am aware, sir.’

  ‘Do you have any ground for believing that he might have taken the opportunity to avail himself of the same services – the “immoral” ones, I mean?’

  ‘None whatsoever, sir. And if I might make so bold as to say so, I would not have thought that he was given to that sort of thing, sir.’

  ‘But one never knows, does one?’ Greville argued with another meaningful stare towards the jury benches. ‘A gentleman such as Mr Featherstone would have much to lose, would he not, were it to become known that he was in the habit of dallying with female servants? So he would be anxious to keep that knowledge from you, would he not, along with everyone else in his service?’

  ‘I suppose so, if you put it like that.’

  ‘And if the girl in question – the object of his depraved lust for young flesh – were to threaten to make the matter public, he would have every reason to wish her out of the way, would he not?’

  ‘Again, if you say so.’

  ‘I do not say that this is what happened – that must remain a matter for the jury – but please advise us how long the girl had been missing from her duties.’

  Mrs Marsh thought long and hard before replying. ‘It must have been a couple of months, anyway.’

  ‘So, since we know that a body believed to be hers was discovered on the third day of this month – July – you would say that she had been absent from her duties since sometime in May?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that would be about right.’