Chaos

by A D Swanston

  He slid his arms under the body and, with a grunt, carefully turned it over. Thankfully it was too soon for putrefaction to have set in. There was nothing, no marks and no clue as to who he was. Just a foolish man in a filthy alley at night or a coiner with a reason to be there? He had no purse, but that could have been taken by his killer, his finder, a constable or even Pyke. As could his clothes and shoes. Items of value found their way into baskets as readily as coins.

  He turned the body back and looked again. The blood on his cheeks was odd. How did it get there? He picked up the discarded sheet and used a corner to wipe some of the dry blood away. Then he saw it. On the right cheek, a deep cross had been cut. There was another on the left. More crosses. Not a foolish man leaving a stew at night but one with a connection to slogan-writers and minters of false coins. And perhaps with the attack on Isaac Cardoza.

  He took a last look, saw nothing more and left the deadroom to its lonely occupant. Pyke was waiting in the outer room. ‘Did you find that which you sought, doctor?’ he asked.

  Christopher ignored the question. ‘What was he wearing when he was found?’

  ‘He was just as he is now. His clothes and shoes had been taken. That ward is a filthy nest of felons and whores. He would have been stripped and robbed within minutes of being found.’ True or not, the man’s belongings had indeed gone and, as like as not, would not reappear.

  ‘Has a hue and cry been raised?’

  ‘Of course, as the law demands, although I doubt it will do any good. It seldom does.’ In London that, at least, was true.

  ‘When will a day for the inquest be set?’

  ‘When a jury has been appointed. Now, doctor, if that is all, I have work to do.’

  ‘As have I, Mr Pyke. Did you notice the crosses in the form of the letter X cut into his cheeks?’

  ‘Crosses? No.’

  ‘They are there. I wiped off some of the blood to reveal them.’

  Pyke looked startled. ‘You should not have done that, doctor, as you well know. Interfering with a corpse awaiting an inquest is a serious matter. I should report you for doing so.’

  ‘To whom, may I ask? And if you do chance upon someone interested in your complaint, I shall certainly draw their attention to your incompetence in failing to notice the cuts yourself.’

  Pyke blinked. ‘What do they signify?’

  ‘I have no idea. I will attend the inquest. Good day, Mr Pyke.’

  It was Pyke who deserved to be in Newgate. If he could, he would throw the ugly little toad in there with the thieves and murderers who infested the foulest cells. With luck they would steal his food and the toad would starve.

  Back at Ludgate Hill, he poured himself a beaker of beer, swallowed it in one gulp and poured himself another. He glanced at the pile of shirts under which he kept his lute, realized that he was in no mood to play well and slumped down on his chair.

  Daniel Cardoza arrived at dusk, just before the curfew bell sounded. Not that Christopher paid much heed to the curfew. If the watch stopped him he had only to mention the Earl of Leicester. Daniel was too polite to inquire about the plague cross on Christopher’s door but wasted no words. ‘My father is awake,’ he said, ‘and asks for you, Dr Radcliff.’

  The news cut through the fog in Christopher’s mind. Two beakers had become four and would likely have become six if Daniel had not knocked loudly and called out for him. If Isaac was awake there was hope – for Isaac himself and perhaps for catching his attacker.

  Katherine would have to wait. He would take a peace offering in the morning. Now, suddenly clear-headed and trying not to pester Daniel with questions, he followed him swiftly to Leadenhall.

  Sarah Cardoza greeted him. ‘Our prayers have been answered, doctor,’ she said, ‘and I thank you for yours.’ Christopher merely smiled. Praying did not sit comfortably with him but he would not say so. Her face was composed although she had been weeping and she dabbed at her eyes with a white napkin. ‘It is God’s will that he lives. Let us go up.’

  Isaac lay in his bed, eyes closed, his face so peaceful that for an instant Christopher feared that he had woken briefly before dying. He knew this could happen. But Isaac had heard them and his eyes opened.

  Christopher bent to take a hand. It was almost weightless and the skin was as dry and brittle as parchment. He held it as gently as he could without letting go and spoke very quietly. ‘Isaac, my friend, it is a joy to see you awake. We have been anxious for you.’

  The faintest of smiles touched Isaac’s lips and he whispered something which Christopher could not make out. He bent lower. ‘Water.’

  ‘Sarah, he asks for water.’ A pitcher and a beaker had been placed on a small table beside the bed. Sarah poured water into the beaker and held it to his lips while Christopher supported his head. After a few sips, Isaac lay back. ‘Has he eaten?’ Christopher asked.

  ‘A spoonful only.’ She touched his face. ‘He will need fattening up. God has spared him and I will feed him.’

  Isaac’s voice was a little stronger. ‘I am not a calf to be fattened for the feast.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘Nor you are, husband, but I shall go to the kitchen and bring a little more broth. Do not tire him, Dr Radcliff. A minute or two only.’

  Christopher pulled up the chair Sarah had used during her long vigil and sat as close as he could. ‘There are strange things happening, Isaac, bad things, but at least you will live to be a hundred. I rejoice for it.’

  ‘A hundred? God have mercy.’ He paused to gather himself. ‘I remember nothing before the day I was attacked but the man’s face is clear to me. A tall man, brown-eyed, bearded and dressed as a gentleman. He wanted to sell a gold ring. I asked him to show it to me and turned away to get another candle. After that, nothing.’

  ‘He hit you from behind with a weight from your table. I found you on the floor. Can you describe him any further?’

  ‘Dressed in doublet and hose. I cannot recall the colours.’

  ‘I found the false teston I gave you in the secret compartment in your strongbox.’

  ‘Did you? I do not remember putting it there. So you found the key.’

  ‘With Sarah’s help.’

  Sarah came quietly into the room bearing a bowl of broth. ‘That will have to do, doctor. Isaac must eat and rest. Call again tomorrow.’

  ‘I will. Tomorrow, old friend. Do as Sarah bids you.’

  ‘Always.’

  A tall man, well dressed, bearded and brown-eyed, and who now lay in the deadhouse? The attacker himself attacked and killed? Why?

  Infernal woman – sweet as one of her marchpane biscuits one moment, jealous witch the next. Every time Ell’s name came up, she flew into a rage. He was sorely tired of it. Damn her – his conscience was clear. Ell could not be easily replaced and he would not abandon her. Katherine must fester in Wood Street until her humour was better. He fingered the bruise above his eye. It was still tender. Let her stew in her own bile.

  How different life would have been if his friend Edward Allington had not been killed in a fall from his horse. His childless widow would not have become Christopher’s lover and would not have followed him to London. And he would by now have married her, had she not stubbornly clung to the belief that one day he would return to Pembroke Hall as a fellow. Fellows of colleges could no longer take wives and convicted felons, as he was, could not become fellows. Stubborn, wilful, impossible woman.

  Mark you, without Joan the cupboard was bare and without Katherine it would be barer still. It was a price he would have to pay. Isaac had been attacked and he needed Ell. This time he would not be swayed.

  CHAPTER 12

  He went early back to Leadenhall. Despite the hour, he found a tall, stick-thin, dark-skinned man with Sarah in her parlour. She introduced him. ‘Dr Radcliff, this is Saul Mendes, the physician who has worked a miracle on Isaac. Saul has been at his side for most of the night.’

  Mendes bowed to Christopher. ‘Sarah has told me much about yo
u, Dr Radcliff.’ The voice was surprising, almost too deep for the body.

  ‘We are all indebted to you, Dr Mendes. It is a miracle that he lives.’

  ‘A miracle? No, no, those are the work of God. I am but a humble physician, plying his trade among his own kind.’

  Christopher feared that he had given offence until the physician’s eyes told him otherwise. ‘Of course, doctor. How fares the patient today?’

  ‘Improved. Sarah has nursed him night and day and I am tempted to say that it is her broth that has brought about his recovery. The wound was severe and he left us for a long time. I was very concerned.’

  ‘You are too modest, Saul,’ said Sarah. ‘The salves you applied and the powder you mixed with his water were efficacious, even though you will not tell me what was in them.’

  ‘Ah, we physicians have our secrets, too, just like Dr Radcliff.’ He nodded to Christopher. ‘Sarah has told me about the work Isaac did for you. Of course, there must be no more of it. Isaac will need rest and care for a long time yet and anything likely to fatigue him unduly is out of the question.’

  Christopher was tempted to reply that Isaac would wish to decide that for himself but this was not the moment. ‘May I speak to him?’

  ‘You may, but not for long and not without Sarah present to make sure he is not over-taxed. I will return this evening.’

  Sarah showed him out and led Christopher up to the bed chamber. Isaac’s eyes were closed and he was breathing evenly. She touched his face and whispered his name. The eyes opened and he smiled. ‘I was sleeping,’ he said.

  ‘You were not. When you sleep, you snore like a dog.’

  ‘So Saul has cured my snoring. He is a magician.’

  Christopher laughed. Here was the Isaac he knew – frail, yet alert and able to see humour in his own predicament. ‘I would not tire you, my friend,’ he said, ‘but has your memory of what happened returned? Even the smallest thing might prove useful.’

  ‘I remember nothing, but you mentioned a teston in my strongbox. Why was a teston there? I have more valuable items.’

  Christopher explained. ‘It is likely the attack was connected to the false coin.’

  ‘At least whoever sought it did not find it.’

  ‘Do you remember where it came from or speaking to anyone about it? A fellow goldsmith perhaps?’

  Isaac shook his head. ‘I fear not. Might I have done so?’

  ‘You might. To my shame, I asked you to.’

  ‘You will have had good reason, Christopher. Let there be no shame.’

  ‘That is enough, doctor,’ said Sarah firmly. ‘If Isaac remembers anything more, Daniel will bring a message.’ At the door, she added, ‘Come again whenever you please, doctor. Seeing you will aid his recovery but do not tax him beyond his strength. His memory will return or it will not. Let us leave it in God’s hands.’

  ‘Why do I spend so much of my life waiting outside your house, Christopher?’ asked Wetherby in mock irritation. ‘It is no occupation for a gentleman and it is damnably cold.’ He folded his arms over his chest to make the point.

  ‘For the same reason that I spend much of mine running around London on the earl’s business. We are mere servants and must obey our masters.’

  ‘How fares Isaac?’

  ‘Awake and lucid, but remembering nothing. I am happy and disappointed both.’

  ‘I too am happy and perhaps his memory will return. For now, however, you must accompany me back to Whitehall. There the good Earl of Warwick awaits you.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘I did. He asked to see you himself.’

  Christopher sighed. ‘Do you know why? I must be at the sessions house by midday.’

  ‘I do not.’ He pointed to the cross painted on the door. ‘Whoever did that has a strange turn of humour. You could be boarded up inside and left to rot.’

  ‘I know. I will have it removed.’

  ‘Do not delay. Now let us be gone. The elder brother is no more patient than the younger.’

  Warwick’s apartment lacked the opulence of Leicester’s and exactly reflected his character: plain, functional oak furniture, neither carpets nor drapes, a portrait of the queen and another, smaller one of a woman Christopher took to be the earl’s wife. He still could not remember whether she was the second or the third but she had been very young when it was painted.

  Warwick looked up from the paper he was reading. ‘Dr Radcliff, forgive my not rising. This infernal leg tries my patience.’

  ‘I grieve that it pains you so fiercely, my lord.’

  ‘It does. The surgeons advise me to have it off but as that is likely to kill me, for now I shall bear it. Wetherby has told me of your difficulty with the warden. What exactly has he done?’

  ‘Mr Martin has refused me permission to speak to workers in the mint. I know not why.’

  ‘And you need to do so in the commission of your task for the Earl of Leicester?’

  ‘I do, my lord. Until now there has been neither whisper nor hint of who is behind the false testons, but at last a line of inquiry has presented itself.’

  Warwick stroked his beard. It was greyer and longer than his brother’s. When he spoke he was precise. ‘Richard Martin is a mercurial soul, whose mood ebbs and flows like the tide according to the state of his gout. With that I can find some sympathy. But he is also ambitious and obsequious in equal measure. Not that there is any excuse for being obstructive. I will write to him today, instructing him to afford you whatever access to his staff you might require.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. There is also a second matter.’

  ‘Yes. Wetherby told me of it. In this case, however, I can be of no help to you. As I understand it, guilty or innocent, the woman will be examined by the magistrate and depositions will be taken. I cannot interfere with the proper process of the law.’

  Unlike your less cautious brother who did just that in securing my release from Norwich gaol, thought Christopher. ‘I understand, my lord, but in this case—’

  Warwick held up a hand. ‘My decision is made, doctor. Let the law take its course. Is there any other matter that requires my attention?’

  ‘No, my lord.’ It did not seem an appropriate time to mention his shadow or the plague cross on his house.

  ‘Then I suggest you concentrate your efforts on finding the coiners. These testons continue to be, to say the least, a grave embarrassment.’

  Christopher bowed and took his leave. He had held out no great hope of securing Warwick’s support for Joan but still it was a disappointment. The poor girl would have to take her chances in front of the magistrate.

  Warwick had been brief and businesslike and certainly not ill humoured, as his brother could be, yet Christopher had left with the feeling that there had been more to the encounter than he had expected. There had been no need for Warwick to summon him to Whitehall – Wetherby could easily have acted as messenger – yet the earl had done so. The brothers were known to be very close. Perhaps Leicester had asked for Warwick’s opinion of his intelligencer.

  CHAPTER 13

  The sessions house in which the assizes for London and the county of Middlesex were held had been built on the street known as Old Bailey, close by Newgate gaol. The court was roofed but otherwise open to the weather and to the stench that rose from the foul underground cells of the gaol. Happily, Knoyll had decreed it too cold to conduct Joan Willys’s examination outside. It would be held in a small room within the sessions house.

  In front of the magistrate’s table a low bench had been set. At one end of it sat Alice Scrope, at the other Joan Willys. Katherine stood behind her and when Christopher arrived a few minutes before midday she was leaning forward to whisper in Joan’s ear. Joan saw him and managed a tiny smile. Her hands were clasped in her lap and she was shaking. He returned the smile and found a place at the back of the room. His instinct was always to stand at the back of a room or a crowd, whether because of his height or because he did no
t care to have people behind him, he had never been sure.

  He was wondering why Joan had been brought into the court to hear the accusation against her, it being more common for the accused to be sent for after it had been made, when Gilbert Knoyll waddled in, red-faced and dishevelled, and followed by his clerk.

  Knoyll lowered himself on to his chair and looked around the room, nodding briefly to Christopher and peering at Joan. He sniffed, cleared his throat and began by explaining the nature of the accusation and that the purpose of the hearing was to judge the substance of the allegation of witchcraft made against Joan Willys. He would make his judgment by hearing depositions and by questioning the accused.

  The accuser, Alice Scrope, was first to speak. Her deposition did not take long. She claimed that Joan had caused her to suffer great pain after the birth of her child and that she suffered still. ‘The woman’s a witch,’ she cried, pointing a filthy finger at her, ‘as anyone can see. Who but the devil himself would give a woman such a face? And she is wise. She knows how to use plants to cure and to poison. And she keeps a cat. It is her familiar spirit.’

  ‘It is true that poisons were found in the house of the accused,’ said Knoyll, ‘and there is a cat. Why, however, do you suppose that the animal is her familiar?’

  Again Alice Scrope pointed at Joan. ‘She speaks to it. I’ve heard her. And she feeds it milk mixed with her own blood. I’ve seen that too.’

  Knoyll nodded and glanced at the clerk whose task it was to keep an accurate record of the proceedings. ‘Did you write that, master clerk?’ he asked.

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘Good. I would hear now from the midwife who searched the accused.’

  Christopher frowned. He had not been told of a searching.

  A large woman of perhaps thirty stood up. She wore a thick skirt and a shawl around her shoulders. ‘I am the midwife, sir.’