The Bartholomew Fair Murders

by Leonard Tourney

  “God’s blood, who’s that?” he said, his jaw falling slack.

  “Jack Talbot,” muttered Babcock with a heavy sigh. “He’s been murdered.”

  “Murdered!” Grisp said, stepping backward and crossing him' self.

  “You’d better go fetch the Clerk of the Fair—and Justice Baynard too,” Babcock said to his partner. “Tell him a dead man’s been found. Tell him too that our Samson had no part of it.”

  As Crisp ran off in compliance with this direction, Joan watched as Matthew gently turned the body of the wine seller onto its back. She suppressed a cry of horror as she saw the dead man’s forehead.

  “Jesus in heaven!” exclaimed her husband. “I’ve seen that mark before.”

  The dead man’s countenance was curiously peaceful despite the filth that covered his face and the painful manner of his dying. But on his forehead were rust'Colored streaks of dried blood radiating outward in a fan from a point between his brows, as though some beast had placed his claw upon his fore' head, tearing the flesh to the bone with his nails.

  Joan remembered Matthew’s description of a similar mark on the forehead of the murdered puppet master.

  “It is the very same mark, to the life,” Matthew said, turning to look at his wife. “Made, doubtless, with the same weapon— stolen from the puppet master’s sheath. A poniard. The mur' derer carried it off, just as I had supposed.”

  “The murders were committed by the same hand, then,” Joan asserted.

  “How could it be otherwise? Here’s a grisly signature!” Mat' thew said. “Poor miserable creature. Done after he was already dead—like the puppet master. A mark of vengeance or a crazed mind. Perhaps both.”

  Matthew left Jack Talbot lying face upward. He tried to brush away the flies, but it was futile. He pulled the tarpaulin back over the body and quietly explained to Ned Babcock

  about the grisly murder on the London road near Chelmsford less than a week before. Babcock listened with interest. He seemed eager for any facts that might serve to disassociate hiim self or his bear from the death of the wine seller.

  “Your bear won’t be blamed for this,” Matthew said reas-suringly. “But the finding of the corpse near your tent won’t enhance your reputation with Justice Baynard. That’s two dead men in as many days.”

  Babcock heaved another sigh and rubbed the moisture from his ruddy face. He resembled a chastened schoolboy in his stance.

  Joan noticed the wheelbarrow was not about and remarked on it. “It’s Gabriel’s, isn’t it? Was it not his duty to carry off the refuse? Shouldn’t he have found the corpse himself?”

  Babcock made a perplexed face and then said, “I can’t find him. I haven’t seen him since before the baiting. It is his duty to keep Samson’s quarters clean, as well as feed and water him. He carries the dung to the muckhill twice a day, in the morn-ing and then again after suppertime. I’m in for a heavy fine from the Smithfield beadles if I’m caught allowing this muck to collect here. He should have moved it all in the wheelbarrow. That’s his job. Now, you don’t suppose he did this, do you?”

  Matthew and Joan exchanged glances. The face of the hand' some, welLbuilt young man flashed through her mind. The iim age was followed by that of the slim, dark'haired servant of Ursula the pig'woman, and Joan shuddered. If Gabriel were the murderer, never had a murderer’s face showed less guile or men-ace. Was it possible? If it was, Joan worried for Rose Dibble.

  But her husband was already considering the possibility.

  “He was only recently employed by you?” Matthew asked Babcock.

  “Yes. When Simon Plover was kill—” Ned Babcock stopped in midsentence, flushed, then continued hurriedly, “Disap' peared, I mean. You see, he vanished in thin air. Then this Gabriel Stubbs showed up and said he was out at elbow and needed employment. He seemed like a sturdy and dependable

  lad, a deep thinker too and religious, which things Simon never had been—what with his drinking and wenching. So when Simon disappeared, I hired Gabriel.”

  “Not disappeared,” said Matthew in a sudden inspiration triggered by his friend’s slip of the tongue. “Was killed, as you started to say just now. It was Simon Plover whose leg and foot were found yesterday in the middenheap, wasn’t it?”

  The bearward made no response to the charge, but his slumped shoulders and fallen expression acknowledged the truth he had tried to conceal. An awkward silence followed, then he said: “The hose Simon wore were once mine. I gave them to him out of simple charity. He patched them himself and wore them always since they were all the simple fellow had. I recognized what was left of them, knew it was Simon who had been eaten. Samson was already in bad repute for my son-in-law’s death. I lied to protect the bear.”

  “And your business,” Joan added, rather severely.

  The bearward admitted it was true. He was not a rich man, he said defensively, regarding Matthew as though to suggest that some in the present company were and that therefore they should be charitable to those less fortunate. All he had in the world was invested in the bear garden. If this venture failed, it would be the last in a line of failed ventures. His creditors, his investors, Pullyver and Chapman, would take everything. He regarded Matthew with a look of desperation.

  “It is very likely Simon was murdered before he was eaten,” Matthew said. “Possibly murdered by your present helper, Gabriel Stubbs.” Matthew suggested they have a look at where Gabriel slept and among his personal possessions.

  Ned Babcock led the way back into the tent. He showed them the comer where there was a simple pallet covered by a coarse homespun blanket. A worn leather pack was propped up against a hogshead of water that the bear drank of. Matthew opened the pack and emptied its contents on the pallet. There was an extra shirt, an old pair of hose, and a greasy jerkin. There was also a pen and ink and a tablet of foolscap.

  Matthew said, “This Gabriel came to work for you the day your previous helper disappeared. A coincidence, you sup-posed—a piece of good luck to find a dependable lad in place of a lout. Gabriel is from the north country. His speech betrays that. He must have come down from Norwich or thereabouts, passed through Chelmsford, and then on his way to London. The puppet master, seeing so goodly a young man afoot, offers him a ride, for which mercy Gabriel Stubbs kills him and gives him the beast’s mark as a memento. Steals, then, the puppet master’s horse and his poniard. With the horse he makes for Smithfield. With the poniard he has killed the wine seller, for what reason God only knows, but we shall discover for ourselves with patience and industry. He probably sold the horse when he arrived at Smithfield—that would be no difficult task, Smithfield being as it is the best of markets for horseflesh. Somewhere he must have met this servant of yours—at a tavern perhaps, or a brothel. Maybe he was interested in the bear. Maybe he had never seen one before. Maybe he just needed employment, or the two of them quarreled over the reckoning or a girl. London is a cold city for strangers.”

  To Joan these speculations now began to sound too rich in her husband’s fancy although she was still marveling at his shrewd guess at the dead man’s identity. She understood how the boy might kill the puppet master. A horse was worth something—five pounds if in good condition, at least an easier journey to London. But why kill Simon, lazy lout and scoundrel though he may have been? She could hardly believe anyone would kill just to have a place in a filthy bear pit.

  Matthew was picking his way through the straw of the bed, raking it with his fingers, an expression of intense concentration on his face. “What’s this—a treasure?”

  It wasn’t a treasure. It was a penny pamphlet like those sold in the bookstalls, much dog-eared and besmirched from handling. Matthew read the title aloud: “A Faithful Discoverie of the Sundrie Shapes in Which Satan Hath Appeared from Antiquity to Present Times. Pleasant summer reading, I warrant.”

  Matthew flipped through the pages, reading silently.

  “His book?” Joan inquired.

  “It couldn’t have bee
n Simon’s,” Ned remarked. “Not the religious type. Besides, he couldn’t read.”

  “Stern Puritan warnings about the Evil One—an inventory of satanic manifestations,” Matthew said, keeping his eyes on the rumpled pages. “This Gabriel is evidently a scholar. All the margins are written upon. See here.” He held the page open so that Joan and Ned could read too. “Here, for example. The author mentions the Beast of the Apocalypse. And next in the margin someone—this Gabriel doubtless—has written, ‘Verily, I have seen this shape myself and can testify that it is so. ’ And here, on this page is a drawing of the very Beast described in the sacred text. He’s not much of an artist, I’d say.”

  Joan took the pamphlet and looked at the page. Before her eyes she saw the crude drawing of a fantastic creature, with immense glaring eyes, wings, horns, and large paws. “I’ve never seen such a creature under God’s heaven.”

  “The boy affirms that he has,” Matthew remarked dryly.

  Babcock took a look for himself. He said he had never seen such a beast—and hoped not to—although he added that he meant no disrespect for Sacred Writ. Then he said, “The feet resemble Samson’s. Look at them. They’re bear claws, right enough.”

  Both Matthew and Joan took another look. Indeed the feet of the beast did resemble the feet of the bear. In this detail, at least, the drawing was quite faithful. Observation of the origh nal had obviously inspired the artist to greater skill.

  “Bear’s claws. The mark of the beast,” Joan said in an almost reverent whisper.

  “If this is Gabriel’s book, and all evidence suggests that it is, then he is a furious Puritan as well as a murderer,” Matthew said.

  “A crazed mind, his comely appearance notwithstanding,” Joan added, marveling.

  Matthew took the book and continued his perusal while the

  others waited for the next discovery. It was not long in coming. “Here is proof positive,” Matthew declared, looking up with a grin of triumph. He turned the book around so Joan and Ned could see for themselves. On the last page of the pamphlet, only half of which was printed upon, an open space had been covered with a crude drawing. It was not a creature but a sym-bol—five lines drawn from a single point, splayed outward like the prongs of a rake or the claw of a beast.

  “Gabriel is our man!” Matthew said. “Thrice a murderer— and perhaps a murderer again if not prevented.”

  Joan looked around the interior of the tent nervously. Where was Gabriel? Stalking another victim with his poniard, con-cealed doubtless in his shirt, its point needle-sharp and bloody? Perhaps he had fled Smithfield, leaving his pack and precious pamphlet behind in his flight. Maybe now he was halfway to Plymouth or Norwich?

  And yet that did seem unlikely. Had he intended to escape, he would surely have escaped beforehand. No, certainly the pamphlet suggested he had some maniacal mission in his head that, remaining unfulfilled, would keep Gabriel—oh, the irony of that angelic name—around until his own good time.

  • 14 •

  Francis Crisp returned, bringing the Justice, the Clerk, and the sergeant with him. The three men had been apprised of what they would find in the alley and they regarded Ned Bab' cock and the Stocks with the disapproving look reserved for convicted felons and other unsavory types. Cool greetings were exchanged, then the newcomers and the others went into the alley to see the dead man for themselves.

  “A wine seller, you say?” remarked the Clerk, taking his turn at peering beneath the tarpaulin and damning the flies and smell at the same time. “I partly knew the man.”

  “He’s Jack Talbot,” muttered Ned Babcock beneath his breath. The bearward had come up silently behind the Clerk and looked down at the body. He shook his head sadly. “An honest man, Jack. His booth was not a stone’s throw from here. He was very big with Ursula the pig^woman.”

  “Oh, that slut. There’s disreputable company, to be sure,” said the Clerk.

  “Mr. Stock here thinks he knows who did it,” Babcock said, nodding toward Matthew and speaking with the forced confidence of a man who knows his own guilt is yet to be disproven.

  “Does he?” answered Justice Baynard, turning to Matthew and regarding him with new interest. “And just what is it you know, sir?”

  Joan listened as her husband began a recital of the facts as he now understood them, including a description of the dead pup-pet master whose body had been found near Chelmsford. He added that the peculiar way each body had been marked left little doubt that the murders were the work of the same man.

  “And that person is—?” prompted the Clerk impatiently.

  “Almost surely it is Mr. Babcock’s helper we seek—Gabriel Stubbs,” Matthew said.

  Matthew now showed the Justice and the Clerk the in* criminating pamphlet with its strange drawings and comment tary. The Justice examined the pamphlet and shook his head, agreeing that it was the Devil’s work if ever he saw it. The Clerk also took a look. He said that the curious clawlike figure was the mark of the Beast. He said he would swear to it.

  “And this same mark was carved in the forehead of the dead man you found in Chelmsford?” asked the Justice.

  “What manner of man was this puppet master?” the Clerk asked Matthew.

  Matthew described the puppet master to the best of his recob lection. The Clerk said he knew the man. “Why, it’s James Fitzhugh! Many a year he and his little folk have come to Bar* tholomew Fair. And now he’s dead!” The Clerk shook his head sadly. “Dead like this one here, murdered in cold blood.”

  Matthew assured the Clerk that the puppet master indeed was dead. Buried too, in Chelmsford churchyard. “And with the same vicious mark etched in his flesh.”

  “Lord have mercy upon us all,” said the Clerk.

  But Grotwell cursed and so did Francis Crisp, who had been silent all the while.

  “Well, Mr. Stock,” Justice Baynard said, regarding Matthew with more respect than before. “You’ve done well in discerning all this wickedness and have our thanks for it. As for you, Mr. Babcock, it seems your bear is cleared of blame. At least in this new enormity, for this is clearly human mischief we gaze upon. Now this Puritan Stubbs must occupy our attention.”

  “But why would Gabriel have killed Jack Talbot?” Babcock asked with an expression of puzzlement on his great round face.

  “He must have lain in wait for him in the alley,” conjectured Grotwell. “When the wine seller’s back was to him, the boy thrust home.” Grotwell made a sudden violent motion with an imagine ary blade. It was all very dramatic, and the gesture had its effect on

  the others. Joan shuddered at the very thought and could not bring herself to look again at the dead body of the wine seller.

  “I suspect, rather, that the deed was done inside the tent yonder,” Matthew remarked casually.

  Grotwell, not pleased at having his own theorizing disputed, frowned at Matthew and wanted to know just how the Chelmsford constable had arrived at that conclusion, which seemed to him contradictory to the plain fact that the body lay where it was and the alley, being narrow and private, was as fine a place for murder as any he knew of in Smithfield.

  “Go on, Mr. Stock. Tell us,” said the Justice, interested.

  “Well, sir,” said Matthew, addressing his remarks to the Justice. “The dead man’s jerkin is soaked with blood from the wound, yet there is hardly any blood here on the ground roundabouts. Now the tent floor is strewn with straw, some of it freshly laid, 1 have observed. Especially around Samson’s cage. The wine seller might well have come into the tent to have a look at the bear and Stubbs stabbed him while his back was turned. Then Stubbs took pains to clean up the bloody straw so as to remove any evidence of the death—perhaps after lugging the body out here, where it would not be seen. Sooner or later he would have disposed of the body the same way he disposed of Simon Plover.”

  The mention of the former helper brought startled expressions to the faces of nearly all the men present. There was a silence while the Clerk looked at Mat
thew and then at the Justice.

  Matthew said, “There was a third victim. Simon Plover, Mr. Babcock’s former helper—the one before this Stubbs. Stubbs killed him too and fed his body to the bear. It was Plover’s bloody foot and shank that were found yesternight at the muckhill.”

  “Jesus!” gasped the Justice. “Do you mean to say—”

  Matthew nodded solemnly. Fortunately for Babcock, the officials were too dumbstruck by this revelation to care how and when the identification of the body had been made, or to infer from it that Babcock had known the truth from the beginning. Indeed, Matthew’s assertion that Simon Plover had also been a victim of the young Puritan was, as Joan well knew, based en-tirely upon circumstantial evidence. But the circumstances as now understood pointed all in a single direction: at the guilt of the handsome young man with the soft voice and pleasing eye.

  “This fellow is mad indeed,” said the Clerk, whose anxious expression suggested he was still obviously working through the grisly scene Matthew’s disclosure had evoked.

  “If Stubbs thinks his murder has been concealed for the present, he’ll surely return,” observed Justice Baynard. He asked Babcock for a description of his helper and Babcock provided one, not neglecting to mention the young man’s sterling good looks and his limp.

  “A limp, has he?” said the Justice. “All Smithfield must be searched. We can’t assume he’ll return, although he certainly may.”

  “He won’t if he thinks we’re waiting for him,” Matthew said.

  “That’s right, Mr. Stock,” the Justice said. “Well thought of.” The Justice looked around him. He ordered Grotwell to fetch the rest of the watch. Babcock said he thought those present would be a match for the boy should he return. They were all still planning what was to be done and who should do it when their attention was diverted by the sound of a railing voice within the tent.