The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(95)

"Pray silence," the magistrate intoned, "for Their Worships William Danby, Coroner of the Queen's Household, and John Derrick, Coroner for the County of Surrey."

The jury and witnesses sat down again, and the legal proceedings began.

"Let it be recorded," the magistrate went on, "that in the presence of the aforesaid coroners, on the twenty-eighth day of August in the thirty-fifth year of the reign of Elizabeth, by the grace of God, Queen of England, France and Ireland, et cetera, et cetera, and upon view of the bodies of Mistress Margaret Faulkner, widow of the parish of St Mary Overie, and of a man calling himself Thomas Armitage, both lying cruelly slain, upon the oath of–"

He paused and gestured to the jurors to stand. The sixteen men took their oaths on the Bible, whilst the clerk of the court scratched down their names and stations.

"Bring forth the accused."

The rattle of chains echoed around the stone walls of the former church as Ned was escorted to the stand, fettered and manacled and stripped of all but his shirt and hose. He looked as if he had spent the night in a stable. Parrish clutched her hand, so tightly she almost cried out.

"You are Edmund Faulkner, of Deadman's Place in the borough of Southwark?" the magistrate asked, not looking up from his papers.

Ned swallowed visibly. "I am," he said, his voice dry and barely audible even in the silence.

The coroners questioned Ned about the events of Tuesday morning. Only yesterday? It felt like an age since Master Parrish had first approached her for help.

The jurors and the Queen's coroner gathered round the bodies. Coby could not see nor hear exactly what they were doing, but the coroner appeared to be raising each sheet and pointing out the fatal wounds. The sickly-sweet scent of decay wafted across the courtroom. After a few minutes the jurors returned to their seats, some of them looking a little green. Ned was pale as death himself, and kept his eyes averted from the bier.

"I now call upon the first witness, Master William Watkins."

The thin man stood up and walked to the magistrate's bench, watched by his wife, who wrung a kerchief in her reddened hands and looked about to break down in tears. With much prompting from the coroner, he told his side of events, though there was not much to tell since the couple had remained in their own lodgings throughout.

Watkins returned to his seat, and the parish priest was called to give witness. He confirmed the time of delivery of the letter and vouched for Ned's good character. All seemed to be going smoothly, until the priest added that Ned had missed church the previous Sunday.

The coroners exchanged looks.

"Master Faulkner, can you explain your whereabouts on the Sunday in question?"

Ned flushed and mumbled something.

"Speak up, Faulkner."

"I was at home, your worship."

"You did not go to church at all?"

"No, sir."

The jurors murmured in consternation. The church imposed heavy fines on all recusants, and repeated offences drew the suspicion of being a Roman Catholic.

"Why not?"

"I was… unwell, your worship."

"Can anyone vouch for your sickness?"

"No, sir. No one saw me that day, except my mam."

Parrish let out a slow breath, and Coby realised Ned could have named him as witness to his whereabouts on Sunday. She withdrew her hand. Bad enough that they sinned together in such an abominable way, but on the Lord's Day…

The magistrate asked the priest to sit down, and called for the next witness. Master Parrish stood shakily and made his way to the front of the courtroom. Ned glanced up at his lover, a look of desperation in his eyes, then he returned his gaze to the floor.

"You are Gabriel Parrish, a player…" the magistrate's voice dripped with contempt, "of Bermondsey Street in the borough of Southwark?"

"Yes, your worship."

"And you are acquainted with the accused?"

"We are… old friends."

"Did you deliver the aforesaid letter to Father Nicholls, as related before this court?"

"I did, your worship."

"When did you first see the accused, on the morning in question?"

"The bells had just tolled nine, your worship."

"Nine?" Derrick looked at Ned. "Some three hours after the murder took place."

"I was minded to flee, your worship." Ned replied slowly. "But my conscience pricked me at last, and I made my way back to Southwark."

"Where were you, those three hours?"

"I can't remember, your worship. I wandered out of Southwark, past St George's and down to Newington, and thence along lanes and paths unknown to me."

"Did anyone see you?"

Ned shrugged.

"But you did in time return," Danby put in. "And at three o'clock yesterday afternoon, you came to this very courthouse and confessed to your crime."

"Yes, your worship."

"I think we have heard everything we need to hear," the Queen's coroner said. "The accused admits to having killed the aforesaid Thomas Armitage, in defence of his own person, and to have found his mother dead by the hand of the same Thomas Armitage. I put it to you that the said Edmund Faulkner has hitherto been a lawful citizen of this parish, and ask you to judge this case accordingly. Gentlemen of the jury, you may withdraw to consider your verdict. The witness may stand down."