by A D Swanston
Ell gurgled. ‘Don’t you always? Mistress Allington back in Wood Street?’
‘She is.’
‘Thought she might be. Note under your door then, same as usual.’
He heard them before he saw them. A furious crowd, several dozen strong, had gathered in the street and was hurling whatever it could find at the deadhouse. Stones and refuse and muck splattered the walls while a man in a leather jerkin battered at the door with his fists and bellowed for it to be opened.
Christopher looked around for Clennet Pyke. There was no sign of him. No doubt the little toad was cowering in his parlour. ‘What has happened here?’ he asked a young woman holding a baby at the back of the crowd.
‘Witches’ work,’ she muttered. ‘A body has gone from the deadhouse, taken for the devil.’
‘How do you know this, goodwife?’
The woman eyed Christopher suspiciously. ‘Word spreads fast.’
He moved forward into the crowd. One man called for the deadhouse to be burned down, another for a priest to be fetched. ‘There is sorcery here,’ he shouted, waving his arms about. ‘Find the witch who has taken the body and burn her.’ There was a roar of approval and a surge towards the door.
A shot rang out. Heads turned and the surge was halted. To their left the magistrate, holding a pistol, and six blue-coated constables, armed with clubs, stood and watched. When he could be heard, the magistrate spoke. ‘I am Gilbert Knoyll, magistrate of this ward. This assembly is unlawful and will disband at once. My constables have orders to arrest any who do not obey.’
‘Find the witch, magistrate, and burn her,’ yelled a woman’s voice, ‘that we might live in safety.’
‘Aye,’ said another, ‘bodies do not disappear but when a witch has need of a corpse.’
Knoyll signalled to his constables who raised their clubs and took a step forward. The crowd formed itself into a ragged line to face them. The woman shouted again: ‘Who has written words on walls if not a witch? Who has painted plague crosses on our doors if not a witch?’
A youth picked up a stone and hurled it at Knoyll. It missed and clattered against a wall. The crowd surged forward again. Another shot was fired. Knoyll had a second pistol. Christopher pushed his way through the line to the front and stood with arms raised. ‘There has been no witchcraft here. Return to your homes.’
‘Who are you to give us orders?’ growled the man in the apron. ‘Stand aside that we may burn this evil place to the ground.’
‘The body will be found. There is nothing of which to be afraid. Go home.’
Knoyll had been watching. ‘Do as he says or you will find yourselves spending the night in Newgate. Witchcraft or not, there will be no more law-breaking in my ward.’
A few sloped off. The rest stood and stared at the constables, apparently unmoved. ‘Where is the coroner?’ demanded a fishwife. ‘Where is Pyke who has charge of the deadhouse? What has he to say?’
Other voices took up the cry. ‘Where is the coroner? Drag him from his house and let him speak.’
Knoyll glanced at the coroner’s house, as if considering what to do. He was spared having to do anything by the door being cautiously opened and Pyke’s flat face emerging. The coroner had been listening. He took a quick look and darted back inside, but not before he had been seen. ‘There’s Pyke,’ shouted a woman’s voice, ‘skulking in his house. Haul him out and let him answer for this.’
‘A body missing is the coroner’s business. Bring him out, magistrate, or we’ll do it for you,’ added another voice.
Christopher was wondering what he would do in Knoyll’s place when the magistrate gave another signal and the constables, side by side, charged into the mob and set about limbs and bodies with their ballows. Blood spurted from heads and bones snapped. Unarmed and unable to defend themselves other than with their arms and hands, the mob panicked, turned and fled, leaving their wounded to the mercy of the constables. Very quickly the street was clear.
Christopher had not drawn his poniard for fear of causing more blood to flow and had been fortunate enough to avoid all but a few glancing blows. He held his ground and shouted to the magistrate, ‘Call off your constables, Mr Knoyll. The deed is done.’
Knoyll heard him and ordered his men to let the stragglers and the injured go. ‘Dr Radcliff, I had not thought to find you at such an unlawful gathering.’
Christopher approached him. ‘I heard that the body of the murdered man had disappeared and came to speak to the coroner about it. It seems I was among the last to hear.’
‘Why would you wish to speak to the coroner?’
Before he could reply, Pyke opened his door again and stepped into the street. ‘How fortunate you were alerted, Mr Knoyll, else more blood might have been spilt. And I see that Dr Radcliff was among the troublemakers.’
‘That is untrue, sir, and had I been, the blood spilt would most likely have been your own. For cravenly hiding in your house that would have been no more than you deserve.’ Christopher glowered at Pyke and was pleased to see the ugly face redden, although whether with anger or embarrassment he could not tell. It was enough that the little man was silenced. To the magistrate he said, ‘Mr Knoyll, I wished to speak to the coroner because the disappearance of his body strengthens my opinion that the dead man was connected to another serious matter that I am investigating for the earl.’
‘How is that, doctor? Connected how?’
‘That I cannot say. However, at present there is no body and without one there can be no inquest. Those wishing to keep the identity of the murdered man secret might have concluded that their best chance of remaining undetected was to remove it.’
‘Was the lock on the deadhouse forced, Mr Pyke?’
‘It was not, sir,’ replied Pyke with a smirk at Christopher. ‘And I can be sure that the door was locked because I locked it myself. What is more, it was locked when I tried it this morning. Without doubt we are dealing with another act of witchcraft.’
‘Let us examine the door and the deadhouse,’ replied Knoyll. ‘Dr Radcliff, to satisfy your own curiosity, you might care to join us.’
Pyke unlocked the door and led them inside. He lit a torch and guided them into the deadroom. All four of the low tables were devoid of bodies. ‘There, sir,’ announced Pyke, ‘as you may observe, no body, although it was here yesterday evening when I carried out my usual check. I am most particular in that.’
‘No doubt, Mr Pyke. Were there other bodies here?’
‘There were not, sir.’
‘Is that unusual, Mr Pyke?’
Pyke scratched his chin and looked at his feet. ‘Not very unusual, sir.’
No indeed, when the surgeons would pay well for a fresh cadaver. ‘And there was no sign of a forced entry and nothing left behind by the intruder?’
‘I believe there must have been more than one intruder, Mr Knoyll,’ said Christopher. ‘The dead man was not small.’
Knoyll scratched at his beard. ‘Either that or we are indeed dealing with a case of witchcraft. The door was locked before and after entry, no sound disturbed the coroner’s sleep and there is no trace of the intruder. I am in agreement with Mr Pyke. It seems to me most likely that the body was spirited away by supernatural means.’
‘Or was removed by someone with access to the deadhouse and who knew of a buyer for the body. There are those who pay well for cadavers upon which to practise their surgical skills.’ Christopher looked pointedly at the coroner.
Pyke exploded. ‘That is a monstrous slander, Dr Radcliff. Only I hold a key to the house and I will not be accused of malpractice. Ask any surgeon in London and he will tell you that he has never had a body from Clennet Pyke. Mr Knoyll is undoubtedly correct. This was an act of sorcery. The sorcerer must be found and tried according to the law.’
Christopher ignored him. ‘Mr Knoyll, this is no more a matter of witchcraft than is the pain claimed by the woman Scrope.’
Knoyll bridled. ‘A jury will decide Joan Will
ys’s fate and when the perpetrator of this outrage is found another will decide his or hers. I will order a hue and cry and instruct those with suspicions to come forward. Those with nothing to hide need have nothing to fear. The guilty person must be found before fear and unrest spread through the ward. We have seen enough of both already.’
They left the deadhouse. Pyke made a show of locking the door and turned to Christopher. ‘Am I to understand that you are not a believer in supernatural acts or powers, Dr Radcliff?’
‘There is much neither I nor any other man understands about the world, Mr Pyke, and only a fool would claim otherwise. That there exist witches and sorcerers at the command of the devil I believe unlikely, if only because I have never been shown proof of it.’
‘Then beware lest the doubts you profess are taken as evidence of your own guilt, doctor. I have often seen it.’
‘I shall take great care, Mr Pyke. And now I suggest that you and Mr Knoyll set about finding the true felon.’
Christopher strode off rubbing his bent hand and hoping that the odious Clennet Pyke would soon get his comeuppance. But if it was not a witch, who was it and why? And how had the news spread so fast?
John Johnson’s ‘Delight Pavan’ had lain untried on his table since he had brought it home from Mr Brewster’s. Perhaps it would calm him. He took the lute from its case, ran his hand over the cool of the ivory and tested the strings. The single treble string needed tightening. He turned the peg carefully and tried again. A little more was needed. He gave the peg another touch. And swore mightily. The wretched thing had broken. A pox on Pyke and a pox on Knoyll. A pair of poxed pricks.
Still cursing, he chose a replacement from a box purchased in the Exchange, tested the evenness of its arc by stretching it out and plucking it with his thumb, and fitted it to the lute. It was a task he disliked because his hand made tying the knots correctly difficult. Once fitted, he tested the string again. It was not perfect but he was not in the mood to change it again, so he fiddled with the frets until he was satisfied.
He started to play. Mr Brewster was right. Master Johnson’s pavan was a light, lilting piece, not greatly demanding for the lutenist but requiring some dexterity in the faster passages. It was not surprising that it was so popular. In the right hands it would be joyful.
But Christopher’s were not the right hands, at least not that day. He played the pavan through but his rendition was flat and clumsy. He adjusted the frets once more, moved his right hand nearer the rose and tried again. Still he could not find the sweet sound the ‘Delight’ deserved. His playing was as ponderous as a plodding cart-horse. He gave up. The lute went back in its case under the shirts. ‘The Delight Pavan’ must wait for another day.
Daniel Cardoza arrived as the bright February day was fast becoming night. He wasted no words. ‘Dr Radcliff, my father asks for you. Please come.’
‘You should not have come alone at this time, Daniel. The streets are dangerous after dark.’
‘My brother is helping our mother.’
‘Were you not stopped by the watch?’
‘I was not seen, doctor.’
Christopher put on his coat and slipped his poniard under his belt. Isaac would not have sent the boy out alone and during the hours of the curfew without good reason.
Isaac was sitting up in his bed, a pillow behind his head, holding a beaker of beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed. ‘Tastes all the better for the waiting. One can tire of pottage, even Sarah’s.’
‘You are improving, Isaac,’ replied Christopher. ‘That is good. You asked for me?’
‘I did. I have been trying to picture the man. He had a gold ring to sell, I remember that, and I think he did speak about the testons.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He asked me if I had seen any and if I knew about them – in a casual way, as a man might ask another if he has heard that a friend is unwell. I said that I had heard tell of new counterfeits but had seen none.’
‘What then?’
‘I must have betrayed myself because when I turned away to find a candle, he hit me.’
‘Either that or his purpose had always been to kill you.’ Christopher paused. ‘Describe him to me again.’ Isaac did so. ‘A man exactly fitting that description was found murdered in Cheapside. I saw his body in the deadhouse.’
Isaac’s eyes sparkled. ‘Take me there. I shall know him.’
‘Alas, that will do no good. His body has disappeared.’
‘Disappeared? How?’
Christopher shook his head. ‘I do not know, except I doubt it was the work of a witch, as some are saying.’
‘Are they? A corpse taken for some foul ritual? It is possible, I suppose, but men turn too readily to magic to explain what they do not understand. Have you considered that it was the dead man’s murderer who took him from the deadhouse?’
‘I have, but can find no reason for it, although his face was marked with two crosses in the shape of the letter X. The slogans that have appeared recently have been marked similarly and plague crosses have been painted on houses where there is no plague, my own among them.’
Isaac shook his head. ‘Then you are in danger, Christopher.’
‘If I cannot discover who is behind these things, we will all be in danger. In the meantime, old friend, I will continue to search them out while you recover your strength. You know where to find me if anything more occurs to you.’
‘I will send one of the boys. Go down now and Sarah will give you some of her pottage.’
‘That is kind, Isaac, but really …’
‘She will be offended if you do not eat with us. As will I.’
Christopher hesitated for only a moment. ‘Of course. And you have spoken highly of her pottage.’
Isaac grinned. ‘It is excellent. And plentiful. Eat as much as you can.’
‘I shall. And shall hope to see you further improved next time.’
The Cardozas ate in a small room attached to the kitchen at the back of their house. Around a circular table sat Sarah, her sons Daniel and David and her daughter Ruth. Their heads were covered and they all rose and bowed to Christopher when he entered.
There were two empty seats. Sarah indicated one of them. ‘Sit there, doctor,’ she said. ‘The other chair is Isaac’s.’
On the table stood a thick loaf of bread and huge bowl of pottage. The bowl was richly painted in red and blue with a gold border. In front of each of them was a smaller, matching bowl and a wooden spoon. All but Daniel took their seats. ‘Daniel will bless our meal,’ said Sarah with a smile. ‘In deference to you, doctor, I have asked him to keep it short.’
When the prayer had been said, Sarah spooned soup into each bowl while Daniel cut a slice from the loaf and took a bite out of it, before cutting a slice for each of them. They spoke during the meal but took care not to interrupt one another or to speak with food in their mouths. Having eaten in this house once before, Christopher knew the most important Jewish customs and was careful not to transgress.
‘It is a sadness to us that we must observe our customs in secret,’ said Sarah, ‘and it is rare indeed for us to have a Christian guest at our table. We thank you, doctor, for accepting our invitation and for saving the life of my children’s father.’
‘I am honoured,’ replied Christopher, ‘and I join you in thanking God for his recovery.’
‘Dr Radcliff,’ said Daniel, a note of surprise in his voice, ‘our father once told me that you are not a believer in any God.’
Christopher grinned. ‘I am far from being certain but there are times when I find that I can believe.’
‘Then we must hope that your belief is not misplaced,’ replied Sarah. ‘Isaac’s recovery will take time.’
Christopher managed three bowls of pottage and two slices of bread and could see that Sarah was pleased with his effort. Afterwards he stayed only as long as courtesy dictated then hurried home through the dark streets, keeping to the wi
der ones and clutching the poniard tightly. If he were attacked from behind, he would be ready. It was not a thing he commonly did but to his annoyance the mysterious shadow had unsettled him. Who was he and what was his business with Christopher? Somehow he must find out.
CHAPTER 15
They sat in Christopher’s study before a feeble fire. He had not laid it well and it was giving off little heat. Joan would have done a good deal better, had he managed to secure her release. Poor woman. It was bad enough to be afflicted by her appearance. Being accused of witchcraft was a monstrous injustice.
He had returned late from Leadenhall and after a day spent hurrying from there to Whitehall, to the session house, to the mint, to Southwark, to the deadhouse and back to Leadenhall, he had slept until dawn, and might have slept longer had Wetherby not hammered on the door and shouted for him to open it.
‘There is much left to chance in this plan,’ said Wetherby. ‘Your shadow has to appear, I have to see him while remaining hidden myself and we have somehow to apprehend him. It seemed sound enough when we first discussed it but now I am less sure.’
‘Of course there is chance. But in the absence of better, this is what we are going to do. We cannot stand by and wait for Ell Cole to find the Pryses, if indeed they are the coiners. The body of Isaac Cardoza’s attacker has disappeared, the false testons are still appearing and I must soon report on our progress to Warwick.’ Christopher paused, took a sip of ale, and peered over the top of his beaker at Wetherby. ‘Unless you would like to do so on my behalf?’
‘I hardly think the noble earl would be pleased if I did. He would imagine you skulking in your bed chamber, quite unable to speak for yourself or do anything but fill your piss-pot.’
‘And he would not be far wrong. That is much how I feel. However, let us give the plan a try. If it works I shall feel much better.’
‘And if it does not?’
‘You will find me in my bed chamber.’
They left the house together, hoping that the shadow was about his work. They did not see him but nor did they expect to. At the bottom of Ludgate Hill, they parted company. Christopher waved his hand in farewell and turned towards St Paul’s churchyard. Wetherby disappeared into Creed Lane. It had been agreed that he would circle back from the south end of the lane to St Paul’s, keeping to the shadows. As he had much further to walk, Christopher would dawdle, giving the other man time to catch up.