by A D Swanston
Christopher squinted at him. ‘That is strange indeed. Two men, expert minters, dismissed from their positions and leaving with threats of revenge. Surely they would have been watched?’
‘It seems not. And remember, doctor, that they were not dismissed for a crime but for brawling with a supervisor. Why would anyone suspect that they would become illegal coiners? And if they did, why would they produce coins which would pass not the slightest scrutiny? It makes no sense.’
‘Is it possible to trace their whereabouts? Might other workers in the mint know where to find them?’
‘They were dismissed three years ago. It is unlikely.’
‘May I have your permission to ask them? Any man here at that time, that is.’
‘It would be an unwelcome intrusion into our work, doctor. We are already stretched.’
Christopher glared at him. ‘Mr Martin, before he departed for Kenilworth my lord Leicester was adamant. The minters of these monstrous affronts to his family name must be found and arrested. Am I to report that the Warden of the Royal Mint was unhelpful in my commission of this task?’
‘I cannot help what you choose to report but I must weigh your request against the work we do. Coins do not mint themselves.’
‘I doubt you would say so in the presence of the earl, sir. If I must I will speak further to him. Good day.’
The man was a fool. Was he merely being difficult as officials often were when they felt their authority threatened or did he have something to hide? Either way, Christopher would have to ask Wetherby to speak to Warwick.
Outside the Postern Gate there was a small green where Christopher, at the behest of the earl, had witnessed the execution of Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, for his part in what had become known as the Ridolfi Plot, after the Italian who had been caught entering the country with letters proving that the Queen of Scots was plotting the death of her cousin Queen Elizabeth.
Today the green was deserted but for a single man lolling against the tree under which Christopher had stood to watch the execution. He was broad-shouldered and well wrapped against the cold. His hat was low over his eyes. Seeing Christopher, he tipped the hat, turned and disappeared down a lane.
He had given Christopher a glimpse of his face. It was the face of the man in the crowd outside the apothecary’s shop. And now he remembered where he had seen it before – the man at the market who had run off. It was the face of his shadow and this time the shadow had wanted to be seen. What game was the man playing? Why was he following Christopher? Was he setting a trap? If he was, for what purpose? To find out, the shadow would have to be caught.
CHAPTER 11
Roland Wetherby enjoyed the use of a small apartment overlooking the bowls lawn in Whitehall Palace, blessedly far from the bear-baiting pit by the tiltyard. Christopher knew Roland disliked the baiting of bears and bulls with mastiffs as much as he did himself, although, as the queen greatly enjoyed the sport, he kept his own counsel on the matter. Privately he thought it strange that a woman who abhorred the use of torture, even on traitors, could laugh and clap at the sight of dogs being torn to bloody shreds by a furious bear.
The apartment had been one of the earl’s lures to tempt Wetherby away from Heneage. As ever, he was pleased to see Christopher. ‘Christopher, my friend, I wish you joy of the day. And how fares Mistress Allington?’
‘Unchanged. A lovely bloom but beware the man who risks the thorns to reach it. And you, Roland?’ He looked about the room. ‘You are much favoured. A comfortable nest, as I have remarked before.’
‘I am well, thank you, although truth to tell a little bored and lacking in occupation. The earl’s affairs are easily dealt with.’
‘Then I am happy to be able to bring you matters with which to exercise your mind.’
‘Not too much exercise, I trust.’
‘Not too much. Matters three only.’
‘Ah. Three. Should I sit?’
‘It might be wise.’ When they were settled, Christopher went on: ‘First and most important, Richard Martin is being unhelpful and knows more than he is telling me. I do not know why.’
‘And you need the noble Earl of Warwick’s help to encourage him to speak?’
‘I do. Secondly, I am being watched and intend to set a trap to catch the watcher. I cannot do so alone.’
‘Could you do so with my help?’
‘I believe so.’
Wetherby nodded. ‘Not too onerous so far. And the third matter?’
Christopher hesitated. ‘The third matter is more personal. Not an affair of state. My new housekeeper, Joan Willys, a willing girl although ill-favoured in looks and manner of speech, has been arrested on a charge of witchcraft. She languishes in Newgate, although she is plainly innocent of any crime and should be released. Unfortunately, however, a lying whore of a neighbour testified against her, claiming that Joan caused her pain after childbirth, and the magistrate decided that she must be examined.’
‘Poor woman, to be subjected to such an ordeal. Why would her accuser make a false declaration?’
Christopher shrugged. ‘That is what I must find out. If she were tried at the assizes Joan might suffer at the whim of a jury and her appearance would certainly tell against her. That of course would be a monstrous injustice. Could you speak to Warwick?’
Wetherby sighed. ‘For anyone but you, I could not. But for you, Christopher, I will try. Hold out no hopes, however. I expect to be brushed aside like a fly.’
‘I could try myself.’
‘No. Let me try first.’ He grinned. ‘I would not like you to be skinned and roasted over the earl’s fire.’ Wetherby seldom failed to raise a smile.
‘God’s wounds, does the Earl of Warwick eat human flesh?’
‘Only, I believe, on feast days. He is at present at Warwick Castle but is expected back in a day or two. I will speak to him about your housekeeper and about Richard Martin. Which leaves your watcher. Have you a plan for him?’
‘Let us devise one together.’
Christopher left the palace an hour later. Marvelling as he always did at the opulence now on display on the Strand, where merchants were showing off their wealth by building their grand houses with views over the river and private landing steps, he arrived in Fleet Street. A pang of guilt gave him pause as he passed Isaac’s door. Wetherby’s way of finding humour in times of trouble had made him forget his friend. He checked that the door was locked and secure, and hurried along Ludgate Hill, half expecting Daniel Cardoza to be waiting for him with news of his father.
What awaited him, however, was not Daniel but a red cross painted on his door. The paint was still wet and had run as if it were blood dripping from a wound. A pair of ragged urchins, so alike they might have been brother and sister, were watching from the other side of the street. He called out to them: ‘Did you see who did this?’ Neither spoke. He tried again. ‘Who made this mark? There is no plague here.’
The urchins exchanged a glance. ‘He said there was,’ said the boy.
‘Who said this?’
‘The man who gave us a halfpenny to keep watch,’ replied the girl, holding up a coin.
Christopher took a pace towards them. ‘I must know who the man was. What was his appearance?’
He was too slow. In a trice they had run down the hill and disappeared. Two urchins just like every other urchin in London but a halfpenny richer.
‘I do not understand this, Christopher,’ said Katherine. ‘If you are being followed, why would a follower alert you by painting a plague cross on your door? What purpose can it serve?’
‘I do not know, unless his purpose has changed from observing me to having me boarded up in my own house and left there to rot,’ replied Christopher with a shrug. ‘But I have asked for Warwick’s help with Martin and Roland’s with setting a trap for my shadow.’
Katherine reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘I am glad of it but do not ignore the danger. If the coiners are watching you, they
know you are an enemy and will waste no time in getting rid of you.’
Christopher smiled. Katherine was not given to gestures of affection. ‘You worry too much, Katherine. Am I not always careful?’ Not waiting for an answer, he asked how Joan was managing.
‘The poor child is losing hope by the hour. She thinks the world is against her and she is certain to die in Newgate. Surely there is more we can do for her?’
‘I have asked Roland to speak to Warwick on her behalf, although he doubts it will do any good.’
‘And if it does not?’
‘Then we must extract the truth from the whore who accused her and have the magistrate’s decision overturned. Have you learned anything about her?’
‘I have been too occupied with Joan to speak to the doxy.’ There was a gentle knock on the door. ‘Tush. What now? I will send them away.’
Christopher heard the door open and close and Katherine returned holding out a scrap of paper as if it were poison. He did not need to ask and barely glanced at the paper. ‘Your whore ran off. It seems she has need of you. Make haste or she might be smitten by another.’
‘Ell is not my whore, Katherine, as I have told you a thousand times. She is an intelligencer, and a good one.’
‘And a whore. No better than poor Joan’s neighbour. A stinking whore from whom you are fortunate not to have caught the French gout.’
‘An intelligencer, not my whore. I have never so much as touched her.’ A flash of anger and his voice rose. ‘But if you continue to think otherwise, I shall be happy to do so. It would be a pleasure to escape your sharp tongue in the arms of a whore.’
Katherine’s look was icy. She did not speak but picked up a beaker and hurled it at him. He yelped when it struck him above the eye and would have lunged at her, but in a moment she was gone, leaving him fingering the bruise and staring after her. He was used to her throwing things – a slipper, a hat – but only in jest. The beaker had been in earnest.
For some time he sat in the study, trying to justify the outburst to himself. It was her fault. She had no real reason to disbelieve him yet she persisted in doing so, or pretending to do so. He was sick of it. Never laid a hand on Ell, yet accused of swiving her every time her name came up. Never an apology, never a word of regret. Ell a whore, Christopher her eager customer, whatever he said. No wonder his temper had betrayed him.
But a whore she was, and a lovely one. A woman without learning who had survived by using what she had been given. Her beauty brought her money from her customers and her intelligence brought her more from Leicester’s coffers. She harmed no one and served the Crown as best she could. Not a saint, but certainly not a sinner.
Often tempted he may have been but he had never succumbed, although perhaps he should not be surprised that Katherine thought otherwise. And there still remained the matter of the other whore, Alice Scrope, and her false accusation against Joan.
For once, Ell was dressed and waiting for him in the stew owner’s tiny parlour. ‘Thought you’d be coming, Dr Rad, so I wanted to be ready. I heard voices – who was with you?’
‘Mistress Allington, I’m afraid, and she saw your note. She’ll take a while to simmer down.’
‘Is that where you got your bruise?’
He grinned. ‘She has a strong arm.’
‘Oh, mercy, doctor. If I’d had my wits about me …’
‘It’s done, Ell. No point in fretting over it. What is so urgent?’
‘The gentleman who paid with a naughty coin like the one you showed me.’
‘Has he been back?’
‘He has, doctor, last night. Very talkative he was, full of questions. Wanted to know about my customers, had I any regulars and did they like special favours?’
‘Did you get a name?’
‘Afraid not, doctor. I tried but he wasn’t saying.’
‘Did he ask about me?’
‘I thought he was going to. Asked if I had any favourites.’
‘What did you tell him, Ell?’
‘Not much and it doesn’t matter now. He was found in the lane with his throat sliced open.’ Ell had seen enough death not to be much moved by it.
‘When?’
‘This morning. The rats were helping themselves, so we called a constable to take him away. He’ll be in the deadhouse now.’
‘Think hard, Ell. Did he say anything about the coins or about himself? Where he lived, what his work was, anything at all that might help?’
Ell ran a hand through her hair. ‘Afterwards, he did say that it was worth the price of a wherry to see me, so I suppose he’d come from over the river. Very polite, he was, same as last time, and well dressed. Blue doublet, white hose, buckled shoes. If he was not a real gentleman he’d have been on the stage. Could have made anyone believe him.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Not that I can recall.’ She pulled a coin from under her gown.
‘Except that he paid me with one of these again.’
Christopher took the coin. It was a ‘Dudley’ teston – the bear on one side and the staff on the other. ‘I’ll keep this, Ell. Don’t want you using it in the market – you might get into trouble.’ He took a coin from his purse and gave it to her. ‘Have this one instead.’
‘Doesn’t seem fair me taking a coin from you, Dr Rad. Wouldn’t you like something for it?’
‘Another day, Ell. I must go to the deadhouse now. And you’ve done enough.’
‘No trouble, doctor. He wasn’t rough like some. I’m sorry he’s dead. Any idea who did it?’
‘Not yet. Might just have been a thief after his purse. Take care, Ell. And a note under my door if you learn anything new.’
Ell chortled. ‘Won’t learn anything new at my age. Been at it long enough.’
‘You know what I mean, Ell. I don’t want to find you with your head stove in.’
‘I’ll be careful, doctor, same as always. And you too.’
The deadhouse was beside the coroner’s house, not far from St Bartholomew’s church. It was an old, single-storey building, seldom repaired and nondescript as if unwilling to draw attention to itself. The coroner, Clennet Pyke, was fond of saying that the occupants never complained so there was no purpose in spending good money on it.
Pyke was a flat-faced little man with an unusually small mouth, resembling nothing so much as a flounder on a Fish Street slab, reeking of drink at any time of the day or night and disobliging even when sober. He was well known, as many in his profession were, as a ‘basket coroner’, for the basket he carried in which to put the bribes that came his way and the fees he exacted for his services. And he was no more competent than he was honest.
Pyke answered the door himself. ‘Dr Radcliff,’ he spluttered, ‘I trust you are not requiring my services. I am much occupied with important affairs.’
‘I require you only to unlock the deadhouse so that I may inspect the body of the man murdered near Cheapside and brought in this morning.’
Pyke’s suspicious eyes narrowed. ‘And what is your business with this man?’
Christopher stood tall and stared at the mean, close-eyed face. ‘I have no time to argue, Mr Pyke. Kindly unlock the door and allow me to examine the body.’
‘Why should I do that, doctor?’
‘I am about the Earl of Leicester’s business and that of his brother the Earl of Warwick. Do as I ask and be quick about it, else their lordships will soon know.’
The callow Pyke did not take long to make up his mind. Safer to leave his ale than risk the anger of the Dudley brothers. ‘I trust it will not take long.’
‘It will take as long as is necessary, Mr Pyke, and then you will be free to return to your ale and your victuals.’ Another tiresome official. Self-important and stupid in equal measure.
Pyke shrugged and disappeared into the house, returning with a large key. He pushed past Christopher, opened the door of the deadhouse and went in. Christopher followed him.
At first, it was
so dark that he could see nothing but he knew the design of the place well enough and was able to follow Pyke into an inner room – the deadroom – where bodies were kept until they were claimed or buried. Despite the law, unexplained deaths were not always investigated and unwanted inquests could easily be avoided by describing them as ‘accidents’, even when evidence to the contrary was overwhelming. Summoning a jury and holding an inquest made for work, not something Pyke enjoyed, and when inquests might be embarrassing to the relatives of the dead man, his opinion could generally be bought for a pound or two.
Although he was expecting it, the lingering stench of death and decay made Christopher’s gorge rise. The place was little better than Newgate. He swallowed the bile in his throat and breathed deeply.
Pyke watched him and smirked. ‘Do you wish to return another day, doctor?’ Christopher shook his head.
The coroner lit a tallow candle and with it three torches attached to the walls at about the height of his rheumy eyes. Four low tables had been set down the middle of the room, on only one of which lay a body. With a theatrical flourish, he pulled off the grubby sheet that covered it, placed the candle beside it and stepped back. ‘There, doctor, the man you seek. I will wait outside.’ The sheet was tossed on to another table.
Christopher approached the body. The dead man lay on his back, his eyes closed, naked and exposed. A gaping wound revealed that his windpipe had been severed. His assailant had been strong and his weapon heavy – a butcher’s knife, perhaps. Despite spending the night in a filthy alley, however, his face and hands were clean save for the teeth marks of the rats which had dined on him.
He picked up a limp hand and examined it. The nails were clean and newly pared; the palm and fingers, apart from the rats’ marks, devoid of cuts or calluses and free of ink stains. He stretched out his arms to assess the man’s height. Ell was right – her customer had been tall. And, as far as Christopher could judge, well favoured. A narrow face, trimmed beard, black hair, brown eyes. A handsome man, showing no signs of a trade or profession, who paid twice for the services of a whore with false money. Judging by his hands, he had not been a coiner himself but that did not signify much. Men and women of all sorts might be employed to distribute the coins in markets and inns and brothels.