by A D Swanston
Friday – two more days and nights for Joan to suffer Newgate. ‘Where?’
‘In the sessions house.’ The sessions house stood next to Newgate prison – convenient for delivery of accused awaiting trial at the next assizes.
‘I wish to be present.’
Knoyll’s eyes narrowed. ‘I cannot prevent you doing so.’
‘Then I shall be there, Mr Knoyll.’
The magistrate shrugged. ‘If you insist.’
‘On Friday at midday. In the sessions house. Good day, Mr Knoyll.’
Outside the house on Ludgate Hill, Daniel Cardoza was waiting for him. ‘Dr Radcliff, my mother asks that you come with me to Leadenhall.’
Christopher took a deep breath. ‘Your father?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘My father’s condition is unchanged but Aaron Lopes has returned from Antwerp. He is at our house now. Please come.’
By the time they arrived at the house, Christopher was panting with the effort of keeping up with the young man. He took a few deep breaths before following Daniel inside.
Sarah Cardoza’s cousin rose from his seat when Christopher entered the room. He was narrow-faced, with dark eyes and a black beard so long that it might at another time have been comical. As Isaac habitually was, he was dressed in the black of a respectable merchant. And he was about the height of a ten-year-old boy. He held out a hand and spoke in a voice not much above a whisper.
‘Dr Radcliff. I am Aaron Lopes. Sarah is with Isaac. She has told me what has happened.’
‘May I sit, sir?’ asked Christopher, not wishing to tower over him.
‘Of course. Sit and tell me how I may be of service in finding Isaac’s attacker. He is not only my cousin’s husband but a dear friend and a good man. I pray that he recovers soon.’
‘As do I. Did Isaac mention to you the appearance of strange counterfeit testons?’
Aaron shook his head. ‘He did not. In what way are they strange?’
Christopher took the pouch from his purse and handed the teston to Lopes, who held it up to the light. ‘Isaac is the goldsmith,’ he said. ‘I deal in precious stones – diamonds and rubies for the most part – but I have heard tell of these coins and their connection to the Dudley family. They caused much trouble when first seen, did they not?’
‘They did, and are doing so again. The Earl of Leicester is understandably exercised about them and has instructed me to find their source. So far, I have made little progress.’
‘The Goldsmiths, the Royal Mint?’
‘Nothing.’
For a while they sat in silence. Eventually, Aaron spoke again. ‘I will make inquiries among our community.’
‘Thank you, Mr Lopes. But be discreet. The earl has insisted that the fewer who know about the coins the better. You should know also that there have recently appeared several slogans, some of which refer to the earl. The testons might be connected to them.’
Aaron’s shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘And have added to the noble earl’s discomfort, I daresay.’
‘They have. The perpetrator of the one might lead us to the perpetrator of the other.’
‘And thus to Isaac’s assailant.’
‘Let us hope so.’
The door opened and Sarah Cardoza entered. To Christopher’s eye she was diminished even since his last visit. Her face was drawn and her cheeks hollow. ‘Dr Radcliff,’ she said in a voice almost as quiet as Aaron’s, ‘have you news?’
‘None as yet, I fear, Sarah, but with Mr Lopes’s help, perhaps we shall make progress.’
‘And with God’s help.’
‘Indeed. Mr Lopes, Daniel knows where to find me.’
‘Shalom, Dr Radcliff.’
Mr Brewster’s shop in Fetter Lane was tucked between a seller of legal books and a supplier of court dress to judges, lawyers and clerks. Lincoln’s Inn and Gray’s Inn were both close by. Christopher called on Brewster not only to buy new compositions but also for the pleasure of his company. Brewster could get his hands on rare printed books from abroad, and, when he could not, engaged professional copyists to produce elegantly penned music manuscripts.
Brewster, like Isaac Cardoza and the barber in Fleet Street, loved to talk. A grey-haired, smiling man of about forty, he had no family but he did have an opinion on anything he read in a news book or overheard in an inn. He knew Christopher only as a customer and would have been astonished to learn that the tall, fair-haired Dr Radcliff was the Earl of Leicester’s chief London intelligencer. If he had been less talkative, it would not have suited Christopher’s purpose. He encouraged Brewster to share his gossip and occasionally learned something useful. So he claimed that his ivory Venetian lute had come to him from his late father.
At first, they had discussed suitable pieces and Brewster had gone to the trouble of looking out some that required the use of only the thumb and two fingers. Later Christopher had bought a copy of Le Roy’s Lute Book and a number of pieces by Richard Edwards and the Italian Francesco da Milano. Both were dead but Brewster thought their music would suit Christopher. He had been right. The serenity of da Milano and the melodies of Edwards, Master of the Children of the Royal Chapel in the reign of the queen’s father, perfectly suited Christopher’s taste.
Brewster had also offered advice on where to find good strings and how to avoid the poor ones shipped from France and Germany. The quality of strings varied with the seasons and even the merchants in Thomas Gresham’s new Royal Exchange could be tricked into buying parcels of old strings that would soon perish.
Today, however, Christopher was not in the mood for talk. He had come to buy some new music, in the hope it would take his mind from Newgate. He explained that he had little time to spare and asked for Brewster’s suggestions. ‘Do you know any of Master Johnson’s tunes, sir?’ asked the shopkeeper. The name was not familiar. ‘Well, then, I suggest that you try this.’ Brewster held out several sheets of music, rolled and secured with a blue ribbon. ‘It is his latest composition and has already become very popular. I believe Mr Johnson has a bright future ahead of him, perhaps even a place at court.’
Christopher took the roll and read the title written on it. It was ‘The Delight Pavan’. He thanked Brewster and fumbled in his purse for coins.
‘No funny money, if you please, sir,’ said Brewster with a grin. ‘I hear there’s much of it about. Strange testons, they say, although I have seen none.’
Christopher handed over a silver sixpence. ‘Thank you, Mr Brewster. I shall take care to avoid anything with a red hue.’
‘And the slogans, sir. Have you seen them?’
‘I have, but paid them little attention. I doubt if they are of any consequence. Good day, Mr Brewster.’
‘Good day, sir. Call again soon when you have more time.’
CHAPTER 10
The man beside the earl was heavier set and without the earl’s aquiline good looks. Only the Dudley eyes gave him away. He did not rise when Christopher entered the room.
Leicester’s tone was brisk. ‘Dr Radcliff, my brother Ambrose, Earl of Warwick.’
Christopher doffed his cap and bowed as low as he could. ‘My lord, it is an honour.’ Ambrose Dudley did not reply or even smile. Christopher recalled hearing that Ambrose Dudley, the ‘good’ Earl of Warwick, seldom smiled. There was certainly none of his brother’s charm about him. An austere Puritan, by all accounts, who had distinguished himself both in war and in the administration of the realm. He too had been sentenced to death and imprisoned in the Tower at the time of their father’s execution, had been reprieved and had gradually worked his way back into royal favour. It seemed to be the story of the Dudley family.
‘You sent for me, my lord. How may I be of service?’ The elder Dudley’s eyes did not leave Christopher’s face but still he did not speak.
‘My brother is aware of the recent slogans and of the testons that falsely and treacherously carry our family emblem and of the attack on your agent in Fleet Street. Naturally, he is as concern
ed as I am. What news is there?’
‘Isaac Cardoza lives, my lord, and we are making inquiries that I hope will lead to the source of the false coins.’
‘Hope, doctor? We had expected rather more by this time, and so had Her Majesty.’
‘It is not easy to locate the source of small numbers of false coins, my lord. The mint could be anywhere and the warden has been unable to offer any suggestions as to the identity of the coiners.’
Leicester held up a hand. ‘I am aware of the difficulties but our family name is being impugned and that we will not tolerate.’ He glanced at his brother, who nodded. ‘And what of the scurrilous scribblings concerning my late wife? Has their author been arrested?’
‘I fear not, although I am confident that he soon will be.’ The words were out of Christopher’s mouth before he could swallow them. He had no idea if the slogan-writer would ever be caught. His attention had been elsewhere.
‘Confidence as well as hope. We are fortunate indeed, Ambrose, to have the services of Dr Radcliff, are we not?’ When Leicester was in this mood, it was best to say as little as possible. Christopher stifled a protest and remained silent. Leicester sighed. ‘Well, we must hope that your confidence soon proves justified, must we not, Ambrose?’
For the first time, Ambrose Dudley spoke. ‘Indeed we must.’
‘Now, Dr Radcliff, I summoned you here to tell you that tomorrow I must travel to Kenilworth and do not wish to leave these matters unattended to. While I am away, you will report to the Earl of Warwick and carry out his instructions. Is that clear?’
‘It is, my lord.’ Christopher turned to Warwick. ‘How will I communicate with you, my lord Warwick?’
‘Deliver messages to Wetherby. He will ensure that they reach me without delay. If I wish to see you, I too will send word by his hand.’
‘As you wish, my lord.’
‘The earl will contact me if necessary,’ said Leicester. The black eyes narrowed. ‘I trust it will not be necessary. Have you any more questions, doctor?’
‘None, my lord.’
‘Then I shall expect the coiners and those behind the slogans to be in Newgate by the time I return. Good day, Dr Radcliff.’
‘Good day, my lords.’ Another low bow and he took his leave. He hurried along the gallery and down the steps to the Holbein Gate. Outside the gate, he squared his shoulders and breathed deeply. Whitehall Palace was a place he had once found oppressively intimidating and which even now after nearly four years in Leicester’s service made him uneasy.
The Brown Bear tavern was wedged into a narrow space between a baker’s shop and a cobbler on the Strand. From time to time Christopher went there after visiting Whitehall. It was a quiet place where he was unlikely to be bothered by acquaintances or troublemakers and the ale was less watery than in most London taverns.
He sat in a corner with a beaker and tried to remember what more he knew about Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick and elder brother of the Earl of Leicester. At first he had been taken aback by the earl’s lack of courtesy in not rising when Christopher was introduced to him, particularly as his brother insisted on good manners at all times, but now he recalled that the queen had sent Ambrose Dudley to France at the head of an army in support of the Huguenots. In the defence of Le Havre he had been badly wounded in the leg and now walked only with difficulty. Standing must also be painful for him.
What else? A strict Puritan, owner of Warwick Castle not far from Kenilworth, twice – or was it thrice? – married, childless and close to his brother. He too had served in his father’s army at Norwich. Lacking Robert’s looks perhaps, but not his loyalty or his ambition. And to hold the position of Master of the Ordnance, as Warwick did, showed favour with the queen. Christopher swallowed the last of his ale and left. He had hoped to have heard from Aaron Lopes by now and perhaps from Richard Martin, although their last meeting had been less than fruitful. A word with Warwick about him might not go amiss. Or it might. Wiser perhaps to bide his time until he could better judge the earl’s reaction.
In Fleet Street a dozen or so men had gathered outside an apothecary’s shop. He could guess why. Sure enough, the letters were poorly formed and it was marked with the letter X. Beware the coin with Staff and Bear, Not minted royal but in Dudley’s lair. Another direct attack on Leicester, on the Dudley family. Another act of sedition without apparent purpose other than to discredit them.
This time he could not pass by. He stood in front of the apothecary’s wall and faced the onlookers. ‘Did any man see who did this?’ he called out. There was no response. ‘The writer of this is guilty of treason and so is any man who knows him but does not speak.’ A shuffling of feet and eyes downcast but still no response.
Then a woman at the back spoke up. ‘The words appear as if by magic. The writers are never seen. It is witchcraft.’ The crowd murmured its agreement.
Christopher raised his voice. ‘It is not magic; it is not witchcraft. The slogans are the work of a man of flesh and blood, no different to you or me.’ He stepped to one side and pointed to the slogan. ‘See how the letters are poorly made. A sign that this felony was carried out at night when the felon could not see well what he was writing.’
The woman spoke again. ‘What of the crosses? Have these writings not all been marked with crosses?’
‘They have, goodwife, but they mean little. They are not Christian crosses, merely the mark of the writer as a painter would mark his work with his name. There is nothing to be afraid of here. A wretch who has not the courage to say what he means clearly and by the light of day is not to be feared by honest folk.’ Another thought occurred. ‘If these words had been written by the hand of a witch, would they not be impossible to remove? Surely they would. Yet all the slogans we have seen have been scrubbed off with nothing more than water from the river. See here.’ With the corner of his gown he rubbed hard at the letter D. It immediately faded a little and some fell away on chips from the wall. ‘There. A witch’s work made worthless by a humble gown and a little effort. Fetch water and be rid of this treason. Do not be cowed by it.’ Among the onlookers he sensed a change of mood.
‘I will bring a pail,’ volunteered one man.
‘Make haste,’ said Christopher, relieved that the crowd had been persuaded. He was about to walk away when out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a face he knew, or thought he knew, detach itself from the crowd and walk briskly off towards the Strand. Was it his imagination or had he seen that face before? If he had, it might have been anywhere – an inn, a shop, on the street. But something about the face unsettled him. Perhaps it would come to him.
The small figure standing outside his door was also familiar. He saw Christopher coming and raised a hand in greeting. ‘Dr Radcliff, Daniel Cardoza led me here.’
‘Mr Lopes. I hope you bring good news. How is Isaac?’
‘Isaac is unchanged. As far as Sarah can tell, he is neither better nor worse. She manages to drip a little ale and broth into his mouth. Without that, I believe he would not have survived.’
‘He has said nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
Christopher unlocked the door. ‘Come in, Mr Lopes, and tell me your news. It is a day for new developments.’
They sat in the study, Christopher behind his writing table, Aaron perched on a chair opposite, his feet barely touching the floor. ‘It is not much,’ he began, ‘but I thought to tell you at once. There are two men – father and son – John and Hugh Pryse, skilled men who worked at the mint until three years ago when they were dismissed.’
Christopher kept his face impassive. Martin had said nothing of this. ‘Why were they dismissed?’
‘An argument with a supervisor. Tempers frayed and blows were struck.’ Aaron smiled. ‘Over a woman, it seems. Is it not always a woman?’
Christopher rolled his eyes. ‘Not always but often enough. What of these men?’
‘Both were highly regarded minters and the warden was sorry to lose them. The fat
her left swearing revenge.’ Aaron took a false teston from his purse and held it up. ‘I have shown this to three goldsmiths. Two of them suggested the Pryses on account of the quality of the work but none could guess at where they might now be. After their dismissal, they disappeared.’
‘Surely there are others who could have done work as good?’
‘There are, but without the motive of revenge. It is a powerful weapon, Dr Radcliff.’
Christopher thought of John Berwick, a traitor motivated by revenge for the killing of his father, who had been driven to attempt to assassinate the queen and set fire to Whitehall Palace. ‘As I am aware, Mr Lopes. The whereabouts of these Pryses are not known?’
‘They are not. In or out of London, in a cellar or an attic, they could be anywhere.’
‘Richard Martin, the warden, made no mention of them. Why would that be, I wonder?’
‘Martin might not have connected them to the false coins.’ Christopher found himself stretching his fingers. ‘I shall call again on Mr Martin. It can do no harm.’
Aaron stood up. ‘I wish you good fortune, doctor. Tell me if I can do more.’
‘You have acted swiftly and you have done more than anyone else, Mr Lopes, and I thank you for it. If Martin can shed light on these Pryses, we might at last make progress. Please tell Sarah that I think of her and hope daily to hear news of Isaac’s recovery.’
‘I shall, although the longer he is as he is, the less likely a recovery. A painful thought but we Jews prefer to face the truth. Ignoring it does no good. Shalom, doctor.’
‘Shalom.’
‘What is unclear to me, warden, is why you have not mentioned the Pryses to me before. They must have occurred to you as possible suspects.’
Christopher had wasted no time. A wherry had taken him to Tower steps, from where he had marched unbidden to the mint and demanded to see the warden. Told that the warden was otherwise occupied, he had insisted on waiting. An hour later an ill-tempered Martin had appeared and now they sat in his office.
‘They did not.’