by Paul Doherty
He told Kathryn to wait and prodded the old woman up the shabby stairs. He came clattering down sooner than she expected, a look of disgust on his face.
‘A pigpen,’ he murmured. ‘Shared with others. A battered cup and some tawdry linen. Mustard Peg died penniless.’
They left the dreadful house in Bullpaunch Alley, threading their way through the lanes until they reached St Peter’s Lane.
‘Well,’ Kathryn began, ‘what do you make of all that, Master Clerk?’
Luberon looked at the houses on either side of them, which were better-kept, and the lane leading down to the church was broader and cleaner, a welcome contrast to the runnels they had just been through.
‘I don’t know,’ Luberon mumbled. ‘We learnt very little.’
‘Yes, we did,’ Kathryn replied briskly. ‘Our murderer apparently visited that house early yesterday afternoon, paid for Peg’s services and told her to meet him at a certain hour near one of the postern gates.’ She plucked the kerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the sweat forming on her brow. ‘But I agree, that tells us nothing new. Any of those physicians could have slipped out of Holy Cross Church and done all that before returning home.’
Kathryn stared down at the turreted tower of St Peter’s, recalling what she had read in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and the vague ideas which had occurred to her outside Holy Cross Church. She just wished Colum were there. Kathryn clenched her fist; Colum was supposed to be the King’s bloody Commissioner here, and she, too, had other business to attend to. Suddenly she thought of her husband, his long pale face changed to a mask of fury after several cups of wine. Kathryn closed her eyes. She must not think of him, of the possibilities surrounding his mysterious disappearance.
‘Mistress! Mistress!’
Kathryn opened her eyes and stared at Luberon.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you wish to visit Saint Peter’s Church?’
‘Will the priest assist us?’
‘It depends on what you are going to ask.’
Kathryn grinned. ‘Come along and discover for yourself.’
They found Father Raoul busily hoeing a large garden patch which stretched between the church and the priest’s house. He was a square, thick-set man, with the broad face of a farmer and tousled brown hair which looked as if it hadn’t been combed for a month. Yet he was cheerful and friendly, and he warmly welcomed Luberon, though he was rather shy of Kathryn.
‘I am only too glad for a rest,’ the priest exclaimed, dropping the hoe and wiping soiled hands on his gown. ‘Come into the house.’
He led them into the kitchen, a stark room with an earth-beaten floor, lime-washed walls and a few sticks of furniture. He invited them to sit at the small trestle-table and served stoups of cold ale, tangy and sweet to the taste.
‘Well,’ he said, smacking his lips, ‘what can I do for you?’
Luberon continued the introductions he had made in the garden, spoke briefly about the murders, then coughed and looked at Kathryn.
‘Father, you knew Peg of Bullpaunch Alley?’ she asked.
Father Raoul smiled. ‘Not in the biblical sense. Peg was a fearsome woman, God rest her.’
‘How many years have you been here, Father?’
‘About fifteen summers. Why?’
‘You were – or rather, the church here – was left a bequest to hire doctors who would work amongst the poor?’
Father Raoul shrugged. ‘That’s quite common. Churches up and down the kingdom are endowed with legacies or sums of money. Such sums, usually deposited with bankers, are drawn on according to the needs of the parish. The accounts are scrutinised and checked by good men like Master Luberon.’
‘Who gave this bequest?’
The priest sighed, then rose and went across to a huge chest against the far wall. He took a bunch of keys from his belt and carefully unlocked the three clasps, rummaged inside and brought out a leather-bound ledger; the parchment inside was yellow and greasy with age. Father Raoul peered down the pages, muttering to himself, then stopped and stabbed an entry with his finger. He turned the ledger round so Kathryn could inspect it.
‘The bequest is some eighteen years old. A generous amount. Three hundred pounds sterling, but, like many bequests, it was anonymous.’
‘And you have no idea who was the donor?’
‘No, and I suspect the bankers themselves do not know. Such monies are given and held in trust.’ Father Raoul shrugged and closed the book.
Kathryn bit back her disappointment. ‘Do the names Darryl, Cotterell, Straunge and Chaddedon mean anything to you?’
‘Well, Cotterell I have seen in the alleys and streets around the Rat’s Castle Tavern. He skulks there to buy his pleasures.’ The contempt in the priest’s voice was obvious.
‘And the others?’
Father Raoul waved his hand at Luberon. ‘As our good clerk knows, they do some good work amongst the poor, like other merchants, tailors, tradesmen and burgesses. They visit the sick and do what they can, which usually isn’t much, and every quarter present their bill.’
‘And Newington?’ Kathryn asked. ‘John Newington the alderman?’
Father Raoul pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘I have heard the name but never met him. He has little to do with this quarter of the city.’
Kathryn sat, hands in her lap. Nothing, she thought; everywhere I turn there is a dead end. She must have sat for at least five minutes, lost in her own thoughts, whilst Luberon and Father Raoul discussed parish matters.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke,’ Father Raoul said, ‘is there anything else you wish to know?’
Kathryn glared in exasperation at the ledger.
‘Your parish serves this ward?’
‘Of course.’
‘Father, has anything happened? Anything at all in the last year which you thought untoward or rather strange?’
‘Such as?’
Kathryn closed her eyes and thought of the assassin. He killed for a motive, he hated the shrine. He had the resources and wealth to move secretly round the city. She remembered ‘The Knight’s Tale’ in Chaucer’s collection.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke,’ Father Raoul repeated rather testily, ‘such as what?’
‘A funeral, a death?’
Father Raoul sat back and laughed. ‘Thanks to the sweating sickness, there have been many of those.’
‘No.’ Kathryn leaned across the table. ‘Has there been a death, a funeral, which perhaps didn’t fit in with the usual routine of your parish?’ Her eyes bored into Raoul. ‘You know, Father, someone whose death was unexpected or unexplained? Or a funeral shrouded in mystery?’
Father Raoul shook his head. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you have seen my parish. When my people go into God’s acre they are covered in a canvas sheet and shoved into a shallow hole. I bless the corpse and sing a Mass and’ – his voice broke off. ‘Except . . .’
‘Except what, Father?’
‘Except this past March, just before Lady Day. An old woman died, yes, Christina Oldstrom. She was a seamstress who lived down an alley-way just off Pound Lane.’ The priest fingered his lips. ‘Christina was a strange woman,’ he continued. ‘They say she was of a good family but she fell on hard times. She kept to herself.’
‘Did she have any kin?’
‘Not that I know of. But it was strange.’ Father Raoul held his hand up. ‘Oh, she was pious and devout, but on the few occasions I visited her house, though the outside was shabby, inside she never lacked for comfort. Enough coal and wood in winter, a proper bed, a buttery with good food and drink, and she always paid her tithes. Well, last winter, she fell ill of a wasting sickness and I directed those doctors you have mentioned to visit her, but it was fruitless. She had some terrible tumour inside which ate away her flesh.’
‘Did anyone else visit her, apart from the doctors?’ Luberon asked sharply.
‘No, no. I always thought there was someone, but she never said anything about her past, even though she lived
in comfort, well above that of a common seamstress.’ Father Raoul shrugged. ‘It was her business, so I never asked. Anyway, she died. She left a small will saying her chamber and all its contents were to be sold and the proceeds given to the poor.’ Father Raoul looked at Luberon. ‘You must remember it, Luberon. You took care of the monies. Widows and maids often make such bequests.’ Father Raoul drummed his fingers on the table. ‘But what was odd was that when her body was brought into church, I received silver pieces and written instructions to furnish her with a proper pine-wood coffin, have three Masses sung for her soul and a proper cross placed above her grave in the cemetery.’
‘Do you still have this message?’
‘No, he doesn’t,’ Luberon interrupted drily. ‘The silver pieces were spent, the Masses sung, the coffin bought and the carpenter hired to fashion the cross.’ Luberon looked away and cleared his throat. ‘Women like Christina are common: lonely, poor, neglected and ill.’
‘You never knew her?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Come,’ Father Raoul said. ‘I’ll show you the grave.’
He led them back into the sunshine and round the church to the broad, clean-kept cemetery. They wound their way along the paths between the headstones and graves. At last Father Raoul stopped before one. The earth was now flattened, the flowers placed there rotting and decayed, but the cross, though weather-beaten, still sturdily held its place. Kathryn peered closer and read the inscribed words: ‘Christina Oldstrom. Requiescat in Pace, May she rest in peace.’ She stared at Raoul.
‘And no one came forward to claim the corpse? Or declare themselves a relative?’
Father Raoul shook his head.
‘And this mysterious donor?’
‘Mistress Swinbrooke,’ the priest pleaded. ‘Such anonymous donations are common. All I remember is the purse being handed in. I carried out my duties and reported what had happened to the parish council.’
‘Father, do you know anything else about Christina Oldstrom?’
‘I have told you all. She was a seamstress of some sixty years or more.’
‘But she must have had another life?’ Kathryn persisted. ‘There must be other entries? Did she ever marry? Did she have children?’
Father Raoul breathed in deeply, looked up and watched the larks spinning against the blue sky. ‘I shouldn’t do this,’ he murmured. ‘But you may look at the parish records; births, deaths and marriages.’
‘Is that necessary?’ Luberon shifted uneasily. ‘What are you looking for, Mistress?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kathryn declared. ‘But you, Master Clerk, can help me.’
Father Raoul was most helpful and, aided by a reluctant Luberon, Kathryn began to go through dusty old ledgers and greasy rolls of parchment, scrutinising the entries very carefully for Christina Oldstrom’s name. An hour passed. At last Luberon’s exasperation spilt over and, claiming he had other things to do, he stalked out of the priest’s house. Father Raoul went back to his garden, now and again returning to enquire if Kathryn needed a cup of water or some more ale. Kathryn, not even bothering to look up, just shook her head and continued her study of the different scrawling handwritings of the parish priests of St Peter’s. At last she discovered Christina Oldstrom’s own baptismal entry for 1410, during the reign of Henry IV. She was about to turn the page when her eye caught another entry. ‘Filius natus Christina Oldstrom, a son born to Christina Oldstrom.’ She stopped and studied the words carefully, memorising the date, before moving the pages quickly forward, but there was nothing else to be discovered. Kathryn closed the book, rose and went out into the garden.
‘Are you finished, Mistress Swinbrooke?’ Father Raoul called.
‘Yes, yes, I am,’ Kathryn replied absent-mindedly.
‘Mistress, is there anything wrong?’
‘No, no. I must buy some sweetmeats.’
And, watched by a mystified priest, Kathryn walked down the path to the lych-gate.
Thomasina had also been busy that morning. There had been a few callers: a child with a scalded hand; Beeton the brewer, complaining of his gout; a young man with a sore gum who begged for some oil of cloves. Thomasina dealt with them all, cleared the kitchen table, gave Agnes her orders and, collecting her cloak, left the house and went purposefully up Ottemelle Lane and down Hethenman Lane towards St Mildred’s Church. She entered its dark coolness and stood near the baptismal font next to the door. Members of the parish council were moving about at the top of the nave, preparing the altar for the Feast of the Precious Blood. Some were polishing the rood-screen, others trimming candles or carrying cushions and testers into the sanctuary. Thomasina stood and watched for a while. She glimpsed her quarry but waited until these self-important members of the parish council had left to return to their homes.
After a while some of the group, shouting farewells, made their way down the nave, led by Joscelyn, the kinsman of Kathryn. Beside him stalked his thin, vinegarish wife whom Thomasina secretly considered to be one of the greatest shrews she had ever met. Joscelyn saw Thomasina and came towards her, scratching his balding pate as if embarrassed by the meeting.
‘Thomasina.’ The watery eyes narrowed in a false smile. ‘And how is Mistress Kathryn?’
‘She could be dead, for all your concern!’ Thomasina snapped.
Again the false smile.
‘Will she open the shop to sell herbs and spices?’
Thomasina noticed the greed in Joscelyn’s eyes. ‘Oh, yes,’ she lied, ‘she intends opening very soon.’ She saw with satisfaction the concern in Joscelyn’s face. ‘Of course, Master Joscelyn,’ Thomasina mockingly gasped, ‘that may well affect your trade!’
Joscelyn, a spicer by trade, drew his head back like an angry duck. ‘But she has no licence from the Guild!’ he snorted. ‘No licence from the Guild! That is not right!’ And shaking his head, he rejoined his wife and stalked out of the church.
Thomasina stuck her tongue out at his retreating back and went up the nave, under the large rood-screen and into the sanctuary. Only one person remained, standing at the top of the altar steps with her back to Thomasina.
‘Widow Gumple,’ Thomasina whispered. ‘Are we alone?’
Gumple whirled round, her white dumpling face looking slightly ridiculous under its ornate head-dress. Thomasina moved slowly towards her.
‘Are we alone, Widow Gumple?’ she repeated.
Widow Gumple licked her lips nervously. ‘Why, yes, Thomasina,’ she replied. ‘They have all gone. Father has taken the viaticum to a sick parishioner.’
‘Good.’ Thomasina pointed to the sacristy door. ‘What I have to say to you is best said in the utmost privacy.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ Gumple said, recovering her poise. ‘What could you have to say to me?’
Thomasina drew herself up to her full height and pointed dramatically at the widow.
‘Mistress Gumple!’ she bawled, her voice echoing like a bell round the church. ‘I accuse you, before God and man, of being a blackmailer!’
Gumple’s jaw sagged. ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.
‘What I say,’ Thomasina replied.
Gumple’s eyes fell away; she lifted the hem of her gown and walked daintily down the steps.
‘Perhaps it’s best,’ she hissed, ‘if we did talk.’
She had hardly reached the bottom step when Thomasina gave her a great push, sending Widow Gumple across the sanctuary and through the half-open sacristy door. Thomasina followed like a mastiff closing in for the kill. Gumple now looked terrified. Her head-dress slipping down over her eyes, she was backed against the wall.
‘Sit down!’ Thomasina ordered.
Gumple crouched on the stool pushed towards her. Thomasina towered over her, thrusting a clenched fist close to Gumple’s fleshy nose.
‘I don’t like you, Widow Gumple!’ Thomasina told her. ‘You are a hypocrite, and you spend most of your time around this church snatching every bit of tawdry glory you can,
but that’s your business. As it is also your business if you have a liking for young men and pay for their favours!’
Gumple just stared back, her eyes like little black currants, terrified by the fury towering over her.
‘Young men like Alexander Wyville,’ Thomasina continued. ‘I suspect you knew him before his marriage to my mistress. God only knows whether, even after vows were exchanged, you continued your relationship with him!’
Gumple’s mouth opened and closed.
‘Don’t explain to me,’ Thomasina said. ‘Your life is your own, but what do you know about Alexander Wyville’s disappearance? And why did you send that note to my mistress, demanding gold be left on a gravestone in the cemetery?’
‘I sent no note,’ Gumple bleated.
‘Yes, you did, but my mistress never received it. I did. I went to the cemetery and hid there. Apart from two lovers who would not know Alexander from Adam, the only person who came into that graveyard was you!’ Thomasina crouched over her. ‘Oh, you opened the side door and looked out as if concerned about some parish matter, but what were you really looking for? My mistress? Or the gold she might bring? Or were you just trying to trap her into making some admission?’
Widow Gumple shook her head wordlessly.
‘You snivelling tub of lard!’ Thomasina growled. ‘I admit, physician Swinbrooke did a terrible thing. He tried to poison the man who was beating his daughter. But when he returned to his house, he found Alexander gone and the only trace was Wyville’s cloak, left near his favourite spot by the riverside. I think you know the place well, you must have met Alexander there on a number of occasions.’ Thomasina cleared her throat. ‘Now, I suspect this is what happened: Alexander Wyville drank the poisoned wine, but he was so deep in his cups he must have retched and vomited most of it. Nevertheless, he knew something was wrong. He staggered out of the gate at the back of physician Swinbrooke’s house and into the alleyway. He either went to you or you met him. Perhaps you helped clean his belly of everything he had drunk. Anyway, Wyville had no desire to return and confront physician Swinbrooke, so he left his cloak by the river bank and, assisted by you, snuck out of the city to join Faunte and the other rebels.’ Thomasina pushed her face only inches away from Widow Gumple. ‘I am right, aren’t I?’ she accused. ‘And don’t lie! Do you know the punishment for blackmail? To be burned alive in a barrel of oil, that is if I don’t kill you first!’ Thomasina put her hand beneath her cloak as if searching for a dagger. ‘But if you confess the truth,’ she continued sweetly, ‘then it will be our secret. I swear by the cross I will not tell Mistress Swinbrooke. Though, of course, those letters must stop.’