by Paul Doherty
‘Yes, yes, I was,’ the little man answered quickly. ‘I told you, I am a warden of Saint Peter’s Church, though the others could also have been there.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Luberon pointed at the spire of a church just jutting above the city walls. ‘That’s Holy Cross Church. I know they were all there yesterday with the Guild of Jesus Mass, preparing the mystery play.’
Colum followed the direction of Luberon’s outstretched hand, then stared up at the sky. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful day,’ he said. ‘I have business to do.’ He looked quickly at Kathryn. ‘Shall we visit our doctor friends and ask them where they all were yesterday?’
‘We’d hardly be welcome,’ Kathryn replied. She grasped the reins of her horse more tightly. ‘And I have business back at Ottemelle Lane.’ She looked angrily at Luberon. ‘Believe me, Sir, the city will get their pound of flesh from me.’
The clerk, still subdued after his confession, just shrugged and urged his horse forward. ‘There’s no need to visit their house,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, my belly’s still empty, and our physicians will assemble early at Holy Cross Church. I suggest we eat and wait for them there.’
Colum and Kathryn agreed. They entered Westgate and consumed some oatcakes and watered ale at a tavern just within the city walls. They heard the burghmote horn sound loud and clear for the day’s business in the market to begin, so they gathered their horses and rode across St Dunstan’s Lane and down to the Holy Cross Church. The cemetery and churchyard off Horsemill Lane were a bustle of activity as painters and carpenters hurried in and out of the great door above which Christ, carved in stone, sat in judgement. A pompous beadle tried to stop Colum, but the Irishman just pushed him aside and walked into the darkened nave. This had been cleared of all its benches and chairs, which were stacked high in the transepts.
At the far end of the nave, just where the light poured through the great stained-glass windows above the sanctuary, a huge stage had been erected against the high carved rood-screen. Around this scurried a host of carpenters carrying wooden frames they had cut. Several painters were working on a huge piece of canvas which would serve as the scenery. Kathryn smiled as she watched this hive of activity. When she was a child her father had often brought her here to watch the play. She remembered arriving early to secure a place at the front; her father would squat, his back to one of the pillars, and she would sit on his lap and watch, open-mouthed, as the mummers and players depicted the history of salvation from Adam’s fall to Christ’s harrowing Hell. The huge stage would bring the Bible to life: Abraham, knife raised high, ready to offer Isaac, only to be stopped by an angel dressed in a white gown, his hair all golden; the deluge of water as Noah and his family took refuge in the Ark; the Tower of Babel; and so on. The play would last for hours, and yet she would go home disappointed it had not continued longer. Colum seized her by the elbow and pointed to a group in the far corner near a small side door.
‘We have found our quarry,’ he muttered and strode purposefully down the nave, leaving Kathryn and Luberon to hurry behind him.
The group turned and Kathryn recognised the physicians, all dressed soberly in dark fustian gowns covered in dust and specks of woodchip. They were conversing with the chief carpenter and their dour looks conveyed deep displeasure at seeing Kathryn and Colum so soon again.
‘May I have a word?’ Colum abruptly asked.
Chaddedon attempted a faint smile. Straunge exhaled heavily. Cotterell, who still looked much the worse for wear after a night of heavy drinking, just gazed blearily back. Chaddedon whispered to the chief carpenter; once the fellow was gone, Chaddedon rubbed his hands together.
‘What’s the matter now, Master Murtagh?’
‘Another murder!’ Luberon answered.
‘In Christ’s name!’ Straunge muttered.
‘Aye,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Christ will be concerned, as will be the King, not to mention His Grace the Archbishop.’
‘His Grace is furious,’ Luberon added. ‘And the burgesses elected to the King’s great parliament at Westminster will be carrying petitions about the loss of trade these terrible murders are causing.’
‘This is no place to discuss it,’ Chaddedon replied.
He led them outside, turning left along a beaten track across the cemetery, not stopping till they reached the shade of grotesquely twisted yew-trees. They stood in a semi-circle, the physicians muttering and grumbling, shifting uneasily, so the birds flew noisily from the branches above them. Colum, his thumbs through his belt, looked aggressive and bad-tempered. Kathryn sensed his deep dislike for these well-fed, pampered burgesses, who could organise a play in the nave of a church but showed little concern about the grisly murders occurring in the city. He would have lectured them all but Kathryn tactfully intervened.
‘There have been two murders,’ she announced, ‘at the Fastolf Inn.’ She graphically described the circumstances of the murders and watched the colour drain even from Cotterell’s rubicund face. ‘So you can see,’ Kathryn concluded flatly, ‘the murderer must be a physician with a ready supply of poison and a key to the postern gate.’
‘But it still doesn’t mean it’s one of us!’ Straunge spat back.
‘I follow the drift of Mistress Swinbrooke’s conversation,’ Chaddedon replied. He looked slyly at Cotterell. ‘Master Geoffrey may have to make home visits in Westgate, but so do we. A bequest given to Saint Peter’s Church pays for doctors to work amongst the poor in that ward.’ He looked defiantly at Murtagh. ‘I worked there yesterday. I visited two sick children in a house not far from Bullpaunch Alley.’
‘I was there yesterday morning,’ Straunge said.
Colum looked at Darryl.
‘I spent most of the day here,’ the physician retorted. ‘But, before you imply it, Irishman, let me speak your thoughts.’ He shot a hand out. ‘Holy Cross Church is only a walk away from Westgate, and yes, I could have slipped across into that maze of alleys to hire a whore and give her a poisoned jug of wine. But I didn’t!’
‘Everyone knew Peg,’ Chaddedon intervened. ‘A mean-mouthed, avaricious wench, who would seize any opportunity to insult me and my colleagues.’
‘Mind you,’ Cotterell interrupted spitefully, ‘others could have gone there.’ He looked meaningfully at Luberon.
The little clerk jumped up and down in his anger. ‘I have already explained,’ he repeated, ‘about my post of warden at Saint Peter’s Church.’
‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen!’ Colum laughed, now enjoying himself. ‘All we came here to do was to ask questions, not make accusations.’
‘No! No!’ Darryl replied. ‘It’s the same thing, Irishman.’ He stared round at his companions. ‘We are innocent of these accusations.’ He pulled his robe around him. ‘And unless you can bring positive proof, I do not wish to be questioned further!’
He was about to stalk off when Newington hurried through the cemetery towards them. The alderman looked fresh and relaxed, and he nodded at Luberon.
‘Good morning, Master Clerk. I heard the news. Another murder! Well, well, Master Murtagh,’ he continued, ‘a pretty mess. A pretty mess.’
‘Are you alderman of that ward?’ Colum accused.
Newington stepped back. ‘Which one?’
‘Westgate. The whore who died came from there.’
Newington threw his head back and cackled with laughter. ‘Lord save us, Irishman, I would never set foot there. My ward’s where my good son-in-law lives. I was born and raised there. No, no,’ he breathed. ‘If I had my way, I’d burn Westgate to the ground!’
Kathryn looked at Colum. ‘There’s little more we can do,’ she said. ‘And Master Darryl’s right. Unless we can produce proof, there is little point in having these conversations.’ She glanced round at the physicians. ‘Gentlemen, I bid you adieu.’ And before Colum could stop her, she walked across the cemetery back towards the main gate of the church.
‘You were too
easy on them!’
She stopped and turned; Colum stood glaring at her. Kathryn leaned against the wall of the church. She watched two lads carrying a pile of costumes, dresses, shawls, wings for an angel, a silver moon and a golden sun into the church.
‘What can we do?’ she sighed. ‘This murderer has every advantage.’
‘We could go to Westgate,’ Luberon squeaked, coming up huffing and puffing up beside them. ‘We could at least make enquiries there.’
‘Aye, and at Saint Peter’s Church,’ Kathryn mused. ‘Something’s wrong . . .’ Her voice trailed off. She was determined to go to Westgate, but did not wish to arouse anyone’s suspicions.
Colum tightened his sword-belt. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’ he quipped, and winked at Luberon. ‘Yes, Master Clerk, I know some Scripture. Mistress Kathryn, I do have other duties to carry out.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ Kathryn retorted.
Colum just pulled a face and walked out of the church into the crowds milling about outside. Kathryn watched him go, then glanced at Luberon.
‘Well, Master Clerk, shall we test our fortune in Westgate?’
Luberon looked at the sun now high in the sky. ‘I’ll go with you, Mistress. You can’t go there by yourself, but first, I need to see John.’
‘Who?’
‘Newington,’ Luberon exclaimed. ‘John Newington. I must discuss this business with him. Would you wait?’
Kathryn nodded and sauntered out of the church gate. The good weather had brought the crowds into Horsemill Lane. They were now packed around the stalls set up under the eaves of the houses opposite the church. Most of the merchandise was cloth, green tartan cushions with silk borders, scarlet gowns with damask sleeves, colourful arras, silken testers, counterpanes, sheets and napery. Kathryn looked at these, keeping a hand on her purse as she caught sight of Rathead, a small greasy-haired urchin who lived with his mother in an alley-way off Ottemelle Lane. Rathead had fingers nimbler than any seamstress and was gaining a growing reputation as a sharp foist or pickpocket.
Kathryn moved farther down the street. Knowing Luberon would be some time, she stopped to gaze at other stalls selling saucers, dishes, paternosters, amber beads and pewter cups. She heard a commotion behind her, and looking back at the street saw a small crowd gathering round the battered market cross where a pardoner had set up a stall. The man had the face of a bird, a high-beaked nose and large protuberant eyes; his neck, scrawny with muscle, reminded Kathryn of an angry chicken in a farmyard.
‘Good citizens!’ the pardoner shouted. ‘I can show you the comb of the cock that crowed in Pilate’s courtyard, a splinter from Noah’s great Ark and, look’ – he held up a quill – ‘a feather from one of God’s own angels!’
‘More likely from the goose you ate for dinner yesterday!’ someone shouted back.
Kathryn smiled and watched the pardoner return the good-natured abuse. She remembered Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and what she had discovered the previous evening. She pushed her way through the crowd, walked back into the churchyard and sat on a stone bench outside the main door. She knew she had met the murderer, but how could she prove it? How could she stop the assassin from killing again? She watched a child playing in the street.
‘Mistress! Mistress!’
She looked up. Luberon, his pompous face red and sweaty, peered down at her.
‘Mistress, there is still so much to do.’
‘Aye, Master Luberon, then it’s best we do it!’
Chapter 11
Kathryn and Luberon walked up past Westgate into Pound Lane. The streets and alley-ways became more tangled, dirty and darker. The houses had seen better days and their crumbling plaster was now dirty grey and moist. On the street corners stood a shifty collection of labourers, beggars, touts and broken servants. Kathryn glimpsed angry eyes in baleful faces and she was sure that some in the crowd would have accosted her if it had not been for Luberon swaggering along beside her. The clerk might be pompous, but he had all the courage of a fighting cock. He stuck out his little chest and had pulled back his cloak to reveal the long stabbing dagger tucked into his belt.
‘Men at war with the law,’ he murmured, gazing round.
They went deeper into the slums. Some of the alleyways were so dark, lanterns had been lit and slung on hooks outside the doors. Luberon explained how beneath these houses were cellars where the topers could rest at night.
‘They have hangers,’ he explained, ‘ropes tied from one wall to the other so the topers can sleep sitting up, with the upper part of their bodies supported by these cords. In the morning the landlord comes down and rudely awakens them by loosening the ropes.’
At last they reached Bullpaunch Alley. The Rat’s Castle Tavern stood on the corner, and outside it withered children, little more than living skeletons, danced to the reedy tune of a pipe. Kathryn’s hand went to draw pennies from her purse.
‘No, no!’ Luberon whispered. ‘No charity, Mistress. If they see your coins, it will only whet their appetites.’
They went deeper into the alley-way. Women, their faces dirty and greasy, stood behind small stalls and sold the flesh of rats, ferrets and pigeons, as well as the skins of cats. Luberon stopped and asked one of these a question. The woman replied with a hurl of abuse and pointed farther down the street. Luberon walked on and knocked on the decaying door of the house she had indicated.
An old beldame, a veritable night-bird hag, answered. Her face was gaunt and yellowing, grey wispy hair straggled down to her shoulders; she had thin, bloodless lips and eyes which looked a thousand years old. She glanced at Luberon, then at Kathryn.
‘Well, well, a man and his doxy.’ She looked slyly at Kathryn. ‘I have never seen you before. You look the stern type. Have you a riding crop?’
Luberon went puce-faced and speechless. Kathryn just stared at this hag, who thought she was Luberon’s mistress, and burst into peals of laughter. The old night-bird, realising her mistake, went to close the door, but Luberon recovered his wits and kicked it back on its hinges.
‘You stupid bitch!’ he roared. ‘I am a city official!’
The old woman, her eyes now fearful, stepped back into the shadows, her lips parted in an ingratiating smirk.
‘What is it?’ she whimpered. ‘What do you want?’
Luberon and Kathryn followed her down a dank passageway. Kathryn was still giggling to herself, but Luberon was so outraged he pushed the woman farther down into the house until she stopped, her back against a door.
‘Aren’t you going to invite us in?’ Luberon snarled.
The hag was about to object but Luberon’s hand went to his dagger, so she nervously felt for the handle, pushed it down and beckoned them on. Inside, the room was surprisingly opulent, even rich, but everything was of black accented with gold. The hangings on the wall, the woollen rugs on the floor, the high carved mantelpiece; even the tables, chairs, chests and stools had been painted a glossy black which caught and reflected the light of the fire burning in the grate. Two oil-lamps glowed dimly against the wall on either side of the fireplace; at Luberon’s bidding, the woman hastily lighted some candles, their wax also dyed black. Kathryn looked down at the floor and the smile died on her lips. The rugs were covered in strange signs, inverted crosses, a pentacle, whilst on the wall farther down the room an artist had depicted a grinning skeleton, arms extended.
‘Well! Well!’ Luberon murmured, looking round. ‘What do we have here? A mistress of the black arts? A witch?’ He gave the old hag a slight push. ‘Or just a well-paid keeper of perfumed flesh?’
‘The room was like this when I bought it,’ the old woman whined.
‘Oh, we are not here for your bloody room!’ Luberon snapped. He jabbed a finger at the ceiling. ‘One of your customers. I think she had a garret here?’
‘Which one?’ the hag replied.
‘Peg.’
‘You mean Mustard Peg?’ The old woman cackled. ‘Hot to the touch she is!�
�
Kathryn stared at her in disgust. She realised how cold the room was and flinched at the sweet sickly smell which now cloyed her nose and mouth.
‘Peg’s been murdered,’ Kathryn announced abruptly.
The old woman made a face. ‘So?’
‘So,’ Luberon continued, going over to the fireplace and plucking a brand out of the flames. ‘Unless you tell us who came here to hire her yesterday, I’ll drop this on the rug and watch this bloody house burn.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
Luberon threw the firebrand back and wiped dirty fingers on his gown. ‘No, perhaps I wouldn’t. But I could bring soldiers and officials to search here. Who knows what they might find?’
‘What do you want to know?’
The old hag drew closer and Kathryn wrinkled her nose at the sour smell from her body.
‘Peg was hired yesterday,’ Kathryn replied. ‘You know who visited her?’
‘Don’t lie!’ Luberon added.
The old woman bared her gums. ‘Why should I lie? There’s not much to say. Yesterday afternoon Peg had a visitor. He came here in the afternoon, when she was resting between her labours. He spoke to her for a while, then left. Peg seemed happy enough but would not say who it was or what he wanted.’ The old woman looked slyly at Kathryn. ‘You know the way of the world, Mistress. We have many visitors here.’
‘Then what?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Late in the evening Peg left.’ The hag shrugged. ‘She was a loud-mouthed bitch and probably got what she deserved.’
‘Did you see the visitor in the afternoon?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh, no, he was cowled and hooded like a monk. If that’s the way they like it, that’s the way I take it.’ The old woman peered at Kathryn. ‘You’re very pretty, Mistress.’
‘Come on!’ Luberon growled, plucking at Kathryn’s sleeve. ‘This place stinks like a sewer!’
‘Peg had a room here?’ Kathryn asked.
The hag nodded and grinned. ‘It’s empty. If any of the girls is late, I always have a look around.’
‘I am sure you do,’ Luberon jibed.
