London, 1630. In a small parish room, a woman sits with a cup of small beer and the August heat pressing close. For twenty years she has been the searcher of the dead — the woman who examines corpses and swears to the cause of death. The dead cannot lie. The living can.
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In the space of one afternoon, she speaks. Of the advice that made her. Of a husband the neighbours misread. Of one false verdict in twenty years. Of what it costs to look steady and say only what is there.
A monologue of extraordinary restraint and quiet devastation.
