As I approached the church, I met a priest and engaged him in conversation after the usual greetings.
‘Jeffry? I can think of several. What does he look like? Oh! Him!’ His expression did not seem to express approval. ‘Yes, I can tell you where he lives. He is up there, to the left of the old priory. See that house – two storeys tall, with limewashed wood? Next to that is his place.’
I thanked him and made my way to the houses he had indicated. The limewashed house was all a modern house should be: clean, well maintained, and with a roof of chestnut shingles bleached by the sun to a silvery grey. It was a lovely-looking house. If it wasn’t for the smell of the open sewer, I would have considered it an appealing accommodation. But that wasn’t Jeffry’s.
Jeffry’s house was next door, and if I say it was tatty, I would be doing a disservice to the word. Many years had passed since it had last seen a brush and limewash. The daubed walls were cracked, and many of the internal wattles were exposed. Anyone living in there would have to become used to every breeze blowing through and learn to wear many more clothes than others. The whole place had a look of general dilapidation, and there was an air of sadness about it, like an old whore who’s reached her middle years and cannot support herself, but won’t admit to herself that she has decayed.
This was the house that the priest had indicated. I strode to the door and rapped loudly. There was a scuffle inside, a shout and some screaming. Gradually, the door opened, and a small, tousle-headed figure peered up at me without speaking.
‘Is your father at home?’ I asked. I smiled.
The little figure remained staring at me without speaking.
‘Hello?’ I said, wondering whether the little brute was deaf.
‘Who are you?’
A woman had tugged the door wide and stood staring at me from the doorway.
She was a woman in her late twenties, perhaps early thirties. She had long brown hair that peeped from beneath a simple coif, and she was wiping her hands on an apron which was a sheet of linen tied about her waist with a piece of twine. She set her head to one side like an inquisitive robin. She had very dark eyes and a thin mouth that was pursed into a straight line. From the look of her, this was a woman who was desperate. I could see that she was gaunt from lack of food, and the lines about her face spoke of her hunger and overwork.
‘Why do you want him?’ she snapped. ‘He owe you money, too?’
I admit, I had not expected this. For some reason it never occurred to me that the man could have been married. I have no idea why, except that the fellow did not look to me like the sort of man who could capture even a tired drab like this.
‘I am sorry, mistress, I was hoping to find your husband here.’
‘Husband?’ She gave me a cynical stare. ‘Why? How much does he owe this time?’ She looked me up and down. ‘What was it – betting on a horse race? A cockfight? Baiting? Dog fighting? You don’t look like one of his ordinary men.’
I was unsure how to proceed. I have never been confused with a gambler’s money-collector before.
‘You dress different to the other ones. Does that mean he’s found a new gambling den?’ she said. She curled her lip, tugging the little child to her. ‘Come here, Sue. Don’t let this one touch you.’
‘I’m not from a gambler,’ I protested.
‘No. You don’t dress like one. They usually clothe themselves more flamboyantly.’
I bridled at that. My hosen were the best quality, my dark-blue doublet was rather splendid, if I say so myself, and my cloak was a fine example. True, my hat had suffered last night, but that was why I wore the little cap instead. ‘I do not represent a gambling den.’
‘Good. I don’t like to disappoint people, and the number who come here threatening me with being thrown from the house unless I pay ’em is getting a pain in the buttocks. We have no money. Nothing. If we did, would I be here slaving away all hours? Eh? No, we’d have a maid in to do some of the work so I could look after Sue and the others. A girl to help cook and do washing and the like. But I don’t have anyone, and all the while the little brats are squabbling and bickering … So who are you, and what do you want?’
‘Well, I had heard that …’ My inventiveness dried up. I had been thinking to explain that her husband had found some purses. I was the man who had lost them, perhaps, and I would pay a reward for their return – something of that sort – but even as I tried to frame the words, it was clear that it would not do. This woman was no fool, and she would know that a fellow like me, with my good clothing and elegance, would not come to such a mean place with a view to enquiring personally. I would have sent a henchman to ask. Besides, there would be little point in asking. If the man had found a purse, he would not spread news of his discovery; he would conceal the money and seek a means of hiding it from all the people who would come demanding their share.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, backing away. If I mentioned purses to this woman, at best she would be bound to think I was accusing her man of stealing them. At worst, she would be as silent as a dormouse to my face and then turn the place upside down to find them. And she would have a better chance of finding them than me. She knew her own house.
She was frowning at me now. ‘What, that’s it? What did you want with him?’
‘I was wondering where your husband was. I have a friend who wishes to speak with him.’
‘He’s not my husband. He’s my father,’ she said. ‘And he’s not here. If you really know someone who wants to speak with him, which I doubt,’ she added, glancing at my doublet and cloak, ‘you’d best look at all the gambling dens in the city. Where you find two men betting on how long it will take a fly to crawl over a loaf of bread, or which of two snails will win a race up a wall, you’ll find him when you look to the man who loses every bet.’ She sighed and glanced at the doorframe, then to the door, and there were tears brimming. ‘He’s already lost the house. He sold it in return for paying rent to the new owner, but now he has lost his job, and the money that was to pay for us to stay here has been pissed away, too. But he swears he will make good with one last deal. Except he has no stake money now. So, I’m sorry, Master, but I have no idea where my father is, and, to be frank, I don’t rightly care. If you’re looking to have him pay you, you’d best save your effort.’
‘You say he reckoned to make good? When did he tell you this?’
‘He said he was going to get money tomorrow. But if he did, it’ll have been spent enriching some devious thief who will gamble with him and take the shirt off his back.’
‘Did he say who was going to pay him this money?’
‘Why? What is it to do with you?’ she demanded, eyes flashing.
In an instant, I felt a curious sympathy for the man Jeffry. This woman would be terrifying when truly angry.
‘It is nothing. I was just interested. If he were to be so lucky, I could try my own luck.’
‘Luck!’ she said bitterly. ‘When will men like you and him learn that there’s no such thing as luck? There’s being careful and slaving and saving so that you can put food on the table. Luck is a toy of the devil. It curses men whenever they try to gamble. It persuades you to try your chance at one more wager; it means men will risk everything for one more throw of the dice; it means their families hunger and they lose their houses. And so, Master, if you are keen to find him, perhaps you should go and look into hell yourself? Mayhap you will find him at the gates playing hazard with the demon acting as porter!’
She slammed the door shut.
You may be assured that it was a quiet and introspective Jack who made my way homewards, holding my nose at the open sewer and hurrying away from it before the foul miasma could affect me and give me a dose of malaria or worse.
I walked up to Moorfields and watched archers practising at the butts. Some were highly competent and sent their darts to their targets with an ease that made their achievements look ludicrously straightforward until others attempted to emulate
them.
No doubt if Jeffry was here, he would be trying to bet on how many times this man or that would strike the bull, or miss the target completely. I had seen such men often enough. Usually, I had laughed at men who despairingly demanded to ‘double or quit’ as their losses mounted. Jeffry was clearly like them: he would make a wager and struggle then to control his frustration and self-pity when time after time he lost. Perhaps every so often he would make a small victory, and his joy would be unbounded – but then he would convince himself that his luck was changed, and he would dive in with ever more extravagant gambles. I had seen it so often before. Once a man was ensnared by the gambling fever, it would not let him rest until he was utterly in thrall to it and then, like any parasite, it would drain him. Only when everything was lost would he stop, and that was only because by then he had no means to continue.
Which left me feeling miserable. The man may well have acquired a large sum of money and then thrown it all away. Which meant that I was no nearer finding a source of funds.
Except it wasn’t only him. I had seen a woman today who should have been a happy, laughing maid. Instead, she was old before her time, her youth and vitality eaten up by the effort of keeping a household going with no money, when her brothers and sisters were all hungry. It was a depressing memory. I had not liked her – and the feeling was mutual, obviously, from the way she looked at me – but that didn’t stop me thinking that it would be pleasant to find a coin or two just to give them to her and see her eyes light up. Her face could almost be pleasant if she tried wearing a smile, I thought.
But I had no money. Not to spare, anyway. It was infuriating. In a day I had almost got my hands on three well-filled purses, and all had disappeared without trace, so it seemed. Now I had the difficulty of deciding whether to run or to stay and brave Master Blount’s ire. And my head was hurting where I had struck it last night.
Thus it was a morose Jack who returned to his street and aimlessly walked homewards. And then I stopped and stared ahead of me with a sudden feeling of excitement. Of course, Jeffry had disappeared, but I had the perfect alibi. All who knew me knew that I was at the brothel or the White Bear. No one had seen me at the wharf with Jeffry excepting Humfrie, and he wouldn’t put any suspicion on me, surely.
So there was one way I might be able to recover my position. I had the new instruction, to kill this fellow Michol. If I achieved that for Master Blount, then surely he would soon forget the missing Jeffry?
I walked on more swiftly now, determined to find Humfrie and ask him to help with this new commission. As I passed the door to my house, I happened to glance to my left, and I saw, only fleetingly, a face that was so like that of the woman who had brought the message from Blount that I almost stopped to speak with her. But no. I had more urgent work, and, besides, it was probably only the way that the light was reflecting off the roadway, or a complete figment of my imagination. After all, in times of stress, my mind will often turn to women. And this one was definitely appealing.
No! I didn’t have time.
I continued on my way down the road to St Paul’s.
This was an area I knew well. All we foists and dippers knew this place. There was a constant changing of faces as visitors to London came to view the great church. I looked at it now. A long building with a towering steeple. It was impressive inside and out, which was why people came from far and wide to enter the nave and pray. Pilgrims in their sackcloth, the occasional fanatic crawling, almost all barefooted, and others better dressed – such as two merchants I saw, rich and gaudy in all their finery, riding fine horses and casting their eyes to left and right with that careful view that could see a profit at twenty yards, but not the outstretched hands of the beggar two paces away. They were the sort who would sniff at the sight of a young tatterdemalion and claim that the wretch brought his hardship on himself with whoring and profligate spending, and then go to a tavern or brothel and spend as much in one evening of gluttony as the beggar would in a twelve-month for all his food.
Yes, this was a popular place for cut-purses and others. It was a constant changing scene here, with newcomers who were unused to life in a big city. Gawping at the high buildings, staring at the fine work in the goldsmiths’ shops, practically drooling over the spices on sale, the jewellery, the clothes, and everything else. After all, what would a fellow from the wilds of Essex or Kent know of the wonderful products in a city like London?
The tavern was up near the St Paul’s Cross where the preachers often came to harangue the populace. It was always fairly full of people from out of town. Men like me enjoyed it for the quality of the purses to be taken, but as I came to know Humfrie, I found that he had no such interests. He liked busier places where he could sit back and watch people milling. It made him feel good to see so many people walking about and enjoying themselves.
He was inside the tavern as I entered. The tavern held a trio of small chambers, and I walked from one to another. Humfrie sat at a long bench in the rearmost room. On a low table before him sat a wooden trencher containing a hunk of bread and the remains of a thick stew of meat and sausage. A blackjack of ale supplied his needs for drink.
‘Humfrie,’ I said. ‘I am glad to see you.’
‘Master Jack. I am glad to see you too. I hope you slept well, eh? Let me buy you a quart of ale. You look as though you have been busy today; you could do with a drink.’
His polite prattle was incongruous, but I let him continue. He beckoned a maid who whirled away and soon returned with a large jug for me. She set it on the table, taking Humfrie’s money and disappearing again.
‘Last night was a problem.’
‘Really?’ His eyes opened with amusement. ‘We were commissioned to perform a removal. I think it went rather well.’
‘That’s because you haven’t heard what happened!’ I said, and took a long pull of my ale.
‘I am listening.’
I began, speaking about the sudden appearance of the woman at the White Bear, her shocking message, my urgent rush to get to Humfrie before he could slay the man, and then the sudden death of my Spaniard.
‘That is unfortunate,’ he said at last when I was finished.
‘Last night,’ I whispered, eyeing the crowds on all sides. ‘Did you find his purses?’
‘Purses? I didn’t know he had any,’ he said.
I didn’t comment on that. To be honest, I hadn’t told Humfrie to look out for purses, because I wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t take them for himself. He would have expected nothing else.
‘If he still carried them on him, that would explain why he sank so swiftly,’ I said. ‘When you found him, where was he?’
‘Do you know the bowling alley Falkes owns just off Candlewrightstreet? It is his gambling den. I found Jeffry in there. I spoke to him, told him I had a message from Renard, the Spanish adviser, and he soon came with me, once he stopped his chat with Mal the Loaf.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t you know him? He’s known as Mad Mal, or Mal the Loaf. He works at Falkes’s bowling alley near to St Andrew’s at Baynard’s Castle, but in truth he is one of Falkes’s enforcers. Mal has a speciality: his weapon of choice is a breadknife. That’s why he’s called Mal the Loaf. He can do terrible things with his knife. Fingers, toes, even cut off a head.’ Humfrie allowed a frown to pass fleetingly over his face. ‘He likes to see people suffer.’
‘Isn’t that what he is supposed to do?’
Humfrie held his hands out, palms up in a sign of openness. ‘Well, of course, Master Falkes sometimes wanted to see men punished for one reason or another. I always avoided the instructions where he wanted a man injured.’
‘But you don’t mind killing them?’
‘Well, you see, Jack, there are some men who take pleasure in inflicting pain. That’s not for me. If Master Falkes wants someone removed, I go and do it, because I can do it quickly and without fuss. But I don’t like to see someone in tears and squirming. No, I will remove
a head, garrotte, break a head with a bar or mallet, and throw a body into the river, but I don’t like pulling fingernails or teeth.’ He shivered. ‘Ugh. I hate the thought of pulling teeth. You ever had it done? This one here – it was horrible, it was,’ he said, lifting a lip and displaying a black gap where his canine had been. ‘I had a week’s agony with it till I went to the tooth butcher and he yanked it out.’ He stared contemplatively at his ale, remembering, before taking a long pull. ‘I’ll never forget that. And I won’t do it to someone else. No. Besides,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘if you hurt someone and leave them alive, you always have someone who might seek revenge. The dead don’t bother.’
So that was it. I had allied myself to a soft-hearted fellow who was convinced that death was kinder than, say, breaking a limb. Which was fair, since a broken leg would all too often lead to a slow and painful death.
I have met other men like him. Although butchers, for example, often seem to take delight in slaughtering pigs or cows, tormenting the poor, terrified creatures before killing them, not all are like that. In the countryside once, I saw a warrener who had netted a rabbit. While I watched, he took up the trembling creature, resting it in the crook of his arm, stroking and petting it as if he intended taking it home for a prized daughter to have as a companion. And then, as the rabbit relaxed and stopped shivering, he suddenly whipped its head back and it was dead.
That was much like Humfrie: he would have been proud of a commission quickly and efficiently achieved. He did not kill for pleasure. It was a job, and he preferred to perform his tasks with efficiency and the minimum of fuss.
‘He went with you all the way from Candlewrightstreet to the river?’
Humfrie shrugged. ‘I told him to come at midnight, said it would be worth his while, and he was eager enough.’
A Missed Murder Page 7
