‘I was young once, Mr Foxe. When the militia paraded in the city, my friends and I were usually amongst the crowds admiring the display.’ She paused. ‘I’ll not satisfy your curiosity by saying any more. I’m surprised you weren’t tempted to get yourself a uniform.’
‘I didn’t need artificial aids to attract young ladies,’ Foxe said. ‘As you know very well…’
‘Enough!’ Mrs Crombie said, turning her back on him. ‘If you’ve only come in here to boast, I suggest you leave now and find someone else to listen to your nonsense. I have work to do.’
‘Have pity on me,’ Foxe said, laughing. ‘I need to find something to boast about. I may have to go to Alderman Halloran and tell him Lord Aylestone was killed by an unknown man, who may or may not have been an officer or a sergeant in the militia at one time; a man who now cannot be traced because the trail has gone cold. Imagine him suggesting the mayor gives Viscount Penngrove the same answer. The only way His Worship could avoid a roasting would be to say it was all that fool Foxe’s fault.’
Despite all he had said to Mrs Crombie, Foxe didn’t feel quite satisfied with Adam Bewell’s answers. It wasn’t just that they clashed with his earlier thoughts about what had taken place, it was more of an intuition. There was something too glib about the man’s speech. Maybe he had done exactly as he said, but Foxe couldn’t fit it together to his satisfaction, bearing in mind what else he had discovered. Everyone he’d spoken with so far was certain Lord Aylestone must have returned to the main room after being so loudly rebuked by his father. Yet no one reported seeing him until much later in the evening. The obvious conclusion was that he had either stayed in the side room for some time, composing himself, or he had gone elsewhere in the interim. Was it so?
Bewell had been the one whom Lord Aylestone had insulted so openly. He was also the only person who could be proved to have entered the room shortly after Viscount Penngrove had been seen to leave it. Yet, he had told Foxe he had seen no one when he entered. He had even denied knowing about the curtained recess. Could he be believed? The man was an accomplished actor after all. The term “playing the innocent” might be literally true in his case.
Foxe tossed ideas back and forth in his head all evening, until he felt the problem must drive him mad. Where had Lord Aylestone been between the time his father left him in the side room and the point when he had been seen looking back into the main hall? Where could he have been? The Assembly House had no upper floors. Beside the entrance, the principal hall and the cloakroom, there were few places to go. The privy? He could hardly have spent the best part of two hours there. Besides, he would have been seen, surely. The kitchens? They would have been busy with servants going to and fro.
Perhaps he had left the Assembly House altogether. Gone for a walk to clear his head. Possible, Foxe supposed, but not likely. None of the servants had mentioned him asking for his outdoor clothing part way through the evening. It had been a chilly night. He could hardly have wandered about Norwich, dressed as a Harlequin, without attracting a good deal of attention, even if he had ignored the cold. In the end, Foxe gave up and went to bed with a bad headache and a stiff brandy to help him sleep. He needed more evidence from someone.
Next morning, Foxe returned to the Assembly House and sought out some of the servants. He especially needed to find those who had been dealing with arrivals and departures on the evening of the masquerade ball.
He was able to find most of them in time. Unfortunately, none were able to tell him anything new. All confirmed that the actor, Adam Bewell, had left with Miss Marsh exactly as he’d told Foxe. They were also positive he had not returned later. The doors were always manned and none of them had seen him enter again. Whatever Foxe’s uneasiness, Bewell’s alibi was solid. He left when he said he did and was not there again that evening.
One or two of the servants told Foxe they had been in the main hall itself at various times during the evening. None had seen Lord Aylestone between the time his father had taken him into the side room and his appearance by the musicians’ stage. Nothing Foxe said could alter their certainty of this. They might not have seen him before that night, but all swore they would have recognised his distinctive Harlequin costume. Their unanimity, therefore, ruled out any earlier time of death.
When Foxe asked about the supposed confrontation with a former member of the militia, most either shook their heads or repeated the same tale as he had heard from Mr Hinton. No one had seen such a confrontation; nor had any of them heard anything of that nature.
Despite spending almost two hours questioning everyone who might possibly had seen or heard anything relevant, Foxe had to come away virtually empty handed. He was able to glean only one extra fact. It too served only to confirm that Lord Aylestone was alive just before midnight. A servant who had been assisting departing guests with their coats and cloaks said Lord Aylestone had come to ask for his cloak. When was that? About fifteen minutes before the Master of Ceremonies announced the formal end of the evening. Was he sure it was Lord Aylestone? Quite certain. He’d known it was Aylestone by his affected speech and because he was dressed as a Harlequin. That particular version of a Harlequin, Foxe asked? Definitely. He’d seen the costume Aylestone had been wearing when he arrived and this one was identical.
‘Can you tell me exactly what Lord Aylestone said to you?’ Foxe asked. There was a slim chance something in his words might have indicated what he had been doing earlier.
‘He said he was leaving early, sir, and was in a hurry. His father was still in the main hall and not yet ready to depart. They had planned to leave together, so he’d had to send his servant to find another suitable coach to take him home by himself. I was to bring him his hat and cloak and do it “on the instant”. Those were his exact words.’
‘What did you do next?’
‘I hurried off as fast as I could to collect his lordship’s things and bring them back. Oh yes, there was one other thing he said. He told me a friend was leaving with him and I must collect that man’s cloak and hat as well.’
‘How would you recognise it?’
‘His lordship described both, right down to the place where they would most likely be.’
‘Was that in the side annex room?’ Foxe asked him.
‘No, sir, in the main cloakroom. Well, not the noble lord’s attire. We didn’t start using the other room until well after the viscount’s servant had brought us their cloaks and hats. I believe the other man’s was in that side room, just inside the door.’
‘What did Lord Aylestone do after you brought him the cloaks he wanted?’
‘He put draped both cloaks over his arm and held the hats in his hand. Then he went back into the main ballroom. I supposed he had gone to find his friend.’
‘Did you see him again?’
‘No, sir. I assumed he must have left as he said he would do.’
‘One last question. Did he mention the name of the friend who was to leave with him?’
‘No, sir, he did not.’
Another dead end. As Foxe walked the short distance back to his house, he was forced to conclude that he could proceed no further. Unless he could find new evidence, he would have to tell Halloran he’d done his best but found nothing useful. He hated being beaten, but there it was.
Unless …
It was an extremely long shot, but there remained one source of evidence he hadn’t explored. Many of the street children would have been hanging around outside the Assembly House. Some would have been begging. Others would have lurked in the shadows in the hope of picking the pockets of the more drunken guests when they departed. Charlie could put out the word. Tell them his master wanted to know if any had noticed someone coming back to the Assembly House late that evening.
It wasn’t much, but it was worth a chance. With any luck, the children might soon report something in response to his earlier questions about Mrs Danson’s brother. When they did, Charlie would ask them about the night of the masquerade ball.
8
As it turned out, Foxe got more fresh evidence than he had bargained for. Unfortunately, none of it concerned the whereabouts of Lord Aylestone.
When he went into his shop that afternoon to look for his apprentice, Charlie rushed up to tell him some of the street children had already been to the back gate of the house.
‘There’s been another murder, Master,’ the boy burst out in high excitement. ‘Another man dead! The children want you to look into it.’
Foxe stifled a groan, turning it into a loud sigh.
‘I need no more murders to look into, Charlie. I have sufficient problems already. Tell them I will do what I can, but it will have to wait a while.’
‘But, Master!’ Charlie protested. ‘You have to talk to them now. This one’s important…’
‘All murders are important to someone,’ Foxe replied testily, ‘if only the victim. Now, please stick to telling me what you have learned about the matters I sent you to ask the children to find out. No! Not another word, and stop bouncing up and down like that. You’re making me feel nauseous.’
If Charlie was crushed by Foxe’s words, he didn’t show it. He did mutter something under his breath — probably something mutinous — but then did as he was asked. The street children, he told his master, had been extremely busy on the tasks set them. Some had travelled the city spreading the word and questioning other vagrants. Others quizzed those in the dark alleys and back streets who knew most about Norwich’s busy criminal underworld. The girls had even talked with all the tarts they knew, always a potential source of gossip.
As a result, Charlie could now give a full report on George Stubbings, Mrs Danson’s younger brother. Almost from the time he could walk, the fellow had been a reckless wastrel. A man willing to turn his hand to almost anything which did not involve actual work. At first, he had sponged off his sister. When she refused to give him more money from the little she earned as a servant, he’d turned to other women. Soon, they began to avoid him. He was known to be violent when he couldn’t get what he wanted any other way. After his sister had run away from a brutal, lascivious master, he’d spent a good time trying to find her. The general view was that he’d hoped to put the poor girl on the streets and act as her pimp. However, she’d eluded him by going to a bordello instead.
Like all of his type, Stubbings also dabbled in petty crime. However, his speciality was always the use of violence, not guile. He tried demanding payment from some of the market traders in return for not burning down their booths. They banded together and gave him a severe beating. Then those who regularly collected payments on the same basis did the same. Finally, he took up with Jack Beeston, becoming one of his all-purpose thugs. By the time Beeston was arrested, young Stubbings had developed a well-deserved reputation for acts of cruel and mindless violence.
Happily for the inhabitants of Norwich, Stubbings next made an incompetent attempt to free his master from the castle gaol. He used the simple expedient of banging on the outer door and viciously assaulting the warder who came to see what all the noise was about. Not only was the warder tougher than he seemed, there were other warders within earshot. After a ferocious fight, in the course of which two other warders were injured and one killed outright, Stubbings was overpowered. He was thrown into a cell and charged with assault and murder. At the next assize, he was duly convicted and sentenced to death. Since he was then still barely seventeen years of age, an indulgent judge wrote to the king, recommending mercy. Stubbings’ sentence was commuted to fourteen years’ transportation.
The most recent gossip was that Stubbings had managed to escape from custody while being transferred to the prison hulks at Portsmouth. Once again, he’d killed a prison guard, so a price had been set on his head. Where he had gone was uncertain. Some claimed he’d been seen back in Norwich. If that was so, he’d need to keep as hidden as he could. There were plenty of people amongst the city’s underworld who would recognise him and turn him in to get the reward.
Foxe took a small handful of pennies from his purse and told Charlie to distribute them amongst the children as a reward.
‘Tell them there’s more to come,’ he said, ‘if they can find anyone who saw a man going back into the Assembly House very late on the evening Lord Aylestone was killed. Quick as they can, please.’
‘I will, Master,’ the lad said. ‘Now can I tell you about the other mystery they want you to solve for them. The other killing. Please! I promised them I would.’
Foxe dithered, then gave in. It would never do to make the boy break his word. Nor was it in his interests to upset the children themselves. He sighed and nodded his head in assent
‘One of their number, I suppose’ he said. It was always a possibility. Living as they did, they were vulnerable to all kinds of violence.
‘No, Master. It’s a man they called “Uncle”. Someone they said was kind to them, even though he was poor and lived on the streets, just as they do.’
Foxe groaned inwardly. The very last thing he needed was a murder involving some vagrant. Still, he knew his conscience wouldn’t let him walk away from considering any unexplained death — especially if it was truly a murder.
‘Where did they find him?’ he asked. ‘What makes them sure he was killed and didn’t die from some sickness, or simply from cold and starvation?
‘They told me they’d tried to wake him, but their hands had come away covered in blood. They think he was stabbed.’
‘Stabbed! Who’d kill a vagrant living rough on the streets?’
‘That’s what they want you to find out. Mistress Tabby wants you to find out too. When I went to deliver a parcel of books, I met two of the children on their way here to ask for your help, Master. They told me they’d first called Mistress Tabby, hoping she could give the man some medicine to stop his bleeding. She went with Bart to the place where they’d found him. When she got there, she said it was too late and to send for you at once.’
Foxe had been going to do what he could for the children anyway. With Mistress Tabby involved he had no choice. She would have known at once if the man had died naturally. If the children said he had been stabbed and Tabby hadn’t contradicted them, it was certainly true. By sending for Foxe at once, she’d made that message clear. This was no ordinary killing, no fight amongst vagrants or self-inflicted wound. If the Cunning Woman said he should get involved, that was more than enough for Foxe.
Miss Tabitha Studwell, Cunning Woman and herbalist, Foxe’s first lover and now his staunch friend and counsellor, was waiting for him when he reached the place where the body lay. She had her servant, Bart, with her; a huge fellow, simple of mind but possessing the strength of three other men. With him to protect her, Mistress Tabby could venture into the worst, roughest parts of the city. Lay a finger on his beloved mistress and Bart would break both your arms.
‘I want you to find out who killed “Uncle”, as the children named him, Ash. From all I have heard, he was a good man; one who didn’t deserve to die in this way. There’s something badly amiss in this affair. I can feel it. Something more than the fact of a brutal death. Something or someone . . . truly wicked.’
‘But I’m already investigating two other murders, Tabby,’ Foxe protested. ‘You know that. I really don’t have the time to take on a third. I agree it sounds odd …’
‘Wicked, I said. Not odd. Wicked. Now stop whining and pay attention. This is important.’
The man, Tabby told Foxe, had been found lying in a gap between two ramshackle buildings in a foul alleyway, just off the marketplace. He must have been sleeping there. He had tried to cover himself with a few rags and there was a folded coat under his head.
‘I told Bart to bring him where the light was better,’ she continued. ‘It’s no use. I’ve already done what I can to examine him,’ Mistress Tabby said, ‘but it’s too dark and I am not going to kneel in the filth on the ground. He’s dead, but I can’t tell you much more, save that when I felt the left sid
e of his chest my hand came away smeared with blood. I need Bart to take him somewhere where I can make a proper examination.’
‘Tell him to bring the body to my house,’ Foxe told her. ‘That’s the closest point. I’ve an outhouse in the garden which might be a suitable place.’
Bart picked up the dead man as if he weighed no more than a child and they walked in a kind of procession. Bart led the way with his burden, Foxe and Mistress Tabby immediately behind him. Next came Charlie Dillon and a gaggle of street children. It wasn’t the cortège a man might have wished for, but everyone who followed him was at least genuine in their sorrow.
When they reached the outhouse, Foxe told the street children to wait outside while the Cunning Woman did her work. Charlie and Henry, Foxe’s groom, found two trestles and some planks to construct a makeshift table. That done, Bart, with the gentleness which surprised those who didn’t know him, stretched the dead man out on its surface.
Mistress Tabby opened the dead man’s shirt and peered closely at his chest. Looking where she pointed, Foxe could see a small wound on the left-hand side where the blade of a knife or dagger had entered. Even when they’d stripped and cleaned the body completely, the Cunning Woman could find no other wounds. What she did find, however, underneath a filthy rag that the man had been wearing around his throat, was a fine chain around his neck, from which hung a pendant. She handed them to Foxe. As he took it from her, he gave a gasp, then bent his head and looked at them closely.
‘Gold,’ he said, ‘both chain and pendant. Worth a good deal, I’d say too. Look, there’s a coat of arms engraved on the pendant.’
He held it up to catch what light there was, turning it from side to side and muttering under his breath.
‘Family coat of arms for certain. Not one I recognise though. I’ll take it with me. I know someone who can help me identify it. Now why would a homeless vagrant be wearing such a thing?’
A Sickness in the Soul Page 9
