She cast her skirts aside, and traveled back out of the little chapel, locking it behind them. Pushing through a door to the garden, she walked sedately down one of the gravel paths. She sat upon a wooden bench under a beech. Crispin stood above her. ‘You see, Master Guest, this family – and all who live here – are under the onus of the Virgin’s Tears. We suffer because we are nigh it. We feel the pain of those around us. Elizabeth … could no longer suffer it and begged to leave. I granted her that. Would that I could go, too.’
‘Well … why not … why not surrender the Tears to a church …’
Her eyes flicked to his, turning cold. ‘I can never do that. The relic belongs to me and my family. We are its caretakers.’
‘But it makes you suffer.’
‘As our Lord suffered. Can I not do as much in my own small way?’ She reached up and stroked the squirrel still perched on her shoulder. It did not try to leap to the trees. Maybe it had learned the lesson of the leash and knew it would be useless to try.
She sighed and looked up into the naked branches above her. ‘Are there more questions, Master Guest?’
‘No. That is all. For now. I thank you for your time, Madam Peverel.’ He bowed and left her there within her walled garden.
He exited by the front door and looked back at the courtyard before he passed through the gate and stood on Trinity again. Strange. And that Elizabeth would have left because of a superstition. She did not seem melancholy to Crispin. But then again, she was out of the sphere of this household. What did that mean? It still did not answer the question as to why someone would want to kill her.
Thoughtful, he walked back toward the Shambles and up his stairs to his lodgings. He thought nothing of the unlocked door, thinking of Jack, until he looked up and spied unfamiliar men assembled in his room.
FOUR
Thursday, 15 October
Jack Tucker re-read the scrap of parchment that Hamo Eckington was kind enough to give him and scratched his head. Eckington had written out the names and addresses of the witnesses, but he had been too long at his task as sheriff’s clerk for only he seemed able to discern his own spiky hand. Jack well knew where the eel monger was – thank the saints for that! – but as for these others …
He thought he could just make out the woman’s name – Alison Keylmarsh of Candlewick Street. Might as well try that first.
He walked briskly down the lanes, smiling at the maids as he passed them. When he was lucky, they smiled back. He walked backwards, keeping his eyes and his smile on them until they tittered and hid their grins behind their linen kerchiefs. It wasn’t until he turned forward again that he scowled and admonished himself. What did he think he was doing? He had important business to attend to. His master was in peril. It was no laughing matter to be taken lightly.
Yet. He looked back and the maids were still eyeing him. It never hurt to look.
Once he reached Walbrook he studied the parchment again. It said something about ‘near the mouth of Walbrook and Candlewick,’ the chandler’s ‘grand’ house? He looked up again and spied a shop whose house was the grandest thing on the street. Could that be it? Jack straightened his cloak and coat and marched forward, moving with confidence toward the front entrance. He knocked and postured himself as he had seen Master Crispin do many a time.
When a servant opened the door and looked him over in a disdainful manner as he had also seen servants do to Master Crispin, it only made Jack raise his chin higher. He was proud of that beard he was starting to grow. It was patchy but otherwise carefully trimmed and bright as a robin’s breast.
‘Master Tucker, apprentice to the Tracker, to speak with Madam Keylmarsh.’
‘Apprentice to the what?’
Jack deflated slightly. ‘The … Tracker. The Tracker of London? Haven’t you never heard of Crispin Guest?’
‘Sounds familiar, I suppose. But what’s that got to do with my mistress?’
‘I’m here on the king’s business. We’re investigating a murder.’
‘Murder? My mistress has naught to do with that!’ He began to shut the door when Jack stepped forward and stopped it with his hand and the strength of his arm.
‘Now, now. Your mistress already talked to the sheriffs.’
‘Then she has no need to talk to the likes of you.’
The servant tried to shut the door again, but Jack’s arm remained locked stiff and he shoved. ‘She does if she wants to see justice done. What sort of Christian woman wouldn’t want that?’
The servant hesitated. After a moment he said, ‘Wait here,’ and finally closed the door.
Jack took a breath. Master Crispin sent him on many errands but it had been only lately that he trusted Jack to talk to clients or witnesses. He knew his manner had improved in the last few years. He emulated his noble master as much as he could but even when he thought he had done his best, his low London accent came out of his mouth. There was no denying that.
The door opened so suddenly he jumped. Something like amusement flickered in the servant’s eyes, but his face remained passive. ‘My mistress will see you very briefly.’ He walked ahead of Jack after he barred the door again, and Jack walked through the chilly parlor filled with unlit candles. He supposed these were the wares for sale. Fat columns of tallow mixed with beeswax, thin tapers hanging from their joined wicks, squat tallow candles like wheels of cheese, stacked on shelves. He reckoned it was cold in order to keep the candles stabilized.
Instead of another parlor, Jack was taken to a work room where a wide-hipped woman was bending over a desk and talking softly to a clerk, who directed her to scrutinize leaves of buff parchment with lines of figures and tabulations etched down them in columns of carefully scribed black ink.
Jack stood for a long while, hands behind his back and trying not to rock on his heels. Master Crispin had told him many a time not to fidget, to appear at all times calm. The calmer he was the more discomfited would his suspects be and much could be gleaned from a nervous man’s speech. Not that Madam Keylmarsh was a suspect, but he supposed the same might hold true of witnesses.
At length she straightened from her bent posture, patted the clerk on his shoulder, and looked up. The satisfied expression she had worn withered when she noticed Jack. With heavy steps she approached him. Jack resisted the urge to take a step back. Instead, he gave a polite bow, sweeping back his cloak as he did so and proffering his foot forward as he had seen Master Crispin do when bowing to great lords and ladies. When he looked up, it seemed to have the effect he was looking for. She settled her face from surprise to pleased.
‘And who are you, young man?’
‘My lady, I am Jack Tucker, apprentice to the Tracker of London.’
‘Such a title for so humble a lad.’ She rested her hands over her ample belly and her chatelaine’s keys. ‘And what would the Tracker’s apprentice be wanting of me and my household?’
‘My lady, this morning you were questioned by the sheriffs of London regarding a heinous murder on Watling Street.’
She tensed again. He saw it in her shoulders, in her face that had lost its animation and had stiffened to flattened lips and set lids.
‘And my master commanded me to personally talk with you about your testimony.’
‘And why should your master do that?’
‘Because my master is investigating the murder, my lady, and he … he … relies on his own enquiries rather than on the sheriffs’ … er … clerk’s … erm …’
She waved an impatient hand. ‘Very well. Ask your questions. I am a busy woman.’
‘So I can see. Chandler, eh? An interesting and quite necessary vocation.’
‘Interesting? It might seem so to the uninitiated. But necessary? Oh yes. Which is why it is most busy.’
Jack nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh aye. I can see that. Everyone needs candles, don’t they? And so. Madam, can you tell me why you were on Watling at that time of night and, I presume, on your own?’
She b
ristled. ‘The sheriffs didn’t ask so impertinent a question.’
‘Alas,’ Jack said with a shrug. ‘My master is most assiduous and likes all angles to be answered.’
‘And why, pray, is not your master here personally to ask his questions?’
‘As busy as a chandler certainly is, a Tracker is equally so, what with crime what it is these days.’ He didn’t think a little lie would put him in ill stead. He sent up a small prayer for forgiveness anyway, just in case.
‘I should say. It’s absurd how much crime there is in this city. Tut. And the king’s men do little to curb it.’
‘My master does what he can in his own small way.’
‘Hmpf,’ she sniffed.
‘Er … and so, madam. You were on Watling Street for what purpose?’
‘I was returning from the Shambles. We do much business with the butchers there. For their tallow. Back and forth we go.’
‘So late, my lady, and … alone?’
‘Yes. I often travel alone, and I do my own business. My husband died years ago, but I was right at his side throughout, from the moment we married. There isn’t an aspect of my trade that I do not know or handle personally. It takes a stern hand, my lad. Don’t forget it. Your master must trust you greatly, for since he has only his results as a commodity, he can ill rely on a feeble servant to accomplish his tasks for him. You should feel grateful.’
‘I do, my lady. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t pray for the soul of my master for his confidence in me.’
‘As you should. Well, then. Is that all?’
‘Only this. Did you linger along the lane? Did you see anyone else enter that stair in the time you were on Watling?’
‘No. I had no time to tarry. I was making haste back home. I ran into that dreadful man with the scarlet cotehardie. Drunk as a mule, he was. Disgraceful. Slammed into me with barely an apology and in through that door he went. I assume he is guilty of that murder.’
Jack swallowed a hard lump. ‘We never assume anything, my lady, for there are circumstances that sometimes present themselves that are not immediately, erm, evident.’
She bristled. ‘So you say. Well? Is that all?’
‘Unless you saw anyone else along the lane. Someone else who might have gone through that door?’
‘I was on my way immediately after my encounter with that dreadful man. I hope they hang him quickly. There are enough thieves and murderers in this town. What has become of it?’
‘Aye. Well.’ He bowed again. ‘Thank you, madam, for your time. I’ll see my way out.’
She had already turned away from him and marched to her own duties.
Jack trudged back the way he had come, and the servant opened the door for him, plainly glad to see the back of him.
‘That’s one down,’ he muttered as he left the courtyard and stood on the street again. He pulled out the notes from the sheriffs’ clerk and studied them. The eel monger was closer, so he trotted back toward Watling Street and glared at the private stair door, as if it were the cause of all their woes.
He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the eels as he walked under the eaves and peered into the barrels full of them. He certainly enjoyed a good fried eel, but he hated the sight of them slithering around together like worms in a grave.
The eel monger emerged from his shop and greeted Jack with a wide grin. ‘How many can I get for you, lad?’
‘Oh, I’m not in the market today, good master. It’s Master Hugo Buckton, isn’t it?’
The man blinked. ‘Aye. Do I know you?’
‘No, good sir. I am on an errand for my master. He is Crispin Guest, the Tracker of London, and he is investigating the murder of yon woman –’ and he pointed behind toward the stair – ‘and has sent me to ask some questions. I am his apprentice, good sir.’
‘Ah! Apprentice, eh? Tracker. That’s a strange vocation for any man.’
‘Aye, that it is. But an interesting one.’
‘Find lots of criminals, do you?’
‘A fair few, good master.’
The man scrubbed at his stubbly chin and adjusted the hood’s liripipe wrapped round his neck. ‘I see. Go on, then. Ask.’
‘Now I know that the sheriffs talked to you, but my master is very thorough. What can you tell me about yesterday?’
The man grabbed a small bucket of foul-smelling fish, chopped up and running with blood and water, scooped some out with a worn wooden paddle, and dumped it in with the eels. Their furious squirming to eat the morsels kicked up the water. It splashed over the sides with tails whipping out, slithering along the barrel’s edge. Jack grimaced, unable to look away.
The gravelly-voiced eel monger shoved the paddle into the foul bucket again and set it down. ‘I seen this man. Black hair, sharp snout, clean-shaven … and drunk. He wore a leather hood and a crimson cotehardie, blue stockings. He asked about Elizabeth le Porter and where she was. I told him. Up them stairs. He was polite, bowed to me, and went up. Last I seen of him. Except for today.’
‘And, good master, did you see anyone else come or go through that stair between Vespers last night and Terce this morn?’
He wiped his hands down his apron, material that had seen far worse, Jack reckoned, with its bloody brownish stains and other filth old and dried upon it. ‘Er … no. In me bed or up early with me work.’
‘Good master, can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill Mistress le Porter?’
He took a knife with a long slender blade from its sheath at his hip and strode over to a board laid out on two trestles. He grabbed a writhing fish from another bucket and slapped it to the board. With expert strokes, he cut up under the gills and sliced off the head. ‘She didn’t know many on the lane,’ he said as he worked. ‘Heard tell she was a lady’s maid come on hard times.’
‘Did you know her, Master Buckton?’
‘Aye, in a friendly way. She bought eels, I told her good morn, and such like. But er, no. Naught else … No.’
Jack scrutinized his fleshy face that had turned away from him. There was dirt on the side of his nose, and his teeth were yellowed. Thick brows hung over his eyes, shadowing their hollows. He couldn’t tell if the man was holding back something or if he was just brusque and wished to get on with his work. Jack watched him for a few moments more before he decided to depart. ‘If you do think of anything else, sir, can you get a message to me on the Shambles? We’re above a tinker shop.’
‘Aye. If I think of anything.’
Jack bowed and took his leave. So far there was nothing that could help his master. In fact, it only served to hurt. All they remembered was him in a drunken state. It wasn’t looking good.
He dug into his pouch for the list and did his best to decipher the last name. Looked like it said ‘Thomas Tateham’ on Mercery, but he couldn’t make out the rest. Would he have to go back to Newgate? A shiver rumbled up his spine. He certainly didn’t want to do that. He’d try Mercery first, see if anyone had heard of this Thomas Tateham.
He headed back up Walbrook to Poultry and thence to where Poultry became Mercery. The various signs hanging before the many shops on the crooked lane gave him no clue. Wool merchants, thread sellers, needle makers, and mercers, mixed in with the occasional poulterer. Even a quill seller. He looked close at the parchment again but he could not identify the scratchings. ‘Sarding clerk,’ he muttered. He could continue on till it became the Shambles and then Newgate Market, but he wasn’t anxious to visit the prison. Instead, he stalked up to the first merchant he saw and bowed. ‘Good master, might you know of a gentleman named Thomas Tateham?’
‘Eh, boy? What’s that? I’m busy.’ The man was carefully placing spools of thread into a checkerboard of a tray with its own carved out niches for each of the spools, and he was placing them in order by color. Jack looked on, entranced.
‘Erm, I’m looking for a man who lives hereabouts. By the name of Thomas Tateham. Ever hear of him?’
‘Naw. D
oesn’t sound familiar.’
‘Oh.’ Jack pointed. One color didn’t flow with the others. ‘It should be a red one there, eh?’
The man turned a frown on him.
Jack stepped back. He bowed and hurried on his way. He couldn’t go to each shop, could he? Sighing, he stood in the middle of the lane. Newgate it is, then.
He marched forward following a man with a cart laden with bolts of cloth. Another, wheeled alongside the first, nearly blocked the entire passage. That cart carried fuel of bundled sticks. A hen, muddy from the lane, was perched on the bundle nearest the end of the cart, and with its soiled feathers it had a sorry look about it. It eyed Jack with a squinted angry glare.
Jack gestured rudely back at it, and it fluttered once before settling down again and watched Jack unnervingly all the way to Newgate’s arch.
He trod in under the shade of the stone, skirting by the serjeants and trotting up the stairs. At the top of the staircase was an arched portico and a door. He knocked, straightening his cotehardie and was grateful to find Hamo Eckington. The clerk looked him up and down. ‘What is it? Who are you?’
‘Master Eckington, it’s me, Jack Tucker. I was here not more than a few hours ago.’
‘Oh, yes, yes.’ He turned back to the room and his little alcove with its tall desk, shelves full of rolled parchments and books, candles, and oil lamps arranged around him. The man’s graying hair flew in all directions out from under his leather cap. He was stoop-shouldered like an old man, but he still had a youngish face. There were careworn wrinkles at his blue eyes and grooves down from his nostrils, but he moved with speed and efficiency.
‘What is it you want? The sheriffs are not here if you wish an audience with them.’
‘Bless me, no sir. It is with you that I wish an audience. It’s this parchment.’ Jack pulled it from his scrip and flattened it. ‘I can’t read this bit here.’
Hamo snatched it from him. ‘Little wonder, boy, when you’ve mangled it so much. No appreciation for the care of parchment.’
‘I do have an appreciation. But I cannot read your hand.’
‘My hand is as clear as it’s always been from the day I learned to write my Latin, when I was a lad of six!’ He shuffled into the light of the oil lamp and moved the torn piece this way and that. ‘Well that’s … that’s quite simple. It says … says … hmm.’ He slapped it back into Jack’s chest. ‘You must have smudged it somehow.’
A Maiden Weeping Page 5
