The Gallows Murders

taverner who gave me a free drink was told that, to gather the fleas of a chamber into one place, he should put a staff on the floor covered with the grease of a fox or hedgehog, and all the fleas would gather on it. And, if that didn't work, to fill a dish with goat's blood, put it by the bed, and every flea in the tavern would drink and drown itself there. (By the way, this worked, you should try it!)
    When the day's work and enjoyment were done, I travelled back to the manor and supped with Benjamin in our dark oak-panelled hall, decorated with banners and tapestries, and with large wooden shields bearing the devices of Daunbey and Shallot which had been devised and painted by me. Of course, I’d always return a little fearful. After all, here we were enjoying the idylls of life, but London was not very far away and Wolsey never forgot us. When the Cardinal turned and snapped his fingers for us to come running, he'd always send that strange creature, black-garbed, sinister Dr Agrippa -to collect us.
    I have mentioned Agrippa before. He was Wolsey's familiar. A magus, a warlock, a man who never grew old or died. No, no, my wits aren't wandering. Agrippa, with his cherubic face and soulless eyes, lived and lurked in the shadow of Wolsey; yet I have met those who will swear on oath that Agrippa was with Richard III at Bosworth Field. According to these old men, Agrippa advised that cruel prince to make the dreadful charge which ensnared him in a marsh, and so Richard lost his life, his crown and the kingdom. And there are others, even as I am now past my ninetieth year, who have made their way to Burpham Manor to tell me how they met Agrippa in the dark green woods of Virginia outside Jamestown, in the sun-scorched streets of Constantinople, or even in the snowy, icy wastes outside Moscow. They always tell the same tale: dressed in black, Agrippa hadn't grown a day older than when I knew him in those blood-drenched days of Henry VIII.
    Agrippa would come, but on those evenings when I found the stables empty and my master waiting alone for me in the hall, ‘I’d heave a sigh of relief. Tonight, at least, ‘I’d sleep the sleep of the just. We would sup and I would listen to Benjamin chatter about his school, though keeping one eye on a young, buxom chambermaid who, when she served my meal, dipped her generous bosom to show both her glories.
    Oh, I confess, our life at our manor was a veritable Eden, but every paradise has its serpent. Eventually ours appeared in the shape of a plump, well-fed matron, Isabella Poppleton. Goodwoman Poppleton and her sneering sons lived on the other side of the valley and deeply resented my master's good fortune. The sons were bloated bags of wind, but Isabella was a veritable viper in petticoats. If she had bitten an adder it would have died of poisoning. She had a tongue which would clip a hedge and could shovel dirt faster than a gravedigger. Her tongue was a sharpened sword and she made sure it never went rusty. I called her, the 'Great Mouth'.
    Trouble first appeared one Sunday morning as Benjamin and I left Mass. We were out of the porch, walking towards the lychgate, when I saw Goodwoman Poppleton standing amongst the gravestones with a gaggle of gossips who hung on her every word. As we passed they fell silent, but Isabella's eyes, bleak and hateful, bored into my master. I quietly made an obscene gesture with my middle finger. However, the bitch hadn't been to Italy, so she didn't know what it meant, though she must have understood the spirit in which it was intended. Now such hate worried me. I tried to talk to my master. He just shook his head and refused to listen, so I wandered down to the White Hart tavern in the village where, after Mass, all the gossips gathered to tear their neighbours to pieces. When I entered the taproom, a group of young bloods sitting in the corner looked up, sniggering behind their hands. I recognised one of them as Edmund Poppleton, the elder of the Great Mouth's sons. 'What's the joke?' I asked.
    The landlord, a goodly man who served me a tankard of ale and a beef stew pie, glanced sadly at me and shook his head. The gigglers returned to their whispering, so I drank my ale, broke my fast and returned to the manor.
    The next morning, Benjamin came into my chamber where I was concocting a new remedy to cure catarrh: powdered goose bones mixed with garlic and salt. It was making me cough and sneeze so I judged it to be a good cure of the rheums.