by Alys Clare
Deliberately he put from his mind the outraged tirade she had inflicted upon him that very morning. She was quite right to complain, and he didn’t blame her for it, but couldn’t she see he was doing his best?
Despite extensive and persistent enquiries in the vicinity of Old Ferry Quay, nobody had anything useful to say. A couple of locals had verified that nobody used the tavern any more. The innkeeper had died, apparently, and no one had felt up to the depressing task of replacing him. Some of those known to have formerly frequented the place said they didn’t know of anybody who had gone missing, all their small band of companions in adversity being accounted for. Or so they said.
Theo swore under his breath. Nobody was admitting to knowing anything about the dead man, and the fisherman who reported the corpse had himself gone missing. Too much time was being wasted, and Theo could think of a dozen tasks on which his small band of men would be far more profitably employed.
His stomach rumbled. It must be time for the midday meal. He was about to set off for the tavern where he usually ate when two of his men came through the door, one holding a piece of rag up to his bloody nose.
‘Trouble?’ Theo asked.
The other man shrugged. ‘Not really. Bit of a to-do down by the quay. We were asking around for news of your missing fisherman and we heard a fight break out. Tomas here’ – he nudged his bleeding companion – ‘decided it was his job to sort it out, and caught a flying fist for his trouble.’
‘I hink by dose is broken,’ Tomas mumbled.
Theo suppressed a grin. ‘What was the fight about, Matthew?’
‘Some of the lads who work for that rich bugger with the huge warehouse down at the end of the west quay were arguing. Something about one of the others not turning up when he was meant to, and someone else getting a bollocking because he was supposed to do the job instead of the missing man and didn’t. Sounded to me as if there was a lot of blame-shifting going on.’ Matthew nodded sagely.
One of the others not turning up when he was meant to …
Forgetting his growling stomach and the fact that it was time for dinner, Theo picked up his cap and strode out of the house.
The coroner was a familiar figure on the Plymouth quays. It was his duty to investigate unnatural, sudden and suspicious death, and it was quite surprising how often unexplained corpses turned up along the waterfront. As Theo made his way along to the large warehouse at the end of the quay, he responded to the respectful greetings of half a dozen men.
The disturbance that Matthew and Tomas had encountered seemed to have settled down, although a group of young men were still standing muttering crossly to one another. On seeing Theo approach, as one they melted away. Putting on a turn of speed unexpected in such a big man, Theo sprinted after the slowest of the young men and caught him by the collar.
‘I hear you lads were fighting,’ he said conversationally. ‘Perhaps you might tell me what it was about. One of your number gone missing?’
The young man tried to reply but all that came out was a strangled gasp. Theo loosened his grip a little.
‘Yes, sir, yes, that’s it,’ the young man agreed with pathetic eagerness. ‘He was sent to meet a ship over in Dartmouth, and when he didn’t come back we didn’t think anything of it at first, guessing the ship had been delayed by bad weather or something. But then the master, he finds out the ship reached harbour almost a week ago, and he was furious, beside himself, because he’d a very valuable cargo on that ship and he was afraid someone had helped themselves.’
‘He suspected his own employee?’ Theo demanded. Rich merchants were avaricious bastards, he reflected. What sort of revenge would such a one exact on an employee who had tried to cheat him?
The youth shook his head. ‘Couldn’t say, sir. He wouldn’t reveal his thoughts to the likes of us.’
The words had the ring of truth. Theo let go of the lad’s collar and he scuttled off after his companions.
Theo walked on the short distance to the big warehouse at the end of the quay.
After being made to wait for quite some while, he was ushered into the man’s presence. Now Theo decided to take his time, too, strolling across the room as if he had all the hours of the day at his disposal.
He studied Nicolaus Quinlie. He was a tall, cadaverous man, aged perhaps in his late forties or early fifties. His colourless face – the pallor exaggerated by the unrelieved black of his sumptuous silk robes – was utterly devoid of humour. He looks like a snake, Theo thought. He has the ruthless air of a man who would enjoy inflicting pain. Who would kill without compunction.
Quinlie had been standing by the window, leaning against the wall and gazing down upon the busy scene below. Disconcerted perhaps by Theo’s silence, he turned to face him.
‘I hear one of your employees is missing,’ Theo said. ‘Possibly with a valuable consignment.’
‘You hear right,’ Quinlie replied with a scowl, ‘although my goods are safe, thank God.’ The scowl deepened, as if the very thought of goods going missing caused him actual pain. ‘Young fool was meant to be in Dartmouth, to meet a ship and bring back my cargo from Venice. He never turned up, and the captain sent word asking what I wanted him to do with my silk. I had to send one of my other men, at considerable annoyance to both the fellow and me.’ Abruptly his expression changed, to one of suspicion. ‘What has this to do with you?’
‘You know who I am?’ Theo asked.
Quintile nodded. ‘I do. You wouldn’t have been admitted into my presence if I didn’t.’ His supercilious sneer suggested he had better things to do with his valuable time than answer a humble coroner’s enquiries.
Theo decided not to reply to Quinlie’s question. Instead he said, ‘What is the name of your missing man?’
Quinlie leaned towards him, narrow face pinched as he drew in his lips. ‘Why do you want to know? I’ve got my silk, and it’s just as well I have. I have valued customers impatient for my goods, you know. It doesn’t do to keep them waiting.’
‘The man’s name, please,’ Theo repeated patiently.
Quinlie threw up his hands in disgust. ‘Oh, very well. If it’s what it takes to get rid of you and permit me to get on with my work, I’ll tell you.’ He glared at Theo. ‘He’s called Jeromy Palfrey.’
FIVE
Back at his wide oak desk, Theo sharpened his quill to a fresh, sharp point with the little silver penknife that had belonged to his grandfather. Then, inserting it between two back molars, he poked around till he had extracted the piece of gristle left over from his midday meal of chops. Then he sat quite still for some moments, thinking.
Then he got up, went outside to where one of his officers sat bent over a ledger and said, ‘Is Jarman about?’
‘Out the back,’ the man said without looking up.
Theo sighed. ‘Go and fetch him, please.’
Some time, he reflected, he was going to have to have a word with his underlings about discipline and respect …
He went back to his room and sat down. Presently the door opened again and a slimmish man of medium height came in, quietly closing the door after him. He had removed his soft cap, and now stood quite still before Theo, holding it in his hands.
Everything about Jarman Hodge was medium, Theo thought, studying the man. Mid-brown hair, nondescript eyes of a sort of hazel shade, clean-shaven, plainly dressed, and, in his manner, modest and quiet. Only a few people – Theo among them – knew that behind that unassuming, almost self-effacing exterior there was a razor-sharp brain fed by very sharp ears and ever-observant eyes.
‘I have a job for you, Hodge,’ Theo said without preamble. ‘I have a body and the name of a missing man, and I wish to ascertain if they are a match.’
Jarman Hodge nodded. ‘The corpse down there.’ He jerked his head towards the steps leading down to the cellar and its unsavoury contents. ‘Making his presence felt, poor bugger.’
‘Indeed he is,’ Theo agreed. ‘The man who’s missing is a merchan
t’s agent. He was meant to collect a consignment from a ship making port at Dartmouth but he never turned up.’
Hodge thought for a while. ‘The body was found down on the river.’
‘Yes. Old Ferry Quay.’
‘Nasty spot to end your days,’ Hodge remarked. ‘Especially by your own hand.’
‘Quite.’
Hodge thought some more. ‘Could be your missing merchant’s man has snuggled up with a Dartmouth doxy and a couple of bottles of brandy.’
‘Could be,’ Theo agreed.
‘Was that the consignment? Good French brandy?’
‘No. It was silk. Very exquisite and very expensive silk.’
Hodge nodded. ‘Want me to go to Dartmouth?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded again. ‘Since the cargo was silk I imagine the merchant is Nicolaus Quinlie.’
‘You imagine right,’ Theo agreed.
Hodge shook his head, a brief, succinct movement. ‘Not a man I would care to anger. I hope that, if I do locate his missing man, the fellow has a good excuse for failing to do as he was ordered.’
‘Me too.’
Hodge turned to go. ‘The man’s name?’
‘Jeromy Palfrey.’
Hodge repeated it to himself a couple of times then, with a nod to Theo, left as quietly as he’d arrived.
Theo had little hope that Jarman Hodge would return with a shame-faced, hungover Jeromy Palfrey, quaking in his boots for fear of what his employer was going to do to punish him for his dereliction of duty. Theo had a bad feeling that he already knew the name attached to the corpse slowly rotting in the cellar.
He used the couple of days of Hodge’s absence to pursue enquiries of his own. He had a good memory for faces, and had no trouble in locating the bunch of young men who had been brawling at the end of the quay, close to Nicolaus Quinlie’s warehouse. They were in one of the meaner taverns, and at least two of them were already the worse for drink, even though it wasn’t long after sunset.
Theo bought himself a tankard of beer and went to join them.
‘I’m debating with myself,’ he said pleasantly as he shoved a thin youth along the bench so that he could sit down, ‘whether I want to be here less than you want me here, or the other way round. Best thing for you lads’ – he smiled round at them in a friendly way – ‘is to tell me what I want to know as quickly as you can, and, if I’m satisfied, I’ll leave you alone.’ He paused, considering. ‘If I’m totally satisfied, I might even reward you with the price of another round of beers.’ He jingled the coin purse tucked out of sight under his robe.
The young men looked worriedly at each other. Then one who looked older than the rest spoke up. ‘We work for Nicolaus Quinlie,’ he said self-importantly. ‘He doesn’t like us talking to outsiders about his business affairs.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ Theo said, ‘since I’m not here to ask about his business. I want to hear everything you can tell me concerning Jeromy Palfrey.’
Again, the youths glanced swiftly at each other. Then the one who had spoken up before said, ‘He’s gone missing.’
‘I know.’ Dear Lord, give me strength. ‘That’s why I’m asking about him.’
Now the young men put their heads together, muttering softly. Theo waited. They were going to help him: he was sure of it.
Eventually the whispering ceased. The spokesman turned to Theo and said, ‘Jeromy’s a showy sod. He has a very pretty wife, a costly house, he rides a fine horse and he’s always dressed in the height of fashion. Obviously, he earns a great deal more than the rest of us, and he never hesitates to remind us of the fact. He lords it over us, giving us orders and getting us to do the dirty work he clearly feels is beneath him.’ He stopped. He was red in the face, slightly breathless. He looked vaguely astonished, as if his venom had taken him by surprise.
‘I see,’ Theo said. ‘Your comments suggest that he was given the more responsible tasks, perhaps?’ The young men nodded. ‘So it was normal for him to have been the one sent to Dartmouth to receive the consignment of very valuable silk?’
‘How do you know—’ one of the others began. A sharp dig in the ribs from the lad sitting next to him silenced him.
‘Yes, it’s the kind of job he mostly does,’ the spokesman said. ‘That, and tout for new business. He’s the sort of man that the rich welcome into their fine houses, being acquainted with or related to most of them. Or that’s what he tells us, anyway.’
Theo nodded. He thought for a short while. He had learned more about Jeromy Palfrey than he had expected. He now had more questions, but ones to which he didn’t think these young men could provide answers.
One thing, however, he reckoned they might help with.
‘You said he likes fine clothes,’ he reminded the spokesman. ‘Describe what style of dress he usually wears. What, for example, was he wearing when you last saw him?’
‘Er …’ said the spokesman doubtfully.
One of the others spoke up; a younger man, scarcely more than a boy, with red hair and a pimply chin.
‘He had a new doublet,’ he said eagerly. ‘Beautiful reddish-brown, heavy silk, and the sleeves were slashed so that the finer silk beneath showed through, and that was a sort of golden yellow shade. He had fine wool hose, and they were brown too, and good leather boots of a chestnut colour, very shiny. He always kept them shiny. He favoured high boots, said they were more comfortable for riding.’
Theo grinned at him. ‘Thanks, that’s very helpful.’ He noticed some of the other lads nudging one another and murmuring, sending mocking glances towards the redhead. ‘It’s rare,’ Theo went on, raising his voice a little, ‘to find a young man so observant. You’ll go far, lad.’
The jeering and the murmuring stopped.
Theo drained his tankard and got up. He took a few coins out of his purse, putting them on the table between the main spokesman and the youthful redhead. ‘You two have earned this,’ he said to them. ‘You can share it with the others or not, as you choose.’ Then he raised a hand to tip his cap and left them.
Theo took a deep breath, opened the low door giving on to the cellar steps and descended into the dank, stinking darkness. He reached the last step and set out across the stone-flagged floor, holding the lantern high to light his way. Then, trying to quash the disgust – the thing curled up on its left side on the trestle table had once been a man – he folded back the covering sheet and leaned forward over the corpse.
He began with the boots. Boot, he amended: one was missing. The remaining one was a high, close-fitting riding boot. Theo had brought some bits of rag with him, and now he used one to rub away at the carapace of mud. A large, crusty chunk fell off. Theo spat on the cloth and rubbed again, revealing a patch of fine, soft leather, chestnut-coloured.
Boots: correct, he said to himself.
Next he studied the bent legs, clad in supple, costly wool. He scrunched up a fistful of the fabric, removing some of the dirt. Brown. Hose: correct.
But many men, after all, wore brown hose and chestnut leather boots.
Now he held his lantern low over the doublet, with its slashed sleeves. How on earth was he to determine the original colours of the filthy silk? A thought struck him. Gingerly he raised the corpse’s right arm. A shower of maggots tumbled out of some hidden cavity in the chest. Theo swallowed the vomit that rose up at the back of his throat and forced himself to concentrate.
He peered under the arm, right up into the armpit; a sweaty armpit, he noticed, automatically leaning away from the stench. Surely that was unexpected in someone so fastidious about his clothing? Perhaps he’d been running hard, or doing some other sort of energetic activity, just before he killed himself? But then, as Theo had hoped, he noticed there was a cleaner, brighter patch of silk. It was reddish-brown.
Suddenly eager, Theo grabbed at the lacings that fastened the front of the doublet and wrenched open a small gap. The lighter silk of the lining could now be seen. It was a deep, golden
yellow.
‘Doublet: correct,’ he said aloud.
Theo put his lantern down on the trestle beside the corpse’s head. Then, carefully, respectfully, he tidied the doublet, drew up the laces and re-fastened them. Finally he pulled the sheet right up over the head and the ruined face.
‘Jeromy Palfrey,’ he murmured. ‘Jarman Hodge has been sent on a pointless mission, for I have found you.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Now, I have to decide why you took your own life.’ He gazed down at the hump of the shoulder, swelling the covering sheet. ‘And I believe I may have the very beginnings of an answer.’
I was on my way home from a long walk. I was on foot, Flynn panting by my side, my falcon Morgana on my wrist. I’d been flying her up on the fringes of the moor. She had brought down a pigeon and I was going to gut it and hang it until it was ripe for eating.
Flynn knew we had a visitor before I did. He stopped, ginger eyebrows twitching, long black nose scenting up the track towards the house, and gave one deep bark. I put my hand down and patted his back. ‘Thank you, Flynn. It’d be good if you could put a name to whoever comes calling, but maybe that is asking too much.’
He gave a slightly disgruntled ‘Hnff,’ and trotted on up the track.
I recognized the big bay with the long, swishing tail before I made out the man. I hurried on and, as soon as we were in hailing distance, called out a greeting.
‘Come inside and have a drink,’ I added. It was, I realized, good to see him. ‘And a bite to eat, if you have the time. I’ve—’
‘No. Thank you,’ Theophilus Davey interrupted. Then I saw that he wasn’t returning my smile of welcome. ‘I’m sorry, but I have bad news.’
He had found out the name of Jeromy Palfrey’s wife, and that name had led him to me. Rather than rush straight to Celia and break the news that her husband wasn’t coming home and she must prepare herself for widowhood and a life without him, instead he had first sought me out. ‘It’s not that I’m being cowardly,’ he assured me, his earnest expression suggesting he really wanted me to trust that he spoke the truth. ‘Believe me, I’ve broken such news many times. Far too many times,’ he muttered bitterly. ‘But as soon as I knew she was your sister, I decided it’d be better – better for her, I mean – to have the devastating tidings broken when you were there too. To help her afterwards, in case she faints, or falls into a crying fit,’ he added, as if I might have missed the point.
