by A D Swanston
Pyke’s eyes betrayed nothing. ‘I know of no such person, but if I did, what business would it be of yours?’
‘Alice Scrope, a whore who has falsely accused my housekeeper, Joan Willys, of witchcraft.’
‘If your housekeeper is a witch, Dr Radcliff, take care that you are not accused of harbouring and assisting her.’
‘She is not a witch and she is at present in Newgate, as I am sure you are aware.’
‘I am relieved to hear it. Justice will be done.’
‘Justice will only be done, Mr Pyke, when Joan Willys is released. Did you give the Scrope wench the money to pay for an action against her?’
Pyke rose to his feet and his face turned the colour of a rich claret. ‘That is a disgraceful allegation against an officer of the law. How dare you suggest such a thing?’
‘Did you?’
‘I have told you that I do not know this woman. What mischief are you about, Dr Radcliff?’
‘You have been seen entering Alice Scrope’s house.’
‘Seen by whom? A lie. A fabrication for which you are no doubt responsible. Leave this house immediately or a constable will be summoned.’
Christopher did not move but stared hard at the ugly face. ‘You are a craven liar, Pyke. Because of you an innocent woman is in Newgate gaol and when I discover why, it is you who will face justice.’
Pyke began to splutter something but it was too late. Christopher slammed the door behind him. Outside he stood rubbing his hand and trying to breathe evenly. The disgusting little man should be thrown back into the swamp from which he had emerged. But at least there was a glimmer of hope for Joan.
CHAPTER 24
Shiva was over. Christopher walked briskly down Cheapside and Cornhill to Leadenhall, sensing that the mood Ell had noticed on the streets was still there – quiet markets, quiet voices, a sense of foreboding. He cursed himself for the fanciful notion. Places could not have moods. It was all in his head.
Nevertheless he found himself quickening his pace and keeping a wary eye on those he passed. A dagger hidden in a sleeve might deliver a fatal wound before the victim saw it coming. He kept well clear even of a one-legged beggar on Cornhill and clearer still of a pure collector gathering dog shit for the tanners who worked along the Fleet river. All in his head, perhaps, but a man’s head directed his actions.
The door was opened by a servant – a young, dark-skinned girl in a black cowl, who showed him into the parlour where Sarah Cardoza sat alone, embroidering the hem of a white napkin with red and yellow roses. ‘Isaac loved roses,’ she said, looking up, ‘and often bought them for me despite the expense. A clever man of business but he could be sentimental.’
‘How do you fare, Sarah?’ he asked.
‘I am well, thank you, doctor. I miss Isaac beyond words but take comfort from knowing that he is with God. He was a good man.’
‘He was, and a loyal one. I too miss him. What of the children?’
‘Daniel and David have started work with Aaron Lopes. He has been generous to us and they will learn a good trade. Ruth is too young to work but helps care for her mother.’ A tiny smile played around her eyes. ‘I am blessed.’
‘And the shop?’
‘The landlord has taken back the lease.’
Christopher nodded. ‘That is good. Some would insist on the terms being met.’
‘Isaac had arranged for the landlord to do so in the event of his death. I have wondered if he foresaw it.’
‘Surely not. He simply put his family first.’
‘Always.’
‘Sarah, I have news of the coiners. Would you like to hear it?’
She put aside the napkin. ‘I would.’
He told her of the Pryses and his discovery at Guildford, keeping it as brief as he could. At the end, he said, ‘The son, Hugh Pryse, is in Newgate and I am confident that he will tell us what we need to know.’
‘He will not be tortured, I hope,’ said Sarah. ‘Our families left Portugal to escape the brutality of the inquisition. I would not wish to think that such an ungodly practice had come to England.’
Torture of prisoners was rare and required the consent of the Privy Council, but it did sometimes happen in cases of treason. Sarah did not seem to know this. ‘He will be rigorously questioned, Sarah, but he will not suffer torture. You have my word.’
‘That is sufficient. God will punish him for what he has done. Now, will you take refreshment?’
‘Thank you, no. I must be on my way. I will call again when there is more to tell you.’
‘Come again whenever you wish, Christopher. And take more care of yourself. You are too thin.’
‘I will go to the market on my way home. Shalom, Sarah.’
‘Be sure that you do. Shalom, Christopher.’
It was the first time that she had ever used his Christian name.
Last time, a penny-halfpenny for a plucked chicken. This time, two pence. Last time, two and a half pence for a small loaf. This time two pence and three farthings. He did not even bother asking why. The answers would be the same. And he could hardly tell the traders that the coiner of the false testons was in Newgate and there was nothing for them to worry about. They would not believe it.
No angry apprentices, at least. They would be thinking twice before attacking the traders again. Just unsmiling faces resigned to hardship and toil.
Christopher gathered his purchases into a bag and left Cheapside for Ludgate Hill. It was as he entered St Paul’s churchyard that he saw a figure disappearing down the alley that Wetherby had been attacked in. He saw only the man’s back but that was enough. The shadow had returned.
‘You chased after him, of course,’ said Wetherby, slouched on a chair, ‘and demanded to know why the coward had attacked me from behind.’
‘I did not. I would not have caught him in those alleys even without carrying my victuals.’ Wetherby had arrived unannounced and had settled himself comfortably into the study. He had lit the fire and poured himself a glass of wine. ‘You disappoint me, Christopher. I would have thought you would abandon the victuals and run like a stag after him. Just as I would have.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind for the next time. Have you come just to drink my wine or do you bring intelligence from the palace?’
‘Neither. I bring thoughts.’
‘Your own, I trust, not those of a dead Frenchman.’
‘If you mean the excellent Monsieur Rabelais, Christopher, they are not. Now calm yourself and let us consider what we know, although it is not much. We have found the mint operated by the Pryses and we have Hugh Pryse safely in gaol. But we do not yet understand what the false testons are about other than to cause trouble. Taken together with the slogans and plague crosses and of course the attack on Isaac Cardoza, there must be more to them.’
‘On that we are already agreed, but what more? And why am I being watched?’
‘That I do not know, but Pryse is a frightened man. Even in Newgate with the threat of the Tower and a traitor’s death hanging over him, he has not spoken. Nor will he unless his fear of Scylla is greater than his fear of Charybdis.’
‘Scylla being us and Charybdis the bringers of chaos and confusion?’
‘Exactly. Let us go and see how Master Pryse is enjoying Newgate.’
‘You will have my support in any action you take,’ Leicester had said. God willing, he had meant it. They spoke first to the warden who took some persuasion and an assurance that he would not be held responsible for any mishap but finally agreed to Christopher’s unusual request and ordered Pryse brought up from the cells. Christopher had searched his conscience and decided that Sarah Cardoza would not object.
A few days in Newgate and Pryse was a much diminished figure. He stood before them in what remained of his shirt and breeches, with his hands and ankles shackled and his head lolling on his chest as if it were too heavy for his neck to support. Even when Christopher spoke, he did not look up.
‘Are you re
ady to speak to us, Pryse? Have you thought carefully about what awaits you if you insist upon this foolish silence?’
‘Who is it that you are so afraid of that you would suffer at our hands rather than face them?’ asked Wetherby.
‘You have denied knowing Gerard Fossett yet we know that this man delivered silver and copper to you to be melted down and turned into false testons and later collected the testons from you for delivery to his masters.’
‘And now Gerard Fossett is dead,’ added Wetherby. ‘His throat was cut and his face marked with a cross. Why would that be, Pryse?’
Still the prisoner did not look up or speak. Wetherby tried again. ‘Why would that be?’ he shouted. There was no reaction.
Christopher shook his head. Without food Pryse would not last much longer and he would be no use to them dead. Two years ago he could not have done it – the sound of a sheep’s limbs popping from their sockets as the dead animal lay on the rack in the Tower still haunted him – but the prisoner must be made to speak. Wetherby had been attacked and Isaac was dead. If Pryse would not speak, Christopher would have to put aside his scruples and force him to do so. ‘You will be tried for counterfeiting, and if found guilty, you will be hanged. Now we are going to show you what you will suffer if you continue to refuse to speak. Bring him to the pressing room, gaoler.’
The pressing room was a simple square chamber, empty but for four iron rings set into the stone floor and three stacks of weights along one wall. Christopher ordered the gaoler to unchain the prisoner and lie him on his back with his hands and ankles secured to the rings. ‘Now, Pryse,’ he said, ‘I am not permitted to use pressing to cause you permanent harm, although I certainly would if the law allowed it, but I can demonstrate to you what awaits a prisoner who will not plead in court.’ He signalled to the gaoler who took a small weight from the top of a stack and placed it carefully on Pryse’s stomach. Pryse tried in vain to tip the weight off by wriggling and squirming. He moaned in agony and his face looked as if it might burst like an ugly pustule, but still he did not speak.
Christopher nodded to the gaoler who took a second weight, placed it on top of the first and held them steady. This time Pryse’s eyes closed and his mouth opened in a silent scream.
Christopher sighed and bent to speak quietly to him. ‘I had hoped to spare you this, Pryse. I do not enjoy inflicting pain, and if you tell me what I need to know, you will suffer no more.’ From Pryse there was no sign that he had heard. Christopher straightened up and nodded again to the gaoler.
A third weight was added. Vomit trickled from Pryse’s mouth and his eyes bulged, ready to pop from their sockets. ‘Will you speak?’ shouted Christopher, to be sure that he heard. There was a tiny nod of Pryse’s head before it lolled to one side. ‘Will you speak?’ This time there could be no mistake. Pryse lifted his head a fraction and grunted.
Christopher signalled to the gaoler who removed the weights one by one. For a moment he feared that Pryse was dead. He did not move or make a sound, but lay still and silent, until the gaoler nudged him with a booted foot, and he groaned. Much relieved, Christopher ordered the gaoler to untie him. It had been as close to the illegal use of torture as he dared go.
The gaoler helped Pryse to sit up. ‘That was but a taste of what you may expect if you will not speak in court,’ Christopher told him. ‘Tell us what we wish to know and you will suffer no more pain.’
‘Water, for pity’s sake.’ The words came out in a painful croak.
‘Bring ale, gaoler, and find food.’
They waited while the gaoler fetched ale and a chunk of bread and watched Pryse swallow a sip. A bite of bread, however, was too much and was out of his mouth almost as soon as it had gone in. Pryse retched and clutched his stomach in pain.
When he thought the creature was up to it, Christopher put aside a twinge of sympathy for him and began again. ‘Did you meet the man named Fossett?’
‘He came to the farm.’ Now Pryse held his head in his hands and kept his eyes on the floor.
‘To bring silver and collect the testons?’
‘Yes.’ The word was barely audible.
‘Was there anyone else?’
A shake of the head.
‘No one?’
‘My father spoke of a Gabriel.’
‘Gabriel. But you did not see him?’
‘Never.’ Pryse took a mouthful of beer and grimaced.
‘What did your father say about this Gabriel?’
‘He had set up the mint and paid us to operate it.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No.’
‘How were you paid?’
‘We kept some of the silver brought by Fossett.’
Pryse was flagging. His voice was getting weaker and his chin was on his chest. ‘I suggest we save him for another day, Christopher,’ whispered Wetherby. ‘In this state he will say anything to be rid of us.’
‘One more question, Pryse. Why did you hate your father?’ Pryse’s head jerked up. ‘He was as tight as a nun’s cunny. Always saying prayers and fingering his beads, but wouldn’t give me a few shillings for ale.’
‘Did you kill him for the money?’
‘That’s two questions. Fuck off.’
‘It matters little. You’ll hang anyway.’
Pryse glared at him, his eyes blazing with anger and hatred, and for a moment Christopher thought he was going to try to struggle to his feet. But the effort was too much. He slumped to the floor and lay there.
They would get nothing more from him. ‘Back to the cell with him, gaoler,’ ordered Christopher, ‘and take care with your words, Pryse, if you don’t want to starve to death.’
‘Is the prisoner unharmed?’ asked the warden on their way out of the prison. ‘I could not be party to illegal torture.’
‘Worry not,’ replied Wetherby. ‘We were quite gentle and he is recovered from a slight shock.’
‘I am much relieved to hear it. It was unwise of me to agree to his being pressed, even lightly, and I feared that he might die. I will not permit it again.’
‘There will be no need,’ replied Christopher, ‘although he has not yet told us everything.’ He handed a coin to the warden. ‘Keep him alive until we return.’
CHAPTER 25
In his study, Christopher sat with an untouched beaker of ale, his eyes closed. He had hated witnessing the traitor Patrick Wolf suffer in the Tower at the hands of the queen’s interrogator, Fulke Griffyn, and he had thanked God that he did not have to watch the man being racked.
And the images of the violence he had seen in Paris – men, women and children hacked to pieces and burned by rampaging gangs – would haunt him for ever. Bloodshed, torture and cruelty of a kind he would not have believed possible had he not seen it with his own eyes and for which he could find not a scrap of justification. Still the terrible dreams came and went as they chose.
He had changed. Of course he had changed. Did all men not change as the years passed? But Christopher Radcliff, Doctor of Law, and chief London intelligencer for the Earl of Leicester, hated himself for it. Once he could never have countenanced the threat of violence to obtain information, let alone actually employ it, as he had employed it on Hugh Pryse. Now he could do so without hesitation if it was necessary. Pryse had to be made to speak so it had been necessary. Pressing was only used when an accused refused to enter a plea in court in order to avoid his property being forfeit and his widow and children left destitute, as a convicted felon’s would otherwise be. Pryse, fortunately, had not known that.
He had stretched the truth a little, only a little, and with justification, but even so it did not sit comfortably with him. Pryse was a foul creature who had fed his own father to the pigs but dying on the end of a rope would be punishment enough.
Warwick the chess-player thought the coiners were playing a game, moving their pieces seemingly at random but with a hidden purpose and he had urged Christopher to make the connection. If he was right that the m
urdered man was Gerard Fossett who had delivered silver to Guildford, returning with false testons hidden in consignments of glass, Fossett was a connection.
If the crosses on the slogans and on healthy ‘plague’ houses and cut into Fossett’s face were not crosses but the letter chi, signifying chaos and anarchy, his disappearance from the deadhouse might be another connection. Rising prices, fear of witches’ work, mysterious slogans recalling days long past – all to cause confusion and insurrection?
Possibly. But they did not explain Fossett’s murder or the Dudley emblem or the shadow. Where were the connections there?
He arrived at the prison at noon to find Wetherby waiting for him. Pryse was brought up by the same gaoler. He held his head up and looked stronger than the day before. ‘Has the prisoner had meat and ale?’ asked Christopher.
‘He has, sir, as you instructed.’
‘Well then, Pryse, are you ready to answer our questions or must we return to the pressing room?’ Pryse shrugged. ‘Why did you kill your father?’
‘He was old. He died.’
Christopher stared at him, searching for signs of a lie. There were none. ‘Why did you feed him to the pigs?’
‘Why not? Pigs have to eat, same as us.’
‘What did you do with what was left of him after the pigs had finished with him?’
‘Went in the midden. There wasn’t much.’
It was Wetherby’s turn. ‘Gerard Fossett. He was the man who took away the counterfeit coins, was he not? Did you never see him?’
‘Once only.’
‘What more can you tell us about him?’
‘He brought the silver and took away the coins. That’s all.’
‘How was it that you saw him only once?’
‘My father sent me to town whenever he was due. I came back early that day.’
‘How often did he come?’
‘Every month.’
‘How many coins did he take away each month?’
‘A hundred. It’s what he wanted.’ A hundred coins every month for, say, twelve months. One thousand two hundred coins. Many more than had been recovered. Even allowing for those washing about in the markets, there must be a store somewhere. ‘What else can you tell us about Fossett?’
