by Paul Doherty
‘Sit down! Sit down!’
Corbett, ever watchful, accepted de Craon’s invitation whilst the Frenchman sat on the corner of a table swinging his legs. The clerk just wished the Frenchman would wipe that sly malicious smile off his face. De Craon clapped his hands.
‘Well, Hugh, is this a courtesy call? Oh,’ he leaned forward and touched Corbett on the hand, ‘I have met the Lady Maeve. Your daughter, she is beautiful. She takes after her mother. You want some wine?’
‘No!’
De Craon’s smile faded. ‘Fine, Corbett, what do you want?’
‘Why are you here, de Craon?’
‘I bring messages of courtesy and friendship from my master, the King of France.’
‘That’s a lie!’
De Craon glared at Corbett. ‘One of these days, Hugh,’ he said in a mock whisper. ‘One of these days I’ll make you choke on your insults!’
Now Corbett smiled. ‘Promises, promises, de Craon! You still haven’t told me why you are in England and why you tarry in London.’
De Craon stood up and walked to the other side of the table.
‘We have French merchants living here, they have interests which affect King Philip. You English are known for being hostile to foreigners.’
‘Then, de Craon, you should be careful!’
‘Oh, Hugh, I am and so should you. Where’s your shadow, Ranulf?’
‘At the top of the street,’ Corbett lied. ‘Sitting in a tavern with a group of royal archers waiting for me to return.’
De Craon cocked his head to one side. ‘You were in Winchester, now you are in London. Why should the King send his most trusted clerk and Keeper of the Secret Seal back to the city?’ De Craon held a finger to his lips. ‘There are the murders,’ he continued, as if talking to himself. ‘I know the fat ones in the city do not want their secret sins brought to light. There’s the death of Lady Somerville and, of course, the mysterious fire at the house of the King’s old chaplain, Father Benedict.’ De Craon preened himself, running a hand through his thinning red hair. ‘Now what else could there be?’ he asked in mock wonderment.
‘Richard Puddlicott.’
De Craon’s mouth opened and closed. ‘Ah, yes, Puddlicott.’
‘You know Puddlicott?’
‘Of course.’ The Frenchman smiled. ‘A well-known English criminal. What do you call his type, a confidence trickster? He is wanted in Paris by our Provost as he is in London by your Sheriff.’
‘For what reason?’
‘For the same reasons as in London.’
‘Then why?’ Corbett asked slowly, ‘was Puddlicott seen being entertained by your King’s closest counsellor, Master William Nogaret?’
De Craon refused to be flustered. ‘Puddlicott is a criminal but a valuable one. He sells secrets to us. What he thinks is valuable information, just as surely as your master buys secrets from traitorous Frenchmen.’
Corbett heard a sound and stood up. He felt nervous in this silent, dusty house. He turned, staring at the doorway, just as a stranger slipped like a shadow into the room.
‘Ah, Raoul.’ De Craon went round the table. ‘Master Corbett, or rather Sir Hugh Corbett, can I present Raoul, Vicomte de Nevers, King Philip’s special envoy to Flanders and the Low Countries.’
De Nevers shook Corbett’s hand warmly and the clerk took an immediate liking to him. In looks he resembled Maltote but was thinner, leaner, his hair was blond, his features regular, rather boyish, though Corbett noted the shrewd eyes and the firm set to mouth and chin. He could see why Maeve had liked him. He had a lazy charm and a frank, open demeanour which contrasted sharply with de Craon’s subtle falseness.
‘Before you ask why Raoul is in England, de Craon murmured, ‘I’ll be honest. Next spring King Philip intends to move into Flanders. He has certain rights there which—’
‘Which King Edward does not recognise,’ Corbett interrupted.
‘True! True!’ de Nevers replied in broken English. ‘But our master wishes to keep an eye on Flemish merchants. We know they come to London. We watch their movements and we bring messages for your King, how ill advised he would be to give these merchants any solace or comfort.’
Corbett stared at both men. They could be telling the truth, he thought, or at least part of it and de Nevers made more sense than de Craon. English envoys watched Scottish merchants in Paris, so why shouldn’t the French watch Flemish merchants in London? Corbett picked up his cloak.
‘Monsieur de Craon, Monsieur de Nevers, I wish you a safe stay in London but I also bring warnings from my master. You are protected by letters of safe conduct. Monsieur de Craon, you know the rules of the game. If you are found interfering in anything you shouldn’t be, then I will personally escort you to the nearest port and send you packing back to France.’ Corbett sketched a bow at both men and, before they could answer, made his own way out of the house.
Corbett stood in the street and breathed a sigh of relief. He was pleased that he had surprised both de Craon and his companion for he was sure that they were involved in some villainy, but only time would reveal what it was. He picked his way round the mounds of refuse and stared curiously at the empty dung cart, a tired-looking horse between the shafts, which stood on the other side of the street. He looked back at de Craon’s house. There was something wrong but he couldn’t place it. He’d glimpsed some detail which didn’t fit. He shrugged. ‘Only time will tell,’ he muttered.
Staring up and down the street, he noticed the mounds of refuse piled high on either side of the sewer, then he walked gingerly down the street, keeping a wary eye as windows above were suddenly opened and the contents of night pots thrown out to drench the cobbles and passers-by with their filth. He stopped at a cookshop on the corner of Wood Street and bought a pie but then threw it into a sewer when his teeth crunched on something hard.
‘Bastard officials!’ he grumbled. He wished the beadles and Guild members would take as much care on what was sold in the streets as they did about their precious reputations. He turned and went back up the Shambles, stopping for a while to watch a man, dressed completely in black, the whitened bones of a skeleton painted garishly on his garb, dance a macabre jig whilst his companion tapped a drum and a boy on a reedy flute blew an eerie death march. Corbett pushed his way through the crowds round the butchers’ stalls, keeping one hand on his purse and a wary eye on the rubbish underfoot. Outside Newgate a crowd had gathered to greet the death carts taking felons up to the scaffold at Smithfield or down the city to the Elms. He remembered the mad beggar man the night before and, shivering, he hurried on.
Corbett now wished Ranulf was with him. At the corner of Cock Lane, the blowsy harridans and common whores were already touting for business, the white paint on their faces so thick it cracked in places, their shaven heads covered with red or orange wigs.
‘A penny for a tumble!’ one shrieked at Corbett.
‘Tuppence and you can do anything you like!’
‘Don’t worry,’ another cackled. ‘It won’t take long!’
Corbett went over to the group. He smiled, trying to hide his disgust at the sour smell from their clothes, ignoring the black paint round their eyes which was beginning to run and stain their painted cheeks.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he greeted the group.
The women looked at each other speechlessly before bursting into shrieks of laughter.
‘Oh, good morning, sir!’ they chorused back, flouncing their bright red skirts and bowing in mock curtseys.
‘What do you want?’ A large fat woman, round as a barrel of lard, pushed her way forward, her lips, parted in a false smile, showing blackened stumps of teeth.
‘Which one of us takes your fancy?’ She turned and grinned at her companions. ‘For a shilling you can have the lot of us, a good baker’s dozen!
More shrieks of laughter greeted her sally. Corbett tried to hide his embarrassment and looked away.
‘My lady,’ he murmured, ‘I’d proba
bly exhaust you.’ He smiled at the rest. ‘I mean all of you.’
The laughter and the catcalls died as a silver coin appeared between Corbett’s fingers. ‘For the moment, my beauties, accept my profound apologies for being unable to give you my custom, but this silver piece,’ he gazed round the group, ‘this silver piece is for anyone who can provide information about the death of Agnes. You know, the girl killed in the church near Greyfriars.’
The whores now shrank back like a group of frightened children.
‘I mean no harm,’ Corbett continued gently. ‘I am the King’s man. I work with the under-sheriff, Alexander Cade.’
‘You mean Big Lance!’ the tub of lard shouted back.
Corbett stared at her curiously.
‘Oh, yes, that’s what we call him. A good jouster, Master Cade. I can tell you.’
A young girl, no more than fifteen or sixteen summers, her thin bony body dressed in rags, pushed her way to the front. ‘I can tell you about Agnes.’
Corbett held the silver coin before her eyes. ‘I am waiting, child.’
The girl smiled; her pallid, white face suddenly looked pathetic and vulnerable. For a few seconds her eyes lost their watchful hardness.
‘Down there,’ the girl pointed. ‘Next to the apothecary. Agnes had a garret.’ She wiped her runny nose on the back of her hands. ‘She always claimed to be better than any of us. Oh, yes, a regular lady with her own chamber and her fine gowns.’
‘What else do you know?’
‘Agnes became frightened. She said she had seen something.’ The girl’s mouth became slack and she shook her head. ‘I don’t know what but it was after one of the other girls was killed. Anyway, she refused to go out. She paid one of the boys, an urchin, to watch the door.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all I know.’ Her grimy hand came out. ‘Please, sir,’ she whispered eagerly. ‘May I have the coin?’
Corbett pressed it into her hand, and, unsheathing his dagger, he walked away down the darkened alleyway. At the shop next to the apothecary’s he stopped and stared up at the rotting wood and crumbling plaster, before knocking on the door. A toothless old hag answered, her eyes small black buttons in a yellowing, lined face. A regular nightbird, Corbett thought, one of the old hags who rented out chambers to street-walkers, took their money and turned a blind eye to what they did. Of course, at first, the old hag knew nothing but, when coins changed hands, she suddenly remembered everything. Corbett listened to her chatter. The hag told him nothing he hadn’t already learnt from the whore but, for another coin, she showed Corbett Agnes’s chamber. There was nothing there; the dead girl’s possessions, together with every stick of furniture, had been moved and the clerk realised the old woman was just playing him like a landed fish.
Outside in the street, Corbett leaned against the wall of the house and stared around. The place was filthy. He glimpsed things in the sewer, floating on top of the greenish water, which made his stomach turn and he pinched his nose at the terrible smell from the refuse piled high against the walls. He felt sure he was being watched and glanced cautiously up the narrow alleyways which fed into Cock Lane. He walked a little way up the street, his hand against the wall of the house, pulling it away quickly as his fingers touched something warm and furry. He turned, muttering a curse at the rat which scuttled between the crevices, then walked back to the apothecary’s. Yes, he had seen it: the small shadow in one of the alleyways.
‘This is going to be an expensive morning,’ he murmured. He took another coin out of his purse and held it up. ‘I know you are there, boy!’ he called out. ‘You still watch the house don’t you? I mean no harm.’ He spoke softly, wishing to avoid the prostitutes still gathered at the mouth of Cock Lane and the hungry-eyed faces which peered down from the casement windows. ‘Come here, boy!’ Corbett urged. ‘You will be well rewarded.’
The beggar lad crept out of the alleyway. He was barefoot, his face so thin his large eyes made him look like some baby owl frightened by the light. He nervously plucked at the rough sacking which served as a cloak. He thrust his little hand forward.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The voice was reedy and Corbett recognised the professional beggar. The poor child was probably despatched on to the streets by his parents to beg for alms. Corbett crouched in the doorway of the apothecary’s shop and waved the lad forward. The boy, wary of the dangers of the street, edged cautiously near, his eyes glued on the silver piece. Corbett quickly reached out, seized the boy’s thin arm and felt a twinge of compassion. All skin and bone; how long, he thought, would this child last in the next severe winter?
‘Come on!’ he urged swiftly. ‘I mean you no harm. Look, here’s a silver piece. I’ll give you another if you tell me the truth.’
The boy sucked the knuckle of his free hand.
‘You knew Agnes, the girl who died?’
The boy nodded.
‘What was she frightened of?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why did she stay in her room?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘A man came.’
‘What kind of man?’
‘A priest, a brother. He was tall and wore a cowl, but he left very quickly.’
‘And what else happened?’
‘Agnes gave me a message.’
‘What was it?’
‘Just a scrap of parchment, sir. I was to take it to Westminster.’
‘To whom?’
‘I don’t know.’ The large eyes welled with tears. ‘I did something wrong. I didn’t mean to but I was hungry. I dropped the message in a sewer and spent the money the girl gave me at a bread shop.’
Corbett smiled. ‘Can you read?’
‘No, but Agnes could write. She was clever. She could read a few words and write some. She said if I kept guarding her door she would teach me one day.’
‘But you don’t know to whom the message was to be sent?’
‘I think it was to a woman?’
‘Why?’
‘Because Agnes told me to take it to the Chapter House late in the afternoon.’ The boy screwed his face up. ‘Agnes said she would know.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, Master, honestly. Please,’ the boy whined, ‘let go my wrist. You promised me a coin.’
Corbett handed it over, the boy scampered away.
‘If you are ever hungry,’ Corbett called out, watching the pathetic stick-like legs, ‘come to Corbett’s house in Bread Street. Tell the servants the master sent you.’
The boy turned, running like the wind up one of the dark runnels.
Corbett got to his feet and walked back, stopping at a small tavern near the bridge over Holborn. He went inside, ordered a jug of ale and sat beneath the room’s only window. In the far corner a group of tinkers were baiting a huge, slavering bull mastiff, enraging it by offering it meat, then pulling it away so the dog’s sharp teeth narrowly missed their darting fingers. Corbett watched their cruelty and thought about the beggar boy, Agnes’s dreadful death and the hideous awfulness of the whores in Cock Lane. Was Brother Thomas right? he reflected. Did the stinking rottenness of the city spawn some of the evil which stalked the streets? He sipped at the blackjack, trying to close his mind to the growling of the dog and the taunts of the tinkers. So, Agnes had seen something? She had hidden away in her chamber and been visited by a man dressed like a monk or priest. Was that the killer? If so, why hadn’t he struck then? Because the house was being watched? But surely Agnes would refuse to open the door? The latter was the most logical, he concluded. So why had the man gone to that house in Cock Lane? Of course, Corbett put the tankard down, Agnes had been lured to her death; the killer had probably slipped her a message, perhaps in someone else’s name, telling her to meet him in that church near Greyfriars. Corbett ran his fingers round the rim of the tankard and tried to sketch out the bare details behind the murder. Agnes had known something so she had hidden away, sending messa
ges to someone who would help, one of the Sisters of St Martha, Lady Fitzwarren or maybe de Lacey but the boy had dropped it. He closed his eyes, what next? Somehow the killer had known that Agnes posed danger so he had visited her chamber. The message he had left had been cryptic; the poor girl, barely literate, was not skilled enough to distinguish different handwriting and the rest would be simple. Agnes would have gone to the church looking for salvation and the killer would have been waiting.
Corbett suddenly looked up at the screams and yells coming from the far corner of the tap room. He smiled to himself. Sometimes justice was done, for the bull mastiff had broken loose, seized one of his tormenter’s arms and the tap-room door was already splattered with blood. Corbett drained his blackjack and left the noisy confusion behind. He had one further call to make and followed the street up through the city limits round by the Priory of St John of Jerusalem to the other side of Smithfield. Here he asked directions from a water tippler for the whereabouts of Somerville’s House. The fellow knew it well and Corbett, keeping well away from the crowds thronging down to Smithfield, crossed Aldersgate into Barbican Street.
The Somerville House was a splendid building though its windows were now all shuttered and great folds of black lawn had been nailed to the wooden beams as a sign of mourning. A tearful maid opened the door and ushered him up to a small but opulently furnished solar on the second floor. The room reminded Corbett of how Maeve had beautified his own house in Bread Street though this chamber looked unkempt as if it hadn’t been cleaned for days. Wine stains marked the table and some of the tapestry-covered chairs. The hangings on the wall looked dusty and dishevelled whilst the fire had not been lit or the grate cleaned.
‘You wanted to see me?’
Corbett turned and stared at the young man standing in the doorway.
‘My name is Gilbert Somerville. The maid said you were Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s Emissary.’
The young man offered a limp handshake. Corbett stared at the black, dishevelled hair, the white puffy cheeks, red-rimmed eyes and slack mouth and jaw. A wine toper, Corbett concluded. A son grieving for his mother but someone who loved his claret to the exclusion of everything else.
