Free The Witch Hunter by Bernard Knight Page A

day some useful legacy might come his way. He had heard of her husband’s death only that morning and hastened to express his sympathy, clasping her hand and managing to look mournful.
    ‘I was going to seek you out later today, dear cousin, to offer my deepest sympathy and to pray together for the repose of poor Robert’s soul.’
    His deep, booming voice managed to sound totally sincere, as if his mind had been filled with sorrow, rather than the anticipation of breakfast.
    The widow brusquely acknowledged his concern, then cut straight to the point. ‘There are matters concerning his death which I must urgently discuss with you, Gilbert.’
    His big face bent towards her and his rather watery blue eyes sought hers to exude commiserations. ‘Of course, Cecilia, the funeral arrangements. Be assured that I will see to it that a requiem Mass will be conducted with all due dignity …’
    She cut him off with an impatient shake of her head. ‘I thank you, Gilbert, but my parish priest at St Olave’s is seeing to that aspect. I need to talk to you of the manner of his death. Is there somewhere more fitting that we can go?’
    Mystified and somewhat reluctant to get involved in something which might divert him from more lucrative pursuits, the benign smile on the priest’s ruddy face faded somewhat.
    ‘Manner of his death? What help could I possibly give you there?’ he rumbled, lowering his voice as some of his colleagues were passing. They were looking curiously at the sight of their fellow canon with his head together with that of a well-dressed woman.
    ‘I cannot speak of it in public, Gilbert,’ said his cousin sharply.
    He looked around the wide, cold nave and sighed. He had no wish to take her to his comfortable house in the Close, as it might interfere with his breakfast. In any event, women, apart from the odd washerwoman or skivvy, were banned from priests’ lodgings – though this was a rule that was regularly ignored by some of his fellows.
    ‘Very well, cousin, let us go back into the robing room. It will be empty now.’
    For the first time, he seemed to become aware of the daughter and her husband, who stood indecisively behind Cecilia. With a grunted acknowledgement, he turned and led them back past the end of the choir-screen, where the last columns of the nave gave way to the massive buttress of the north tower. The high, square chamber at its base had a small altar at one side, dedicated to St Radegund, a sixth-century queen of the Franks, but opposite was a curtained-off area used by the clergy and their acolytes for changing vestments. Canon de Bosco stuck his head through a gap in the drapery to confirm that everyone had departed, then held it aside for the other three to enter. They stood in the centre and with the two younger persons hovering awkwardly behind her, Cecilia de Pridias fixed her cousin with a gimlet eye.
    ‘My husband was done to death, Gilbert! I know how and I know by whom, but that stubborn coroner will not take me seriously.’
    Initially reluctant to get involved, the canon’s well-developed sense of self-advancement stirred within his brain. Although in late middle age, he was still ambitious and so far had climbed from being a lowly parish priest near Tavistock to attaining a coveted prebend near Crediton and thus becoming a canon of the cathedral. He still wanted to go farther and though he was realistic enough to know that a bishop’s crozier was forever beyond his reach, he had his eye on one of the more senior posts in the chapter, preferably that of an archdeacon or treasurer, when one should fall vacant. His ears had pricked up at the mention of the coroner, as de Wolfe was well known as a zealous supporter of the King, whereas the bishop was well disposed towards Prince John. In fact, Henry Marshal, though brother to William, the Marshal of England, was well known to have been actively sympathetic to John’s abortive rebellion when Richard Coeur-de-Lion was