by A D Swanston
‘In winter at six in the evening, in summer at ten.’ So a mile or two in the dark. Probably no more than a mile.
‘Is there anything more you can tell us about this man, madam?’ ‘His appearance was unremarkable and his clothes those of a working man. He spoke as a working man of London would – without artifice or pretence. That was partly why I trusted him. I remember nothing more about him.’
‘Nothing?’
‘As I have said.’
‘Then we thank you, my lady. We will leave you now. Come, Roland, we have tired Lady Paulet enough.’
The pale eyes held his. ‘Remember, Dr Radcliff, I have trusted you. Do not betray my trust. If the Brookes are innocent of any crime, do not pursue them.’
‘If they are innocent,’ said Wetherby, ‘be assured, my lady, that they will not be pursued or harmed in any way.’
‘Then God go with you.’
The ancient servant showed them out. They had barely walked down the path to the highway before Wetherby was complaining. ‘Have a care, Christopher. My legs are not as long as yours and you are testing me beyond endurance. For the love of God, slow down. A few minutes more or less will make no difference.’
Christopher slowed his pace a little. ‘We must speak to Mr Lovell. He will be waiting for us.’
Mr Lovell was indeed waiting for them. ‘Was Lady Paulet able to help?’ he asked.
Christopher nodded. ‘She was, sir.’
Lovell grinned. ‘That is a relief. It means she trusted you.’
‘It seems that we are not looking for Pryses but Brookes,’ said Wetherby.
‘Brooke, eh? A Henry Brooke is known to me. A young man with a temper and a taste for ale and women. If he has a father, I do not know him. Could he be the man you seek?’
‘That is what we must find out. Where does Brooke live?’ ‘There is a farmhouse a mile west of the town. I believe he lives there, although I have never had occasion to visit him.’
‘We shall need the services of two constables, Mr Lovell,’ said Christopher. ‘Are you able to provide them?’
Wetherby’s voice held a note of impatience. ‘Christopher, it is almost dark. It would be foolish to go now. Why do we not wait until the morning?’
The magistrate agreed. ‘Mr Wetherby is right, doctor. I could not send constables out at this time. Tomorrow at dawn would be more sensible.’
Christopher was outnumbered. ‘Very well. We will be here tomorrow at dawn, Mr Lovell. Two stout constables, if you please.’
It was a long night with little sleep. Christopher thought of Isaac and Sarah, of Joan in her Newgate cell, of Ell and of Katherine. He thought of the horrors of Paris and the traitor John Berwick. And he wondered if Jack Brooke would prove to be John Pryse and the key to unlocking the riddle of the Dudley testons.
Before first light he was up and dressed and waiting impatiently in the taproom for Wetherby, who appeared just as a weak winter sun rose above the horizon. ‘Make haste, Roland,’ he urged. ‘The sooner we are at the Brooke house the more likely that we shall find our man there.’
‘We will arrive sooner if we take the horses.’
‘It is only a mile. If we walk quickly we shall be there in no more than fifteen minutes. And we are more likely to be unobserved than if we ride.’
They collected the constables from the magistrate’s house. Both were broad-shouldered, heavy-set men, with swords at their sides. They greeted the two intelligencers politely but otherwise said nothing. Mr Lovell had chosen well. While the town was still quiet they set off on the highway leading west. Used regularly by drovers bringing their sheep in from the downs, it was a broad, well-trodden road, bordered on both sides by ditches which carried away excess water and kept it from flooding. In the distance they heard the glass furnaces being fired up.
They encountered but a single milkmaid trudging into town and a vagrant who jumped over the ditch and ran into the woods when he saw them. The few hovels they passed were deserted.
After twenty minutes or so they saw smoke rising from a building ahead. Christopher whispered to them to make no noise as they approached. Soon they could see that it had once been a farmhouse – straw-thatched, stone- and timber-built, and with a substantial wooden barn with a pitched roof beside it. The house was all but derelict. The window shutters hung loose on their hinges and part of the roof had caved in. The only sign of life was the smoke which drifted up through the gap in the thatch.
Crouching behind the mound of a stinking midden, Christopher whispered to the constables: ‘Remain hidden here while I approach from the front. Mr Wetherby will circle around to the back in case our friends try to make a run for it. Remember that we must be sure that they are the men we seek before we arrest them.’
‘There may be others in the house,’ said Wetherby.
‘If there are, we will soon find out.’ Christopher stood up and strode towards the door. Wetherby slipped cautiously around the house to the back.
Outside the door he called out. ‘Good day, master farmer. I was passing and thought to buy a beaker of milk from you.’
There came the rasping of iron upon iron and a rough voice replied from within. ‘Who are you?’
‘A traveller on the road to Farnham. I have not breakfasted and will give two pence for a beaker of milk.’
‘There is no milk. Be on your way, traveller.’
‘May I not rest here awhile? I have a long journey ahead.’
Bolts were pulled back, the door was thrown open and a young man of perhaps twenty-five stood menacingly on the threshold, a pitchfork in his hand. He wore a ragged woollen shirt, leather trousers and a leather apron. He was a few inches shorter than Christopher but thick-necked and muscular. His hair and beard were red. Both were filthy. He stared at his visitor through slits of eyes. ‘Did you not hear me, traveller? Be on your way.’
Christopher feigned disappointment. ‘I had heard that the Brookes were hospitable folk. It seems I was misinformed.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘The name of Brooke is well known in these parts. Jack Brooke and his son Henry – good men and good company, I heard.’ He waited for a reaction, saw none and added, ‘As is the name Pryse.’
In a trice, the pitchfork was pointed at his stomach. Pryse lunged but Christopher was ready for him. He stepped back and a little to his right and grabbed the shaft with his left hand. A sharp pull and Pryse shot forward. He stumbled and fell on his face in the dirt. ‘Constables,’ shouted Christopher, but the two men had been watching and were already beside him.
One held Pryse down while the other bound his hands behind his back and slipped a rope around his neck. ‘There,’ said a constable, ‘now you can lead us home. But take care. One stumble and the pitchfork will be up your fat arse.’
Pryse managed a strangled croak: ‘What is this?’
‘We are officers of the law, here to arrest you.’
‘What law have I broken?’
‘Why did you try to skewer me with that pitchfork? What are you afraid of?’
‘I took you for a thief. It seems you are worse.’
‘Where is your father?’
‘What business is that of yours?’
‘He too is to be arrested.’
Another coarse laugh. ‘That will be difficult. My father died six months since.’
The constables hoisted Pryse to his feet. ‘What did he die of?’ asked Christopher.
‘Who knows? Pox, plague, old age? Who cares?’
Christopher snapped. With a sudden backhand stroke across Pryse’s face, he brought blood streaming from the young man’s nose. ‘Where is he buried?’
Pryse put his hands to his bleeding nose and grunted. ‘Buried?’ he spluttered. ‘Inside the pigs’ bellies, that’s where he’s buried.’ With his sleeve he wiped his nose and spat out a stream of red spittle.
‘I see no pigs.’
‘All gone to market. Fetched good prices.’ Blood was still dripping fr
om his nose but he managed a coarse laugh. ‘Perhaps you ate a leg.’
Christopher shuddered. ‘You fed your father to the pigs. A foul crime, Pryse, and an evil one that will surely see you burn in hell. Take this creature back, constables. I will speak to it more in the gaol. Where is Wetherby?’
‘I am here, Christopher,’ said Wetherby from behind him, ‘and look what I have found.’
Christopher turned. Wetherby was standing in the doorway holding a skinny girl by the elbows. Her face was streaked with grime and under only a thin shift she was shivering. ‘Do you live here?’ he asked her. She did not reply. ‘What is your name, wench?’ She wriggled but could not get free.
‘What is yours, you poxed prick?’ Her voice matched her face – rough, mean and foul.
Christopher bent down until his nose was almost touching hers. ‘It will go better for you if you tell us what we wish to know. If you do not, a plague-infested cell awaits you as it does Pryse. Who are you?’
She glared at him but there was a hint of fear in the voice. ‘Who are you?’
Christopher sighed as if speaking to a troublesome child and held the point of the poniard to her eye. ‘How many one-eyed whores do you know, Roland?’
‘Very few. They do not last long on the streets. Food for the rats within a week.’
‘Do you suppose our master would be pleased to receive a whore’s eyeball as a gift?’
‘I think he would be delighted.’
Christopher thought the woman was still going to resist, but when he touched her eyelid with the point, she screamed and struggled. ‘Let me go and I will tell you what you wish to know.’
He withdrew the blade. ‘You will tell us anyway. Take her inside, Roland, and hold her fast.’
Wetherby marched the woman into the farmhouse and sat her on the single stool that served as furniture. He stood behind her, holding her just above the elbows. A slight squeeze and she would squeal like a piglet. A pile of faggots lay beside the fire and a heap of rags in one corner. Otherwise the room was bare. Christopher had followed them in. ‘Now, woman,’ he growled, ‘what is your name?’
‘Agnes Fayle.’
‘Do you live here, Agnes Fayle?’
‘No. I come when he wants me. He is often in town. Tell your pretty friend to let me go.’
‘For how long have you been doing this?’
‘A few months. He told me his father had died and he was going to return to London.’
‘What work did he do?’
‘None, as far as I could see. Ouch. My arms hurt like buggery. Let me go.’
‘So he had money. Did you see it?’
Agnes Fayle snorted. ‘A miserly coin or two. I’ve had better payers.’
‘No hoard of silver?’
‘Would I have seen it if there was? Let me go, shit bucket.’
‘Mr Wetherby will let you go when you have answered all my questions. What did he call himself?’
‘Henry. Henry Brooke. Came from London.’
‘Had he an occupation there?’
‘Couldn’t say. He never spoke about it. Just wanted to swive. Good at that, he is. Prick like a bull’s.’
‘He didn’t speak about minting coins?’
‘Coins? Ha. Had precious few if he did.’
Christopher looked at Wetherby, who shrugged. ‘We’ll let you go now, but if you make trouble, the blade will be back at your eye. Do you understand?’ She nodded. ‘Let her go, Roland. She’s no more use to us.’
When Wetherby released his grip the slut stood up and rubbed her arms. ‘Pair of evil buggers you are. Could have taken my eye and broken my bones. And for nothing. Whatever it is you’re after, I haven’t got it and I don’t know where it is. Who are you?’
‘Never mind who we are. Get dressed and go. You won’t see him again.’
She found a smock among the heap of rags and slipped it over the shift. Her shoes were by the fire. She put them on, picked up a faggot, threw it at Christopher and ran. ‘I know who you are,’ she shouted from outside the house. ‘Two of the queen’s arse-lickers. Well, fuck off back to Her royal Majesty and earn your crust.’
Christopher put a hand on Wetherby’s arm. ‘Let her go. She knows nothing.’
‘Nothing, I agree. Once again I am astonished at your ability to turn from gentle Doctor of Law to monstrous inquisitor in the blink of an eye. You should have been a player.’
No, thought Christopher, not a player but a contented Doctor of Law who valued justice above all else and abhorred violence. But fate had chosen a different path for him. ‘Needs must and she was unharmed. Isaac Cardoza, remember, is dead.’ He looked around the squalid room. ‘Before we return to speak yet more harshly to Master Brooke or Pryse or whoever he claims to be, we must have a good look around this hovel. If there was coining here, there will surely be some sign of it.’
They threw aside the pile of rags and the heap of faggots and found nothing. Nor was there anything in the adjoining room that, judging by the blankets and straw strewn about the floor, served as a bed chamber. When the father was alive, one of them must have slept by the fire.
There was neither parlour nor kitchen. ‘Neither food nor drink,’ observed Wetherby, ‘nor beasts nor tools. Our man was not planning to be here for many more days.’
‘No. I fancy we were barely in time.’ He paused. ‘And we might have saved the whore’s life. A man who can feed his dead father to the swine would have no scruples about burying his whore under the midden. Let us try the barn.’
The south side of the barn was partly open to allow access to carts and beasts. Muck-splattered straw littered the floor, a stone drinking trough stood against one wooden wall and a pile of rusting scythes, shovels and pitchforks against another. The back wall was covered by heaps of empty sacks.
‘There is something amiss here,’ said Wetherby almost at once, before leaving the barn and walking down one side of it. He ran his palms along the timbers that formed the wall and every few steps rapped his knuckles on them. At the far end he turned and said, ‘I thought as much. This barn is a trick. The inside is too small for the outside. The back wall is false.’ He chortled. ‘Might have been designed by Rabelais.’
‘God’s teeth, Roland, I thought we agreed no more Rabelais. But you are right. Help me move some of those sacks.’
Starting in the middle, they heaved aside armfuls of sacks until the wall was exposed. They found nothing and carried on until they came to a corner. Christopher tugged at a sack on the top of the heap and jumped back in surprise. It tumbled down bringing all those underneath with it. The sacks in the corner had been cunningly sewn together so that they could be easily moved and replaced. Behind them was a low door. Christopher crouched down and entered. Wetherby followed.
The hidden room was in darkness and at first they could see nothing. Gradually, however, their eyes became accustomed to their surroundings and they could begin to make out what they had found.
In the middle of the hidden room, as far from the wooden walls as possible, stood a brick-built kiln which would have been used for melting down the silver and copper. Above it, a hole, invisible from outside, had been cut in the roof to allow smoke to escape. On each side were thick oak work benches, on which lay an assortment of tools – flat shovels, hammers, shears and dozens of iron dies. An old barrel was brimming with evil-smelling water. In such a place the risk of fire would have been great – a spark from the kiln or even from a hammer striking metal and the timber walls would soon feed the flames.
‘The ashes are cold,’ said Christopher, withdrawing his hand from the kiln. Wetherby held up a chipped minter’s iron trussel and pile. ‘Bring them outside and let us see what we’ve found, although I think we can guess.’
They ducked back through the hidden door and into the open part of the barn. Wetherby handed the dies to Christopher, who held them up so that he could see the designs clearly. He laughed. ‘A bear on the trussel and a ragged staff on the pile, both stampe
d into the iron, and as far as I can tell, well made. Certainly the work of a skilled man.’
‘John Pryse, no doubt. His son does not strike one as a man of skill.’
‘No doubt he would have kept the fire going and done the hammering and annealing while his father made the dies and trimmed the finished coins ready for use. The two of them would have been able to turn out as many counterfeits as their supply of silver and copper allowed. Someone brought them old coins and silver to be melted down. For other coiners this would not be profitable but it served the purpose of whoever was paying the Pryses.’
‘Their purpose not being profit but something more subtle,’ said Wetherby.
‘And more sinister. My guess is that Pryse ceased work soon after his father died and would have set fire to the farm and the barn before leaving.’
‘We have only Pryse’s word that his father is dead. The story of the pigs might be to explain the lack of a grave.’
Christopher scratched his chin. ‘It might. The father might simply have left.’
‘Or his son might have killed him. Either way, Pryse must have accumulated enough money or at least thought that he had. They would have been well paid and I’ll wager not all the silver ended up as bear and staff testons. Perhaps there’s a hoard buried nearby.’
‘If there is, we’ll leave Mr Lovell and his constables to find it. We have not the time although I doubt Pryse will tell us where it is. Give me one of the dies to carry and we’ll go and make sure he’s settled comfortably into the gaol.’
Guildford gaol had at one time been the dungeons of the now ruined castle. While the turrets and towers had long since collapsed and the ancient walls were crumbling, the dungeons, largely safe from wind and rain below ground, were still intact and usable.
At the top of the stone steps leading down to the cells, Richard Lovell was waiting for them. ‘Your man is ready for you, gentlemen,’ said the magistrate with a big grin. ‘I must say that he has not worn well since last I saw him. Drink and debauchery, I daresay. Odd that the father never came into town or, if he did, I did not come across him. Where is he now?’
‘Dead, according to his son. Of old age or pox or a pitchfork in the guts, we may never know. Nor will a trace of him be found.’
