A Maiden Weeping

by Jeri Westerson

‘I dunno. You tell me.’

  ‘I won’t have you lie. Even for my master’s life. He would forbid it.’

  ‘But suppose I help you. With something else.’

  ‘Well then, let me ask you this. Did you ever see them Noreys men come to le Porter’s rooms?’

  ‘I … I don’t know the men by name.’

  ‘But you said you seen men come and go.’

  ‘Aye. She was a friendly thing. She borrowed money from me. To keep her till she found another situation. I don’t suppose there is any getting that back?’

  ‘Er … no. Why did she entertain so many men, Master Buckton?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s not what you think. At least, I don’t think it is. She had women visitors, too.’

  Jack considered. ‘Master Buckton, if you’d truly like to help, may I call upon you to bring you around to identify various people? There may be some that are useful to prove my master innocent.’

  He smiled. ‘I’d be happy to do that, Master Apprentice.’

  ‘It’s Tucker. Jack Tucker. And I’ll be by on Sunday, if that will suit.’

  ‘Oh. Is that proper on a Sunday?’

  ‘I don’t think the Lord will mind our clearing my master’s name on His day.’

  ‘Oh. Right then.’ He saluted and lumbered away.

  Jack watched him go, curious about what Buckton might be able to tell him.

  Once Nigellus joined him, Jack and the lawyer reached Gutter Lane and wove their way through the townsfolk with their burdens and their carts until they reached the Boar’s Tusk. They settled in, and Jack found himself absently searching for Isabel. He hoped she had gotten back all right without Gilbert knowing. She was a clever girl. He was certain she could do it.

  ‘Master Jack, you have given new life to this case,’ said the lawyer. ‘Only a few brief hours ago it looked mighty bad.’

  ‘What that coroner said.’ Jack shook his head. ‘And to think about all the help my master gave him.’

  ‘Well, men of position don’t like to lose it. And I’m afraid Master Guest is a constant reminder of just how much a man can lose.’

  Jack couldn’t disagree. He took a sip of ale and set his horn cup down.

  ‘What are your plans now, Jack?’ asked the lawyer, taking his own sip.

  ‘Well, Nigellus, I don’t mind saying it is an uphill battle. I must find this third witness who seems to have eluded everyone. Either the man gave a false name or the clerk misheard. Either is possible. But I worry over the former. And then there is this knave who is out there, strangling women.’

  ‘Yes. A horrible crime. And yet, I am of two minds on it. One, I cringe as any good Christian must. But on the other, to find him is to free my client.’

  ‘Just so, Nigellus. That man is the key to opening my master’s cell door. I am also seeking the help of Hugh Buckton, the eel monger. He has promised to help identify some of the men who visited Elizabeth le Porter. I suspect he will identify Walter Noreys.’

  ‘Ah yes. Quite an interesting turn, there. You and your master, magnis animis similiter cogitent.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been taught to think like my master, certainly.’ Jack drummed his fingers against his cup. He stood and ran his hand over his face. ‘I need to clean m’self up. Time to get home and make sure all is well before I head out again.’

  ‘I will go with you. I have property on the Shambles that I must look over.’ They walked out together. ‘Indeed. Property my father owned. A poulterer’s shop that now lies empty. I am afraid I am not the business man my father was.’

  Jack never had cause to think on it. Business was business. It always looked thriving in London. At least it seemed so in the Boar’s Tusk. But hadn’t he and his master encountered many a man whose business seemed to dwindle? Like the Noreys household. Ill-management and over-spending all contributed. ‘Was your father a poulterer?’

  Nigellus looked at him aghast. ‘Oh no, no, no! He certainly could not have sent me to study law if he were. No, my father was a trader in property. He was not a wealthy man, but he died enjoying his trade. He did not see me fulfill my ambitions as a lawyer and that I regret.’

  ‘I’m sorry. My parents died a long time ago.’

  ‘And I am sorry, too. But it is the way of it. The old make way for the young. And on and on. Here it is. And a disreputable place, as you see.’

  Jack looked up at the two-story structure, a building he passed every day but seldom noticed. Its shutters had always been boarded up as long as he could remember. Its lime-washed daub was gray and dingy from smoke and mud.

  ‘It isn’t much, is it?’ Jack admitted. ‘Still, you can rent it out to … well. Another poulterer?’

  ‘It needs fixing and my income as a lawyer has yet to meet that expectation.’

  They both looked up at it silently for a moment. ‘Well, Nigellus. This is where I leave you. I must see to my master’s well-being.’

  ‘Fare you well, Master Jack. He is in good hands.’

  They bowed to one another and moved off in their separate ways.

  Jack hurried to his lodgings. It smelled musty and unused within, but he scanned the room with its two beds, coffer, table, chair, and stool. It wasn’t much, he supposed, but it was home. More home than he had had in a long time. There was water in the bucket, and he poured some into the basin, rolled up his sleeves, and did his best to wash.

  Feeling better, he closed and barred the shutters, locked the door, and tromped down the stairs. Almost immediately he spotted a man selling roasted meat on sticks. He exchanged a ha’penny for two skewers and wolfed them down as he walked toward Watling, tossing the sticks into the mud and wiping his hands on the thighs of his stockings.

  Fortified, he felt a new purpose swell in his heart. He was close. Close to saving his master. A sense of pride overwhelmed him for a moment before he tamped it down. He had a job ahead of him and he needed to get to it.

  But after more wasted time trying to find Thomas Tateham, Jack considered. Perhaps he was going about this in the wrong way. Perhaps instead of the name of Thomas Tateham – which Hamo Eckington might have gotten wrong – he should go by a description of him.

  It was back to Newgate.

  He slid his glance toward the shadows and slanted light of the sun peeking through the clouds. It was getting late. The business day was drawing to a close. It must be around six of the clock. He hurried his steps and arrived at the prison in no time, slipped by the gruff serjeants on the watch, and made his way up the stairs. He supposed it might be easier to break into Newgate than out of it.

  He spared a thought for his master sitting alone in a cell and sent up a prayer for him.

  When he got to the sheriffs’ chamber, he peered around the corner. ‘Psst!’

  Eckington was bent over his never-ending pile of parchments. He raised his head, looked about, but then turned back to them.

  ‘Psst!’ said Jack louder. This time the man turned around.

  ‘Why do you make that sound at me, Tucker? What do you want?’

  ‘Master Eckington. I am having the devil’s own time finding that third witness, that Thomas Tateham on Mercery Lane. Might you be able to give me a description of the man instead?’

  Eckington’s brows converged over his eyes. ‘Well then … he … he was a man of some middling height – shorter than you, Master Tucker, but I must say, you are exceptionally tall. He wore a hood and kept it close – bless me. Do you suppose he was trying to conceal who he was?’

  ‘I have no doubt of it, Master Hamo. Why do you suppose he would be doing that? Why would he even stay to give testimony to the sheriffs?’

  ‘If he were trying to hide himself, then running away would draw attention to him. Better to send the sheriffs on the well-worn path than to offer them an opportunity to give chase.’

  ‘Then which is more likely wrong? His name, his address … or both?’

  ‘His name is most certainly false. It takes a man most devious to think of anot
her address on the spot as well.’

  ‘I’ll have to hope that he does live on Mercery, for if he does not, there is no hope of my finding him. Please, Master Hamo. Go on with your description.’

  Eckington seemed of a better humor to comply. Their mutual curiosity was surely their united cause. ‘He wore a beard, brown, close-cropped to his face. His nose was hawk-like – hooked so.’ He demonstrated with a gesture. ‘With brown eyes, brown hair to his shoulders that I could see in his hood. His teeth are small. His accent is like the sheriffs’, so I must conclude he is a merchant of higher trade. I know that is not much to go on, Master Tucker …’

  ‘It is a great deal more than I had before, Master Hamo. I thank you.’ After bowing, he turned hastily to go when Eckington stopped him.

  ‘Tucker, I … I wish you God’s blessing. Master Guest … everyone knows he is not guilty. Let us hope your evidence will prove it so.’

  Jack hurried out. ‘I hope so, too,’ he muttered.

  FOURTEEN

  Saturday, 17 October

  The shadows were lengthening, and Jack hurried. He did not want doors slammed in his face. How he wished for Ned’s help again. Or perhaps even Isabel’s.

  Isabel. Such a pretty, young thing. And she seemed to like Jack. He liked her, too. Her cheerful eyes that he could see even now in his mind’s eye. Her kittenish smile.

  He pulled himself up short with a shiver. No! He hadn’t time to think of her. And besides, what would Master Gilbert say? He was getting ahead of himself. Once Master Crispin was freed from gaol and only then would he consider … consider … ‘Blind me. What am I considering?’

  He shook himself again. Nothing. He was considering nothing. Not while his master’s life was still at stake.

  He came to the first door on Mercery, screwed up his courage, and knocked.

  A woman answered the door and looked down at Jack. ‘Didn’t I talk to you the other day, lad?’

  ‘Oh, aye. It’s possible. For you see I am looking for a man …’

  ‘And I told you I did not know him.’

  ‘And right you did, but I have since discovered that he is using a false name. If I told you what he looked like, might you be able to tell me then?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well then?’

  Jack gave the description and the woman listened, her eyes shifting heavenward in thought. ‘That does sound familiar. But I cannot put a name to that face.’

  ‘But have you seen that man on Mercery?’

  ‘I’m almost certain I have. Almost certain, mind. I don’t want no trouble with the law.’

  ‘Oh, no, madam. No trouble at all. I thank you.’ He backed away with a curt bow and trotted to the next shop. Encouraged, he climbed the stair and knocked.

  But after a few more houses, it became apparent that though the description seemed to sound familiar to the folk on the street, no name or address was forthcoming.

  As the sun glided past the rooftops, he had to conclude that he had been wrong. He would not find the witness this way. At least not today. With a heavy heart, he trudged back up Mercery to Milk Street and thence to Catte. This was the murder Nigellus had told him of, and he set about to find some witnesses, those that might have known the woman. He came first to a female shopkeeper, carefully stacking the thick wheels of cheese up under her arm to bring inside for the end of the day.

  ‘I beg your mercy, demoiselle,’ Jack said with a bow. The woman, thin and pale with her cotehardie laced up tight to her throat, stopped. Her linen kerchief hid her face so well that only her cheeks, chin, and eyes were visible.

  ‘Eh?’ she said.

  ‘I understand you knew the woman who died the other day.’

  She frowned, burling her chin. ‘And who’s asking?’

  ‘Jack Tucker, the Tracker’s apprentice.’

  Her brows – or what he could see of them – flew up her forehead. ‘Tracker? By the Mass. But … the sheriff’s men already came round …’

  ‘As you might also know, me and my master are not with the sheriff.’

  She nodded. ‘And so. What can I do for the Tracker’s apprentice?’

  ‘You can tell me about the woman.’

  ‘Avice Weedon. Well. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead …’ She crossed herself. ‘But we all knew the sort of woman she was.’

  ‘And … what sort was that?’

  ‘The sort what lay with men … for coin. That was a stew, after all.’

  ‘Oh. And … this was well known?’

  ‘Oh aye. We all knew it. And though many scorned it, they didn’t bother no one. The girls even went to church regular. To think they couldn’t find decent work. Or didn’t want to.’ She ticked her head. ‘She was a right sweet lass, too. Often gave over charity to those in need. Sweet lass. Oh, I know the stews belong in Southwark, and now that the sheriff’s discovered it they will be turned out, but they were good neighbors. Surprisingly quiet. Ah, what will they do now? I suppose it’s off to Southwark for them. And who knows who will rent the place after. If the law would only leave well enough alone …’

  Jack bit his lip. ‘Then … did you or anyone see a man go up to her, er … lodgings Thursday last?’

  ‘Which one? There were many she’d bring up there.’

  ‘I imagine the last one.’

  She squinted at him. ‘You’re cheeky for an apprentice.’ She sighed. ‘Who can say? Some men don’t care if they are seen with a whore. Some do care. She had regulars, too. They’d meet her on the street or at the stew.’

  From Nigellus’s information, Jack knew the woman had been killed Thursday evening. Could have been before or after Elizabeth le Porter was dispatched. But why run from one woman to the next, killing them?

  ‘Did she have any regulars Thursday night?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘How would you know the difference between the other customers and hers?’

  ‘Because she would always see them off at the step. Little wonder they came back to her. She had a good head for business.’

  ‘Any you know by name?’

  She laughed. ‘Are you going to go round their houses and ask them? With their wives present?’

  Jack felt his face flush. He certainly knew the mechanics of it. Hadn’t he heard enough rutting from Master Crispin and seen more in taverns. Jack himself, though bestirred as the best of men, had no taste for whores. He was as yet untried, and he wasn’t certain how he felt about that.

  ‘If I must,’ he said. ‘Can you … will you give me their names?’

  She sobered. ‘Aye. If it will help. If one of them is responsible …’

  Jack took out the parchment and ink that he still had in his scrip and took down the names. Perhaps being a clerk was a handy thing at that.

  ‘It’s a shame about Joan Keighley.’

  Jack looked up, his quill stopped short. ‘Eh?’ Joan Keighley was the woman Jack had found along with Sheriff Walcote. ‘Did you know her, too?’

  ‘Oh, aye. She used to work in the stew … until she went out on her own.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know her clients, would you?’

  ‘No. Only Avice said her farewells to the men on the threshold.’

  ‘I see.’ He folded his parchment and slipped it back into his scrip. ‘I thank you, madam.’

  ‘Find her killer.’ She rubbed at her neck. ‘It makes us all a bit … shivery … thinking about it.’

  ‘Make sure you bar your windows and doors at night,’ he admonished before he walked away and headed toward Watling. If Avice and Joan Keighley knew one another, they might even have some of the same clients. But would Joan’s neighbors know their names?

  He soon discovered that though Joan’s neighbors called her quiet and charitable, they, too, knew what she was up to. One nearby shopkeeper said he did not know the name of her clients but that a neighbor woman did, but she was not at home. Jack thanked him and vowed to return.

  With thoughts rambling around in his head, Jack wandered back towa
rd that private stair near the roper and eel monger. He paid a call to the roper, who was exasperated at being bothered again.

  ‘She’s more trouble dead than alive, isn’t she?’ He crossed himself. ‘Forgive me,’ he grumbled, ‘but she tried keeping to herself and now I’ve heard more about her than I have in the fortnight she lived here. She was a vixen, to be sure, but quiet, like I said. Though she wasn’t above using her wiles to wheedle money from me … and others. Always borrowing, that one. Now no one’s getting their money back, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Jack. ‘But sir, if she had no money, how could she afford such lodgings? Two rooms? That’s fine accommodations.’

  The roper shrugged. ‘I suppose. Her lodgings were paid for in full. As for income to live day to day, I know not. Lived on borrowing. But I don’t mind saying I always felt as if … well, as if it were all temporary. As if she was only in those rooms for a short while and intended on moving on.’

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘All sorts of things. Things she’d say. “Wait till next month, Master Roper.” Or “But you’ll miss me.” Strange things like that.’

  Jack scratched at his curly mop of hair. ‘Do you know if she were betrothed?’

  ‘She said not a thing about it. Seems one would.’

  ‘It seems.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to rail at you, Master Tucker,’ said Croydone. ‘If you need any help from me, any at all, I’d be glad to offer my hand.’

  He thanked the roper and stepped outside. If le Porter had secured these lodgings only temporarily, where had she intended to go? Was she getting married? Was it to the man who had strangled her?

  Jack turned and started when Hugh Buckton suddenly appeared behind him. ‘Blind me, Master Buckton, but you gave me a fright.’

  ‘Sorry, Master Tucker. I just saw you there and wondered if you had gotten any further in your investigating.’

  ‘Not as far as I would have liked, sir. You said that Elizabeth le Porter owed you money?’

  ‘Aye. Is there any getting it back?’

  ‘Not according to what I hear of her. Looks like she borrowed from a lot of men.’

  Buckton scowled and looked away.