A Maiden Weeping

by Jeri Westerson

  Nigellus was still thinking of his unusual encounter with Crispin Guest as he set out for Newgate bright and early the next morning. Were the tales of the man true? He hardly seemed the devil as so many had said of him, nor did he appear to be a saint … which he had also heard. Crispin Guest was a man of contrasts. There was talk that he was a combative man – and the bruises on his chin proved that. If he had not gotten them from his altercation with John and Walter Noreys, he had received it by fighting the guards at Newgate.

  It was also rumored that he was ill-mannered and untrustworthy. Clearly those were both falsehoods, for the man that Nigellus had met was the most tactful of gentlemen, and Jack Tucker was certainly not his apprentice for the money. Guest must therefore be trustworthy and fair-minded, though a little gruff in manner, perhaps. To teach a boy of the streets Latin and to read and write was not the mark of an injudicious man. No, Guest might have been a traitor, but he was a most unusual one. Therefore the good Nigellus had heard – his honesty, his charity, and his piousness, for there was always some sort of relic Guest was associated with – must be credited to him as well.

  That crafty Thomas Clarke. He must make an effort to thank him for putting this case in his path.

  Nigellus traversed the curve of the road, his thoughts assembling in order to talk with the man again before the trial commenced, when he beheld Newgate, its stoic walls and tall gate with its crenelated battlements, its portcullis. It was still early yet – Prime had rung – but guards walked both atop the wall and below, their faces lit by torches whose flames whipped in the wind.

  Before he could take another step he heard shouting at the gate and he looked up to observe the running about of the guards and serjeants of the prison. Smelling the excitement, Nigellus hurried forward and stood unobtrusively until he was able to ask a guard what the shouting was all about.

  ‘A woman’s been found strangled, up Catte Street, by Milk. Dreadful thing.’ And he rushed off to take his station. Horses were brought forth and soon the dark-haired Lord Sheriff appeared and mounted up, kicking the flanks of the beast to urge it up Newgate Market.

  Hands suddenly grabbed Nigellus from behind and he twisted around, staring into the blunt face of one of the sheriff’s serjeants.

  ‘You! Come!’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘You’re a lawyer, are you not? Don’t deny it, I seen you yesterday.’

  ‘I shall not deny it. But what would you need with me?’

  ‘You can write, can’t you? The sheriff’s clerk is otherwise occupied with Sheriff Walcote. Sheriff Loveney will need a clerk.’

  ‘See here—’

  ‘Do you argue with me?’ said the serjeant, tightening his grip on his cudgel.

  Nigellus swallowed. ‘Of course I will help the Lord Sheriff,’ he said quickly. ‘You need only ask.’ He clutched his leather case tightly to his breast and anxiously set out down Newgate Market, keeping the sheriff in view and another eye on the serjeant behind him, whose club was kept at the ready.

  EIGHT

  Friday, 16 October

  Not so much refreshed as resigned, Jack Tucker returned to the Boar’s Tusk the next day. This was not a job he was willing to do alone, not when the stakes were so dire. He pushed through the heavy doors, marched down an aisle between long tables, and pushed the drapery to the back door aside. Walking across the courtyard to the kitchens he came upon Ned. ‘Just the lad I was looking for.’

  Ned was a stringy fellow of uncertain age. He was older than Jack but considerably younger than Master Crispin, and he had said he had worked for the Langtons since he was a small boy. His messy hair, spotted face, and sorrowful brows gave him a hang-dog expression even when he was merry, but Jack had always taken to him. He might not be the hottest poker in the fire, but he was fair-dealing and knew a good jest or two.

  ‘Eh? What you want, Jack?’

  ‘You. I need your help. How would you like to be a Tracker’s apprentice’s assistant?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Come on. We’ve got to talk to Gilbert.’ He began pulling Ned toward the kitchens but Ned held back. ‘He’s not in there. He’s in the tavern.’

  ‘I didn’t see him.’

  ‘Then he’s in the mews. Come then.’

  He led Jack down the stairs to the dark cellar where the tuns of wine and ale rested in the coolness. A candle glow indicated Gilbert’s presence and they headed in that direction. He looked up. His congenial face always cheered Jack. The Langtons were both faithful friends to Master Crispin and, truly, he was lucky to have them.

  ‘Why Master Tucker. What brings you here? Crispin with you?’

  ‘I bring you dark tidings, Master Gilbert. They’ve arrested my master, and I must in all haste find the true culprit or he will hang. I beg you, let me take Ned with me to find a missing witness.’

  ‘What? Slow down, Jack.’ He set down his bucket and faced the two. ‘What is that you said about Crispin?’

  Jack repeated the facts. He felt all jittery inside, as if ants were crawling over him. He needed to get on with it, to help his master. For he also needed to find out more about those Noreys brothers, requiescat in pace, and those Virgin’s Tears. There had been a day when he could have gone to the Abbot of Westminster for that last bit, but old Abbot Nicholas was dead these past two years, and though the new abbot, William de Colchester, was more disposed toward his master than he had been previously, Jack didn’t know if the cleric would readily take to Jack.

  ‘And so I need Ned’s help. I can’t go door to door all by m’self. If I could but borrow Ned for the day, good master …’

  ‘Well, seeing that it’s for Crispin. What say you, Ned?’

  Ned scratched his messy thatch of hair. ‘What would I have to do?’

  ‘You ask – politely, that is most important – if any in the household have heard of or know the whereabouts of Thomas Tateham. And if they have, to tell me immediately.’

  Ned looked from Gilbert to Jack. ‘All right.’

  Jack grabbed his arm and tugged. ‘Then come on! God keep you, Master Gilbert!’

  ‘And you, Jack! My prayers are for Crispin this day.’

  Jack tore from the Boar’s Tusk and hurried up Gutter Lane before he turned and found himself alone. ‘Where is that sarding lad?’ Ned lumbered up from behind a man with a stack of tied twigs on his back. ‘Ned, there is no time to tarry.’

  ‘I just thought of something,’ said the dark-haired boy. ‘You get paid to do your master’s bidding. What about me?’

  ‘Do you mean to stand there and haggle with me? Of all the ungrateful …’

  ‘Master Crispin never done naught for me. I have naught to be grateful for from him.’

  ‘Why, Ned! I never knew you were such a greedy knave that you wouldn’t help your fellow man out of good Christian charity.’ He ticked his head. ‘For shame. Go off with you, then. I can do it on me own.’

  ‘Now, Jack. Don’t be like that. It’s just that … here’s a day’s wage I might lose, you ken?’

  Jack narrowed his eyes. ‘Very well. I get a farthing for my work and I will gladly sacrifice it for my master’s sake. Good enough?’

  Ned ducked his head and nodded sheepishly. Jack dug into his scrip, pulled out the quartered coin, and handed it over. ‘There! Now will you come along!’

  Ned perked up. He smiled as he stuffed the quartered coin in. ‘Aye, Jack. Let’s to it.’

  They headed up West Cheap to Mercery and Jack stopped them. ‘Now, Ned, you take that side of the street and I’ll take this side. Tho-mas Tate-ham,’ he pronounced clearly.

  ‘But we don’t know his vocation.’

  ‘Naw, lad. If I knew that, me job would be made easier.’

  Ned saluted Jack and trotted forth to the first shop.

  Jack watched him go before he turned and hurried across the street, stopping before he was run down by a man with an empty wain. The cart rattled swiftly by and he darted forward, marching up to the g
ranite step below the door. He knocked smartly and waited.

  A woman answered, wiping her hands on her apron. Her nose and cheeks were red and chapped. ‘Yes?’

  He bowed. ‘Good day, mistress. I am looking for a Thomas Tateham of Mercery Lane.’

  ‘There’s no one here of that name.’

  ‘Would you know of this man by name or by profession, good mistress?’

  She frowned and shook her head. ‘No. It isn’t familiar.’

  Jack sighed. ‘I thank you.’ He stepped down. The woman gave him a nod and closed the door. He looked up the street at all the doors, the shops, the people. ‘Best get to it, Jack.’

  But after an hour of talking to not only those at the shop doors but to their tenants, he had no luck. Jack had climbed many ladders that day and still he had more to go. He cast a glance across the street. Ned was not nearly as efficient and had lagged behind, but he was doing the job, bless him.

  Jack moved on to the next house when he heard a shriek. All motion on the street stopped save for a few dogs on leads. Everyone seemed to be halting in their steps, listening. And then the shriek happened again.

  Jack took off running toward the sound. He cut down another lane and then another. People were gathering round a woman, a maidservant it looked like, and she was sobbing on the arm of a burly man. She pointed behind her, and those closest to her tried to discern what she was yelling about.

  Jack tapped a man beside him on the street, motioning for him to come with him. He and Jack went and yet another man followed. Up the stairs and they found an open door. A woman lay across her bed, head hanging over the side, eyes wide and bulging. Her throat was painted with dark bruising.

  Jack crossed himself. ‘God blind me,’ he muttered.

  The others stayed back, but Jack approached cautiously. He reached out and touched her arched neck and knew he would find no pulse. His fingers encountered cold flesh. His hand moved to the jaw. He tried to move the head but found it tight. He touched one of the arms with its twisted elbow.

  ‘Lad,’ cried one of the men. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Investigating,’ said Jack. He tried to move the arm and found it still pliable. The staring eyes were only starting to cloud over.

  More men burst into the room. ‘Here! What are you doing?’

  He turned to the gathered crowd and drew himself up. ‘I am Jack Tucker, apprentice to the Tracker. And I am merely examining the body. She’s begun rigor which means she’s been dead nearly six hours.’

  ‘Who did he say he was?’ asked one man of another. The others started to murmur.

  ‘Said he’s the Tracker’s apprentice.’

  ‘Who’s the Tracker?’

  ‘That fellow what did that treason all them years ago. Now he catches murderers, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I never heard of no Tracker.’

  ‘Yes you have, Roger. That surly man. With them relics.’

  ‘Oh. Him.’

  ‘What’s he do with relics?’

  ‘Finds ‘em. When they’re lost or stolen. He finds murderers, too.’

  There was general agreement and head-nodding … until, ‘I never heard of no apprentice.’

  Jack whirled on them. ‘I’m Jack sarding Tucker! I’m always with Master Crispin.’

  ‘Heard it was a young boy. Shorter than you.’

  ‘I’ve been with him six years. I’m seventeen now.’

  ‘Ooooh! You mean Crispin Guest!’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been saying!’

  The first man grinned and thumbed toward Jack. ‘That’s the Tracker’s apprentice, that. Jack Tucker.’

  Jack huffed and decided to ignore them. He motioned them back and scanned the room. The window was unbroken. One shutter was open. He went to the window and gingerly looked over the side. No ladder. No scratches as if a ladder had been placed and removed. The room was in fine shape, in fact, no ransacking for goods, no thievery. Though there were two goblets set out, and the half-eaten leavings of cheese and fruit.

  It was around Terce now so that meant she had been murdered between sunrise and Prime. She and her murderer’s little meal was an early mixtum or late-night supper.

  He made his way toward the table, and the men opened a path for him. He peered into the goblets. Yes, there were the dregs of wine in one, and the other still had a portion. He picked it up and examined it, sniffed it. And was suddenly aware of his audience.

  Slowly pivoting he took in the men’s faces, all anxiously watching. ‘Erm … has someone gone to fetch the sheriff?’

  The crowd looked at one another but were unable to determine if in fact someone had gone for the sheriff until one hearty soul volunteered.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Jack in a stern voice. ‘It is best you all leave these lodgings now so that the sheriff and the coroner can do their work. If anyone is a witness to what might have transpired, if you saw anyone enter or leave these premises since yesterday, you should expect to stay and give your testimony to the sheriff.’

  They grumbled and made their slow progress to the doorway.

  Jack offered up a relieved sigh as they ambled out and made a slow perusal of the room, noting this and that, before he, too, followed them out.

  When he descended the stairs and stood on the street, the crowd left a wide berth around him. He also waited for the sheriff, calming himself with assurances that he was doing just as his master would have wanted.

  When the sheriff arrived and his sharp gaze landed on him, Jack wasn’t as certain at his decision to stay.

  Sheriff Walcote dismounted and strode forward. ‘You’re Guest’s apprentice, are you not?’

  Jack bowed. ‘Y-yes, Lord Sheriff. Jack Tucker.’

  ‘I don’t care what your name is.’ He pushed past Jack.

  ‘She’s been dead six hours at most,’ said Jack.

  The sheriff’s foot was only on the second tread when he stopped. He swiveled his head and glared. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I’ve … I’ve been up there. Investigating. She’s been dead—’

  ‘Who gave you the authority to do so, Tucker?’

  He straightened his cotehardie. ‘Well … my master—’

  ‘And who gives him the authority?’

  ‘It … it’s just that … people call on him to—’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ He climbed again and gestured curtly to his guards toward Jack. They bore down on him.

  ‘Wait, good masters,’ said Jack, backing up. The crowd opened up for him and he was slowly being backed into a fence. ‘I done nothing wrong!’

  ‘Come here, you.’ The serjeant lunged. Jack ducked. It was true, he wasn’t as short as he used to be, and sometimes his taller height was a disadvantage, but he was just as agile as ever and by pivoting on his hips, he easily slipped the man’s clutches. But another moved in. Jack stood his ground before he felt the fence at his back.

  Two more guards lurched toward him. He rolled backwards over the fence, legs high in the air, until he landed upright and took off running.

  He heard them scrambling lamely over the fence behind him but didn’t look back. The courtyard narrowed to the tight span between two shops and he jumped over the fence before him. He ran full tilt down the street and turned at Catte. Still pumping arms and legs, he made the tight turn at Milk Street and came up short. The other sheriff and his men were crowded round another house, one reputed to be a stew, though such bawdy houses were not allowed on this side of the Thames.

  He froze and stared at the proceedings, blinking. Until a hand came down on his shoulder. His first instinct was to twist away and run, but the hand tightened and the friendly voice of Nigellus Cobmartin stopped him. ‘Master Jack? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I could say the same of you. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, it was the strangest thing. As I was coming to Newgate to see your master again – and he gives you his prayers, by the way – an alarm had gone out. The sheriff was being call
ed to investigate the murder of a woman.’

  Jack turned away to stare up to the second floor of the shop around which everyone was milling. ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes. I was intrigued because of the manner of this alleged murder. She was supposed to have been strangled.’

  Jack frowned. ‘Here?’

  Nigellus huffed a breath. ‘Yes. Why do you—?’

  ‘Because … I have just come from another crime … of a woman who was strangled.’

  ‘What?’ He grabbed Jack and pulled him away from the crowd. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I sarding well am. I was nearly nabbed by Sheriff Walcote’s men just for doing my own investigating.’

  ‘And where was this?’

  ‘Just off of Watling.’

  ‘And there is another here.’

  ‘Aye.’ Jack’s eyes reflected the same gleam that sparkled in Nigellus’ gaze. ‘There’s someone strangling women in London … and it isn’t my master!’

  NINE

  Friday, 16 October

  Jack and Nigellus found themselves back at the Boar’s Tusk, hunching low over their cups.

  ‘You say that the woman you saw was six hours dead?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Jack, eyes sweeping the room, making sure ears were not attuned to them. ‘At the most, by my best reckoning.’

  ‘I know not how long the woman on Catte Street was dead. And then there is Elizabeth le Porter, dead now more than a day.’

  ‘Someone is killing these women. It can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘Young Master Jack, I dare to agree with you. But how to make the sheriffs see the light? Or the recorder?’

  ‘But if them women were killed by someone else, then surely they must release my master before ever there is a trial.’

  ‘Possibly. But there are witnesses that put Master Guest entering the le Porter woman’s lodgings.’

  ‘But six hours ago my master was already in gaol.’

  ‘Yes. It certainly looks better for your master.’

  ‘That house is said to be a stew, Master Nigellus.’

  ‘Indeed? Well. And what of the other woman off Watling?’