“Madame, have you consulted a doctor?”
“No need,” said the woman proudly, “My own father was a physician, Dr Richard Garbrand in fact, and I learned a great many things from him of the humours and the teachings of Hippocrates and Galen, Avicenna and Paracelsus as well.”
“Surely none of them ever prescribed such...”
“Of course not,” snorted Mrs Ashley, “The silly little fool picked up the idea from one of her gossips who took a while to kindle with child. Some old witch told her to do this as a magical spell and of course, since Jane got her baby, nothing will do for Phyllida except to follow the spell until it works. She will not leave off – she says it’s the only thing that stops her falling into her terrors again.”
Catlin tutted as sympathetically as he could although he was both bored and revolted. The whole thing made hims shudder, this sort of mucky women’s business. If he were to wed there would be no escaping it.
On the other hand, as St Paul said, it were better to marry than to burn in hell and he already burned. He winced away from thinking of the torments of hell.
There was a slam of the front door and footsteps on the tiles. Mrs Ashley stood and opened the parlour door wider, then curtseyed to the master of the house. William Craddock came in, smiling and holding a little bottle in his hand. At first he didn’t notice Catlin.
“Ah, there you are, ma’am,” said Craddock affably, “See, I’ve bought a new bottle of ointment here to replace the stuff I spilled, so Phyllida can still...”
Catlin stood up and made his bow to Craddock, who paused, then bowed back. Craddock’s face was broad and pleasant, the kind of face Catlin thought of as stupid though friendly, but something sharpened in it when he saw Catlin.
“I am Maliverny Catlin, Mr Craddock,” he introduced himself, “Her Majesty’s pursuivant.” He used the dull neutral tone of voice which he knew was far more frightening to the guilty and innocent alike than any amount of dramatic shouting could be. He proffered his warrant which Craddock took and read carefully.
“Ah,” said Craddock, handing the bottle of ointment to Mrs Ashley, who took it with a wary expression.
“What’s in this?” she asked.
“Mercuric salts of gold,” said Craddock with a proud smile, “It’s very expensive and sovereign against all attacks or disorders of the mother,” he added.
Mrs Ashley seemed transfixed in some way, looked at the bottle and there were white patches above her nostrils and sudden dull purple spots on her cheeks. For no reason Catlin could see, she was suddenly enraged.
“Indeed?” she said in a neutral voice, “How kind a husband you are. I’ll take it to her.” She paused as if she was trying not to say something, or perhaps measuring it carefully. "Although Mr Craddock, mercuric salts of gold are a better remedy for the French Pox than the Mother. I fear you were gulled by the apothecary again."
She curtseyed shallowly to Catlin and Craddock and set off to climb the stairs with the slow heaviness of a middle-aged woman – she must have been at least forty. Craddock looked taken aback at first, but then shook his head and chuckled.
“Now then, Mr Catlin,” said Craddock, going to his sideboard and pouring himself a large silver cup of wine – he offered more to Catlin who shook his head. “How may I serve you, sir? Are you enquiring about Papist priests again?”
Catlin’s lips tightened.
“I’m always interested in anything anyone can tell me about them...”
“Well, the word at Inner Temple Hall is that another boatload of Jesuits landed last week near the Isle of Wight. Only hearsay of course, but you might find it useful.”
“Many thanks,” said Catlin, hiding his pleasure. If true, that was very useful indeed and he could pass it on to Topcliffe this afternoon. “However, I fear that at the moment I am more interested in the murders of some well-known... ah... women of the town.” As if dead whores could ever be as important as the discovery of Jesuit traitors.”
“Oh? A bit out of my ambit. Of course, I don’t normally deal with criminal prosecution.”
“We have no one to accuse yet, unfortunately,” said Catlin.
“Well then I don’t see how...”
Catlin stood and went to the door, checked outside for listening servants or wives and came back.
“Sir, this is a delicate matter,” he began with a hint of menace, “I have been questioning all the clients of the two women of ill-repute who were killed recently."
There was a short very nasty silence. Catlin felt his heart thud. This was the moment of truth, when the killing blow went in. He had never hunted boar, not being of noble blood and so not entitled, nor indeed did he have the kidney for it, but he suspected that attempting a true blow to the heart in a hunting field must be something like this.
Craddock’s face had become satisfyingly serious.
“You think it was one of the whores’ customers?”
Catlin shrugged. “It’s a place to start, after all.” He left the ending open but had the sense that his blow had missed the sweet spot.
“Good God!” Craddock did seem genuinely shocked, “I could understand a man killing his wife or,indeed, the other way about but why would anyone want to kill a whore...?”
“To prevent her accusing him?”
“Nonsense. A woman and a whore? No one would believe her or even listen.”
“Nonetheless there are two dead whores and their fellows are angry enough to worry Mr Fleetwood.”
“Lord above.” Craddock shook his head and tutted.
“You have been reported to me as having had... dealings with both of the women.”
Craddock blinked, stared. Then he did something utterly unexpected. He laughed long and loud.
“Good God,” he said, patting his stomach and drinking, “Well well, there’s a good joke. You have it wrong, Mr Catlin.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. My dear fellow, it’s perfectly true that I used to visit trollops many years ago when I was a naughty young student full of vim and vigour and indeed I paid many a woman to play the beast with two backs with me... Occasionally two of them in the same bed, I recall...” There was a faraway nostalgic look in Craddock’s eyes. “But that was some time ago, Mr Catlin, and alas my furnace burns much less hot than it did, which is apt to happen when you grow older as I expect you’ll find. I’ve not visited any whores for several years. When I married my angelic little Phyllida, I swore to forsake all other flesh.”
“Oh?” Catlin found the good humour and the casual admission of sin enraging. “So why are you still known to be visiting the whores?”
“Well, I drop in to see dear old Kettle Annie every so often, see how she is, and French Mary as well, bless her. They’re both old friends. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Surely you are respectably married and your wife might reasonably object...”
“None of her business, not that Phyllida would mind, I’m sure, poor little love.”
“So you have no idea why the two of them Annie Smith and Mary de Paris might have been killed and cut open...?”
“What?” Craddock seemed uncommonly slow on the uptake, even for a lawyer. He was surprised again. “You mean it was Kettle Annie and French Mary that were the two who...” Catlin nodded. “I had no idea.” Now Craddock was pale, which was very hard to fake. “Cut open? Why? Who would do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know, Mr Craddock. Perhaps you can tell me?”
“Eh? How could I know?”
“Some say the Devil is walking abroad and doing the deeds. Some say it’s the Devil in the guise of a man.”
“What... oh!” Again enlightenment dawned on Craddock’s face, followed by another rotund laugh, which made Catlin feel like a fool. “My fit of distemper the other day?”
“Possibly. You claimed to see the Devil himself abroad in Fleet Street.”
“Did I? Yes, they said I did. I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr Catlin, for I remember nothing
at all of my strange humour.”
“Nothing?”
Craddock spread his hands. “Nothing at all. You’d think if I had indeed seen the Devil, I would remember it, but although I understand I offered to fight him with my fists and needed a heavy dose from the apothecary to quiet me down, after I woke I knew nothing of what had passed and must ask why my hands were tied to the bed and everyone was staring at me so strangely. Poor little Phyllida was in floods of tears, bless her.”
“Oh.” Catlin very nearly sneered, how convenient, but thought better of it. Liars were easier caught if you didn’t let them know you knew they were lying.
“You should ask my mother-in-law or my wife, although I don’t know how much you’ll get out of Mrs Craddock – poor child, so many things upset her. As for me, I remember nothing which I am sure is just as well.”
“And you are quite recovered?”
“As far as I know. All I recall is feeling very unwell and a sense of great heat and then nothing until I woke again.”
Catlin contemplated Craddock for a while, who smiled briefly, sat down in his chair at the head of the table and drank his wine peacefully. There was no tension, no defiance in him. He seemed genuinely amused by his attack of raving lunacy – or perhaps his vision of the Devil. How could he take it so lightly? Did that mean he was in fact possessed?
“Of course I want you to find the murderer of poor Annie and Mary,” he said comfortably. “It's a sad day for me to hear my old friends have been done away with." He did look sad, admittedly, though hardly grief-stricken. "I have some good friends that saw me in my fit,” he added, “Why not ask them?”
“Perhaps you were the man who killed the whores? Have you thought of that, Mr Craddock?” Catlin burst out, goaded beyond endurance by the man’s smug bonhomie. Craddock considered this as well, his expression suddenly changed. Not afraid, unfortunately, only intent.
“An interesting accusation,” he said eventually, setting his goblet down with a little tap, “And one to which in principle I might have no defence. However, in my right mind I would never do such a thing, so greatly to my dishonour, and while out of my right mind I was in a raving fit and both audible and visible for miles, quite apart from being first surrounded by friends and then knocked out by laudanum and tied to the bed to boot.” Craddock smiled a very charming friendly smile. “Your case would be extremely difficult to make, Mr Catlin, and I think I could supply several dozen witnesses to the contrary, including a member of Her Majesty’s Privy Council.”
The words hung in the air like the golden cloak of Pallas Athene which protected her favoured heroes. Craddock had made it clear he had good lordship available to him if he chose to use it.
Catlin swallowed. He hated this sort of case. Papists were so much easier and hardly ever had numinously powerful patrons.
“Perhaps you have been in such a fit before and killed without remembering it, thinking the women to have been demons?” he pressed.
“Hm, you have a point, Mr Catlin,” said Craddock seriously, but not seeming worried at all. “It would be a terrible thing but I suppose it must be possible.”
“You might not have been in your right mind?”
“Clearly not, but do you have any witnesses that place me at the locus in quo?”
Catlin saw no reason to answer that question. At last Craddock was looking concerned – not trembling, but his brow was at least furrowed.
“It is an appalling thought that I could have done such crimes and not known,” said Craddock slowly, “and if, which is not admitted, I were indeed to have been the unknowing perpetrator of them, I can only say, Mr Catlin, that you must use every power you possess to find the evidence that will hang me.”
Catlin frowned. He also hated lawyers and anyone who could speak fluently in deponent clauses. “You do not deny the charge?”
“I do, of course,” said Craddock easily, “I deny it most vehemently. But you have most astutely pointed out that if I committed the murders whilst deranged I might not know I had done them – although it might be arguable that a murder committed in such a fit would not be a murder at all, since you would be in difficulty establishing mens rea, ergo it would be a manslaughter. The result would be the same, though, for I am sure that any man of sense would agree that if it were indeed shown without doubt to have been myself that did such a dishonourable thing as to murder two defenceless women, leave alone then mutilating their corpses, the sentence must be most infallibly to hang me and in fact I could not quibble with it.”
Catlin blinked fast as he navigated the linguistic maze and found that Craddock had in fact simply elaborately repeated himself. From the look on the man’s broad smug face it was something he could do at will, at length and, as he would no doubt say, ad nauseam.
“In fact, I think you should question Mrs Ashley, my mother-in-law. Although as a woman she is not able to act as a witness, she may be able materially to help you.” Christ, the man was getting more pompous by the minute. “I would prefer it if you did not question my dear little wife. Poor love, she is terribly subject to attacks of the mother.”
Catlin shuddered at the thought. “Thank you, Mr Craddock, I think I shall indeed speak with your mother-in-law. Perhaps you would clarify to her that I have your permission to do so?”
“Of course.” Craddock stood up, waited courteously for Catlin to finish his wine, then led through the parlour, out the back hall and across the yard to the kitchen and larders that were built against the back wall.
In the kitchen the girl with a harelip was busy peeling small onions and weeping, there was a strong smell of vinegar and salt and also the smell of meat and blood. A half pig’s head hung from a hook by the door to the wet larder, and the wall was lined with chines and sides of pork. Mrs Ashley had a boy next to her, who was busy grinding salt in a mortar with peppercorns and allspice berries. The carefully emptied and washed pig’s guts were hanging in neat spiral loops to dry, ready for turning into sausages. Mrs Ashley herself was vigorously rubbing salt and spices into the large piece of pork on the counter in front of her, a large barrel half full of pork and salt next to her on the stone flags.
“Mrs Ashley,” said Craddock, “I’m sorry to trouble you but Mr Catlin wishes to question you about the whore-killings.”
The woman paused in her work, then turned and laid the pork belly carefully into the barrel where she packed it with more salt and saltpetre. “Indeed?” she said as she took a large knife and cut the next piece from the hook in front of her.
“Yes, Mrs Ashley, I would like to know more about Mr Craddock’s fit of distemper the other day and also whether he has suffered a like problem before?”
“I gave Mr Catlin permission to talk to you,” said Craddock, “He has pointed out that if I remember nothing after a fit, it is not impossible I could have killed the whores in my fit and not known it.”
“It is impossible,” said Mrs Ashley at once, “You were at home all the time you were ill.”
“I did go out to collect some papers,” said Craddock, “As I recall, in fact I think I spoke to Mrs Morgan on the way. Then when I came back I was in my chamber for a little while and that was when the heat and frenzy came upon me.”
“From which point we were with you and I sent for several of your friends to come and help as well.”
“Has Mr Craddock had a similar fit before?”
“No,” said his mother in law flatly, “Never.” She took the mortar from the boy and poured it over the pork belly in front of her, started rubbing. “Don’t just stand there,” she said to the boy, “Fetch more salt and spices and start again. We have to fill this barrel tight before we stop. Forgive me, sirs, I am very busy.”
Catlin took the hint and they left, Craddock sweeping him on from the parlour and out the hall door. “Mr Catlin, let me know if you find out anything to the purpose,” he said, “Do you know when Annie and Mary’s funerals will be?”
Catln shook his head. “Mr Recorder Fleet
wood will know about Kettle Annie's funeral, but I doubt it will be before the matter is cleared up. Mary de Paris was buried by the players who found her, I'm afraid.”
Craddock nodded, bowed courteously and ushered Catlin back into the street. He stood there blinking, annoyed with himself. There was something not right there, he knew there was, but he had no time to do anything. He was late for Mass.
Father Felix Bellamy was trying to prepare himself to say Mass but felt he had no time. He was in the back of the alehouse whose yard had the entrance to the crypt where they would worship. He had no proper vestments, only his stole around his neck. He had a small crucifix that unscrewed to be hidden under his clothes but he was using an ordinary silver goblet and plate as his chalice and patten. Mrs Crosby had made the hosts in her wafer iron the day before. He had his breviary of course, but no matter how carefully he read the prayers to be said before Mass and the Gospel appointed for the day, he couldn't settle. The small print blurred in his sight while his heart made a drum beat that drowned his own voice. He knew the people were gathering in the crypt because they slipped past him occasionally. There weren't very many of them, it was at short notice. They were hoping he would bring them the spiritual sustenance of Our Lord's Body and he knew that he was there under false pretences. He hadn't come to England on a Holy Mission. He had come on a personal matter which had no place here.
The words blurred again before him, a meaningless babble of Latin. He hadn't wanted to celebrate Mass publicly like this, he had only wanted to rest a little and then start making enquiries, but once he had foolishly brought the matter up, Mrs Crosby had insisted. She had shown him the bolthole in the crypt, the square pit that he could use if necessary. He had nearly choked at the smell of blood that seemed to come from it although it seemed clean enough.
And now she was nowhere to be found. She had brought him to the cider cellar and then muttered something about needing firewood and had disappeared down a side alley.
He took his stole off and put it in his doublet pocket, wandered restlessly into the kitchen of the alehouse, pulled in by the cooking smell. He was sharp set since he was, of course, fasting. There were two large raised pies on the table there ready to be sliced and a large cauldron of stewing salt beef and carrots rumbling away on the main fire. It looked as if the alehouse was expecting a large number of hearty eaters that day.
Do We Not Bleed Page 17
