[Stephen Attebrook 10] - The Corpse at Windsor Bridge

by Jason Vail

  “What’s in the room that is so important to you that you need to break in?”

  “There are things there.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Things that can be sold.”

  “And why would you want to sell these things?”

  “To pay my brother’s fine.”

  “What’s happened with your brother?”

  “He’s being held in Oxford gaol. If I don’t find a way to pay his fine, they’ll cut off his hand.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “He’s accused of poaching. But he didn’t do it!”

  “Of course, not.” Dot looked thoughtfully toward the Thames. “You know, if this room is rich enough, there might be those who would take on the work for you. For a fee, of course.”

  “Really?” Ida asked.

  “Hereabout the Red Candle there are those who specialize in such things, getting into locked houses, strong rooms, and the like. They are available for hire.”

  “That’s so hard to believe.”

  Dot chuckled. “Why a couple of people here, whom I cannot name of course, just burgled a place for a client — but a few weeks ago.”

  “Why ever would they do that?”

  “The client, a stinking rich cleric, said his property was in hold there. He was willing to pay a huge amount to get it back. It was too easy and well-paying a job to pass up.”

  Ida held her breath for a couple of heartbeats, and then asked as disinterestedly as she could, “What could be so dear to him the he would risk so much?”

  “A gold cross with jewels,” Dot said. “On a gold chain.”

  “So he just paid up and you went on your way?” Ida asked with what she hoped was disbelief leavened with disinterest.

  “That’s the size of it. We are professionals, after all. Now, about your problem.”

  “It’s very dangerous.”

  “How so?”

  “The room of which I speak is in Wallingford Castle, a strong room in the tower,” Ida said. She had never been to Wallingford Castle, but it wasn’t more than a day’s ride from London. She knew of it because she had heard one of Percival FitzAllan’s sergeants, who had been in the garrison there, talk about it. “It’s well guarded. Surely you’d get caught.”

  “Hmm. And you can get to it?”

  “I am a servant there. No one pays attention to what I do or where I go.”

  Dot was quiet for a moment, hands on her knees. “It’s going to cost you.”

  “I did not expect you to work for free.” Ida removed the ruby ring from her pouch. “Will this be sufficient?”

  She had considered using some of Gilbert’s money. But a girl like she was pretending to be wouldn’t have any. But a ring? That could be explained . . . .

  Dot took the ring and gazed at it with undisguised surprise and avarice. “Is this real gold?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the stone, what is it?”

  “A ruby.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From the locked room.”

  Dot chuckled. “And there’s more where it came from, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  Dot put the ring in her pouch. “All right then. What kind of lock is on the door?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Girl! Locks are different. Each one must be handled differently, according to its nature.”

  “Oh.” Panic began to overwhelm Ida. She had not thought of this.

  “Tell me what it looked like. Was it a padlock?” Dot asked.

  “No,” Ida said. “It was one of those attached straight to the door.”

  “Ah,” Dot said. She produced a square iron lock from beneath her cloak. “Like this?”

  “Yes.”

  “A warded lock, then. You don’t need to pick a warded lock. You only need a skeleton key.”

  “What’s that?”

  Dot produced a key ring with five keys on it. Each of the keys had a round stem. At the end of each stem were sets of small metal protuberances, not unlike sets of wings; two with just a pair opposite each other, two with two pairs and one with three.

  “It’s easy enough to do,” Dot said. She made sure the lock was secure. Then she inserted one of the keys, jiggled it a bit, and the lock opened. She handed the lock and set of keys to Ida. “You give it a go.”

  Ida accepted the lock, made sure it was fast, and inserted the same key Dot had used. She jiggled the key as she’d seen Dot do. The lock did not come free, and she began to worry that there was more to it than Dot let on.

  But then there was a soft clunk, and the lock disengaged.

  “Look at you,” Dot beamed. “Almost a professional already.”

  A strange city, particularly one as large and maze-like as London, was not a place where either Ida or Gilbert wanted to wander about in the dark, even if it was Christmas Night. Not only was there the possibility of getting lost, but there was the chance of robbery, or being accosted by the roving bands of bailiffs which patrolled the streets during the night despite the holiday.

  So, they found a small tavern in which to settle down late in the day and await the arrival of nightfall. The tavern was packed to the brim with people celebrating, and it was impossible to get to the privy out back without pushing people aside or knocking them over.

  The crowd had hardly thinned even three hours after sundown.

  Gilbert touched Ida’s hand. “I think we should go. We’ve given the gaoler enough time to get thoroughly drunk, don’t you think?”

  “I hope so,” Ida said standing up.

  They made their way to the door, where a boy was letting out lamps for those stepping into the night. A person carrying such a lamp was considered to be on lawful business after dark and so was unlikely to be arrested.

  “Should we take one?” Ida asked Gilbert.

  “Yes, I think so,” he said patting the rope wound around his ample belly. “Let’s not take any more chances than we have to.”

  “Right, then,” Ida said, paying the boy a farthing while Gilbert carried the lantern.

  The street outside was named Aldermannebury, they had learned, and they walked north along it, savoring the chill air. A light dusting of snow was falling, which worried Ida. If it remained on the ground, there might be trouble. But the snow appeared to melt upon contact with the ground, although it stayed on the rooftops, looking like someone had flung fresh flour over them.

  They reached the lane leading to the guildhall and began to pass people coming from its direction, while others hurried by them toward the hall.

  The guildhall itself was lit up, lights in every window. There was a noisy crowd out front clustered around a bonfire. The door to the hall opened, revealing blazing fires and another crowd within.

  “Perhaps we should try another night,” Gilbert said. “When it’s quieter.”

  “No,” Ida said grimly. “Everyone will be drunk, as you said. And their noise will cover ours.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Gilbert said with trepidation.

  They found the gaoler’s house dark and quiet.

  “Good,” Ida said. “They’re either passed out or gone to the guildhall.”

  They crept around the side of the gaol.

  “Here, I think,” Ida said. “Let’s have the rope.”

  “Oh, dear,” Gilbert muttered.

  He unwound the rope, then tied it about his chest under the armpits.

  Ida tied the other end to her belt.

  “Give me your hands,” she said.

  Gilbert made a stirrup of his hands. Ida put a foot in the stirrup and climbed to Gilbert’s shoulders. Even though she was a small girl who didn’t weigh very much, Gilbert grunted and grimaced at the weight.

  Ida had thought she should be able reach the top of the wall, but it remained several inches away from her outstretched hand.

  “You’ll have to push me up,” she hissed.

  “I’m not sure I can,” Gilbert
said. Nor was he steady on his feet; he wobbled and trembled, and there was the real possibility that he might fall over, which could make a lot of noise and ruin everything.

  “Mind your head, then,” Ida said.

  Before Gilbert could protest, she stepped on the top of his head, and gained a handhold on the top of the wall. She wasn’t strong enough to chin herself, but she managed to pull herself high enough to throw a heel to the top of the wall. With three limbs working rather than a mere two, and assisted by Gilbert’s efforts raising her other leg, she was able to pull herself up. She rested a moment while straddling the wall, and untied the rope from her belt. She dropped the end into the open space within the gaol where the cells were located. She was so afraid now that her limbs seemed made of water that would not obey the commands she gave them.

  “Get ready,” she whispered. “I’m going over.”

  Gilbert nodded, still not fully recovered from the insult to his head, and grasped the rope with both hands.

  Ida let herself down into the yard. Above the cells on the left was an upper floor to the gaoler’s house, which had two windows. She paused and listened for any movement, or any sign from those windows if anyone was there and heard anything. But only the muffled sounds of merriment from the guildhall reached her ears.

  Ida tip-toed to the door to Stephen’s cell. She put her lips to the barred window. “Stephen, are you there?”

  The sounds of rustling issued through the little window.

  “Ida, what the devil are you doing here?” Stephen hissed from the dark, for she could not see his face, although she felt his warm breath. He sounded shocked and surprised. Ida was strangely pleased with that.

  “I’ve come to fetch you home,” she said.

  “What are you going to do? Break down the door?”

  “Of course not, silly man. Just wait a minute while I work a little magic.”

  This came out more confidently than she felt. She fished in her pouch for the skeleton keys, fumbling for one of them. She wasn’t even sure if any of them would work and her hands trembled as she directed the first key into the keyhole. The key rattled in the hole, but did not budge the lock. She tried a second one. Similar result. She tried a third. Still no joy. But on the fourth, after some struggle, the lock clanged and the door opened.

  Stephen slipped out into the yard. “Where’d you learn to do that?” he asked, amazed.

  “That’s a secret,” Ida said.

  Then eight other men pushed through the door.

  “Who are they?” Ida whispered.

  “My cellmates,” Stephen said. “We can’t just leave them behind.”

  Then a voice came clear as day from another cell across the yard.

  “You’d better let us out, too. I’ll shout if you don’t! I’ll call the gaoler!”

  “You’d better work fast,” Stephen whispered to Ida.

  The others already free saw the rope and the first of them began to climb to the top.

  “I don’t like this, Stephen,” Ida said as she applied her key to the lock. “We should be away. Every moment we lose may mean our capture.”

  “I know. But I don’t think we have a choice.”

  Fortunately, the same key Ida had used on the lock to Stephen’s cell worked on all the others, and she had them each unlocked with only a moment of fidgeting. Soon, the yard was crowded with men; how many Ida had no idea. Those cells must have been packed wall-to-wall.

  The men were sensible enough, however, not to make excessive noise while they waited for their turn to climb the wall. And one by one, they went up and over. In their haste, some of them didn’t bother with the rope; a pair of men boosted up another, who slipped over and disappeared.

  Ida watched the windows in the house overhead as she waited her turn. Now that her work was done, she wanted nothing more than to be away, hidden by the dark night.

  “That is an idea,” Stephen murmured, watching those ascending without the rope. “Up you go, Ida.”

  He put his back to the wall as Gilbert had done and boosted her onto his shoulders. Grasping her ankles, he lifted her even farther so that she easily grasped the top and got a leg over. Then she hung from the other side, and dropped.

  In moments, Stephen was at her side.

  “How did you do that?” she gasped. “Fly?”

  “Almost,” Stephen grinned. “It’s really a rather short wall. Easy enough to jump. Get out of that thing, Gilbert. We must be off.”

  Gilbert wormed his way out of the rope and handed it to the man beside him. “Your turn to be the anchor,” he said.

  “But you did so well,” said the man offered the rope. He flung it down and raced away.

  “What now?” Gilbert asked Stephen.

  “We’ve done what we can,” Stephen said. “It’s every man for himself now.”

  As they came around the corner of the gaol to the south side, they heard a cry of pain from the front, followed by a squelching sound and then another.

  “We better run,” Stephen said, taking off at the limping lope that passed as a run for him.

  Ida gathered her skirts and easily kept up with him; she felt as though she could leave him behind if it was a race.

  “Hey!” a voice shouted. “You! Stop!”

  “Shit,” Stephen spat. “It’s Matt.”

  “Matt?” Ida asked.

  “The gaoler’s bully. As mean as they come.”

  They glanced back and in the gleam from the guildhall saw Matt, his cudgel in his hand, running full out toward them. He was shockingly fast for such a large man.

  There was a chance that Stephen and Ida might have outrun him, even with Stephen’s bad foot, but there was no chance that Gilbert could get away.

  And Matt was rapidly closely on him.

  “Damn it,” Stephen said as he skidded to a halt.

  He turned back.

  “Stephen!” Ida cried. “What are you doing?”

  Stephen passed a stumbling Gilbert and ran straight toward Matt. Matt slowed and raised his climb to strike Stephen down, certain of the success of his intention, his mouth a rictus of cruel joy.

  But Stephen ducked left as Matt’s mighty blow descended so that it hissed by Stephen’s head.

  Stephen drove the Y of his hand against Matt’s throat and threw him on his back with such force that Matt’s feet flew into the air and his head struck the ground with an audible thonk. Matt did not move.

  “Serves you right, you vicious bastard,” Stephen said turning back to Gilbert and Ida.

  They ran into the dark side by side.

  Chapter 10

  The sun hardly had time to rise above the rooftops before word of the great Christmas gaol break had spread throughout the city. Early morning visitors in need of relief, some still nursing hangovers from the festivities of the holiday, brought news of it to Maggie’s house, and then people on the streets could be heard discussing events loudly under the windows, so that all the girls, and Maggie herself, were agog over it. Much hilarity was enjoyed at the expense of the gaoler and the aldermen who had hired him.

  Meanwhile, the rumors darted about: the gaoler had been sacked; the gaoler had been made a guest in his own establishment; the gaoler’s helper had been killed; the gaoler’s helper hadn’t been killed but instead badly mauled by escapees; there were more than forty escapees, some of them murderers, arsonists and rapists, now free to prey upon the innocent and unsuspecting.

  People were warned to keep a lookout for the most notorious criminals, including a royalist spy who had recently been arrested before he could do any harm to the barons’ cause, as well as the beautiful young woman who had visited him the day before and was seen helping him escape. It was said that the militia had been called out to scour the streets, and double guards had been placed on the city gates to recapture the fugitives should any decide to flee the city.

  The part about the militia appeared to be true. Stephen observed two men carrying bills walking up and down Bre
d Street in front of the brothel, accosting passers-by. If this was true, he believed the rumors about the gates being guarded as well.

  Then later in the morning, the ward alderman’s men came round and interrogated Maggie about whether she had entertained any suspicious guests.

  She went to Gilbert’s chamber, where Stephen was hiding, after the interrogation.

  “You can’t stay,” she said to Stephen, Gilbert and Ida. “None of you. The girls are in danger of being questioned. Any one of them could let slip that I have been harboring illegal guests. I cannot risk it. I want you gone as soon as possible.”

  Stephen poured out another shilling from his rapidly depleting purse, and gave it to Maggie. “For your trouble, Maggie. And thanks.”

  Maggie smiled faintly. “I always had a soft spot for you. A foolish thing, but there it is.”

  “We’ll be gone by noon,” Stephen said.

  “See that you do,” Maggie said.

  They were out of the house a full hour before noon.

  They went out the back to avoid being noticed. Stephen led them through a maze of lanes bordered by huts, decaying tenements and lots filled with rubbish, where goats and chickens wandered in the ruts, a large pig challenged a pair of dogs over fresh scraps, and even a rabbit escaped from a hutch was seen fleeing behind an overturned cart lacking wheels, and washing hung on lines so thickly overhead that in some places it obscured the sky and dripped showers on passers-by.

  They reached a larger street and turned south toward the river.

  At Thames Street, they said good-bye to Gilbert, who rode away on the mule, towing the mare. The plan was that he would cross the river to Southwark at London Bridge and meet them on the other side. Stephen and Ida would cross by ferry since they were likely to be identified at one of the city gates, while the riverbank stretched for several miles and was harder to patrol.

  The tide was starting to go out when they reached the river.

  “Welcome to Brokenwharfe,” Stephen said.

  “Why do they call it that?” Ida asked as they found a seat on the ground above the high tide line, where a dozen people were waiting about a fire.

  Stephen pointed to a line of pilings at the tide line that leaned this way and that, like a set of bad teeth. “They’ve never been able to keep them up. They keep falling down.”