By Murder's bright Light

Master Frogmore. He hid a smile as he wondered how the two fared in bed, for Master Frogmore was thin as an ash pole, with straggly white hair, protruding teeth and the frightened eyes of a hunted hare.
    “Well, fellow,’ Cranston barked. ‘Have you seen anything?’
    ‘Yes, your excellency.’
    “‘My lord coroner” will do.’
    ‘Yes, your excellency, my lord coroner.’
    Cranston ’s eyes darted to Osbert the scrivener, whose shoulders were beginning to shake with laughter.
    ‘Be careful, Osbert!’ Cranston whispered. ‘Be very, very careful!’ He stared at Frogmore. ‘Well, what did you see?’
    ‘It was on Walpurgis Night.’ Frogmore’s reedy voice dropped most dramatically. The time of the Great Sabbat for witches. I saw Mistress Raggleweed go into the garden, light a candle and feed her hideous visitor from hell.’
    ‘How do you know about Walpurgis Night?’ Cranston interrupted, a look of mock innocence on his face. ‘You seem to know a great deal about witches, Master Frogmore?’
    The man just hunched his shoulders.
    ‘And, more importantly, what were you doing spying on Mistress Raggleweed in the first place?’
    ‘I was in the garret of my house, mending the shutter on a window.’
    ‘In the dead of night?’ Cranston roared.
    ‘My wife told me to.’
    Frogmore edged behind his wife, whose head was pushed forward, mouth set, cheeks bulging. Cranston wondered whether she was preparing to spit at him.
    ‘I need more proof than this,’ Cranston rasped. He scratched his bald pate, the cheery look disappearing from his merry face and ice-blue eyes. He glared at Alice Frogmore, whom he was beginning to name to himself ‘Mistress Toad’.
    ‘Sometimes,’ the woman shouted back, ‘that toad enters my garden and each time ill-fortune befalls me!’
    ‘Such as?’ Cranston ’s tone carried a warning. He felt beneath the table for his wineskin.
    Mistress Frogmore, however, had the bit between her teeth. She misinterpreted the hard look on the fat coroner’s face — she took it for that of a severe judge. It wasn’t — it was that of a coroner who desperately wanted a goblet of wine or a blackjack of sack in the Holy Lamb of God before he hastened home to play with his twin boys and tease his wife, the blessed Lady Maude.
    ‘Well?’ Cranston growled.
    ‘On one occasion the milk turned sour.’
    ‘And?’ Cranston whispered between clenched teeth.
    ‘On another occasion I fell off a stool.’
    ‘It’s a wonder you found one to bear your weight!’ Cranston commented under his breath.
    Osbert looked up, his face a mask of concern.
    ‘My lord coroner, I missed that.’
    ‘I won’t miss you if you don’t shut up!’ Cranston growled back. ‘I’ve had enough!’ He banged the table and turned to Eleanor Raggleweed. ‘What defence do you offer?’
    ‘Sir John, I am innocent!’
    Cranston glared at the toad. ‘Is this creature yours?’
    ‘Yes, my lord coroner,’ she squeaked.
    ‘And has it been on the Frogmore property?’
    ‘Yes, my lord coroner.’
    Cranston glared at the toad. ‘So, it is guilty of trespass?’
    ‘Yes, my lord coroner.’
    ‘Why do you keep it?’
    ‘My husband was a gentle man. He found the toad when it was small and we’ve always kept it.’ Mistress Raggleweed’s tired face forced a smile. ‘I live alone, sir. It’s all I’ve got. It’s a friendly creature.’
    Cranston glared at her from under his bushy white eyebrows.
    ‘Have her stripped!’ Mistress Frogmore broke in. ‘Let us search for the marks of a witch! For the extra teat with which she suckles her familiar!’
    Cranston brought one heavy fist down on the table.
    ‘Quiet!’ he bellowed.
    ‘She’s a witch!’ Alice Frogmore insisted.
    ‘Fined two pennies for contempt of court!’ Cranston roared.
    ‘But, my lord coroner—’
    ‘Fined two pennies for contempt of court!’ Cranston yelled.
    He could see the bailiffs standing near the door beginning to shake with laughter. Cranston took the wineskin, drank a generous mouthful from it, pushed its stopper back and re-hung it on its hook on the side of his table. He glared at Eleanor Raggleweed.
    ‘Are you a witch?’
    ‘My lord coroner, I am an honourable widow. Ask Father Lawrence.’ The woman turned and pointed to the white-haired priest standing with the bailiffs. ‘I go to church on Sundays and three times in the week.’
    The gentle-faced priest nodded as the woman spoke.
    ‘So, why did the Frogmores bring this