by A D Swanston
‘How large a reward, mistress?’ asked the other.
‘Large enough,’ snapped Katherine. ‘And mark my words carefully.’ To Joan she said, ‘You will be safe here and I will come every day to make sure you are.’
‘And I will continue to work for your release, Joan,’ added Christopher.
Joan’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘I thank you, mistress, and you, doctor.’
Outside the prison gate, Katherine said, ‘I will return now to Wood Street.’ She took a sheet of paper from her sleeve. ‘Here is a list of prices you should pay in the market. They are prices for good, fresh food. Do not buy cheaper meat or fish which will be inferior and perhaps rotten.’
Christopher took the list. ‘Why have you given me this?’
‘I have decided that I will take care of Joan and keep an eye on her mother but no longer will I cook for you or share your bed.’
‘Katherine …’
‘I have decided. Let that be an end to it.’
Christopher watched her go. She did not look back. No kiss, no touch, not even a smile. And not a hint of regret in her voice or her eyes. Was it really all because of Ell Cole, whom he had never touched? Or had they simply reached that fork in the road?
‘Dr Rad, wasn’t expecting you, but here you are. Always a pleasure, even on a Sunday. My busiest day, Sunday, after my gentlemen have done with their praying.’ Ell, fully dressed for once, was sitting in the stew parlour, gnawing at a chicken leg. ‘Stringy old bird. Less meat than a sparrow.’ She tossed the bone into the fire. ‘I’ve been to Southwark and asked around, if that’s what you’ve come for.’
‘Have you learned anything about the Pryses, Ell?’
‘Not much. They packed up and left a year since, or maybe even two years. No one knows where they’ve gone, or if they do, they’re not saying.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Odd pair, they say. Father a miserable old goat, son fond of his drink and the ladies. One in particular but I didn’t find out anything about her.’
‘Is there a wife or mother?’
‘Died giving birth to the boy.’
Nothing to go on there. ‘Pity. But you did your best, Ell.’
Ell’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Not giving up, are we, Dr Rad? Not like you.’
‘Isn’t it? No, I suppose not. Not myself today.’
‘Mistress Allington?’
Ell always knew. Christopher nodded. ‘Impossible woman.’ ‘Loves you, though, and lucky to have you. Be patient, doctor, she’ll come round.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And we’re not giving up yet. How about if I ask about the boy’s lady friend? Might lead somewhere. Worth a try.’
‘Very well, Ell. But take no chances. I don’t want to lose you too.’
Ell laughed. ‘You won’t lose me and you haven’t lost Mistress Allington. Now be off with you. I’m expecting a visitor.’
‘A note if you hear anything. I’ll come to you, Ell.’
‘Best you do. I don’t want to interrupt you swiving her.’
Not much chance of that. ‘Goodbye, Ell.’
CHAPTER 17
He had hoped that the effort would restore his spirits but it did not. With brush and water he had scrubbed the plague cross off his door but felt no better for it. Might as well have left it there and waited for the house to be boarded up with him inside it. At least then he would not have to go to Whitehall to inform Warwick that he knew very little more than he had a week ago. Even Ell had cheered him only briefly.
Katherine sulking in her tent like Achilles at the walls of Troy, Wetherby attacked by an invisible hand, Joan in Newgate, a body marked with a cross taken from the deadhouse and thrown in the river. And who was the dead man? A customer of Ell’s, but what was his name and how was he connected to the false coins? And who was this man who’d threatened him – the shadow? God in his heaven, but a glimmer of light would be welcome.
At least there had been no more slogans or crosses, Isaac was recovering and if Ell had any luck in Southwark, there might yet be cause for hope.
Do not lose heart, Dr Radcliff, do not sit in your study and mope. Use your lawyer’s brain. Think.
He chose ‘The Duke of Somersett’s Dompe’. If anything helped it would surely be a gentle melody. The best of them had been known to send listeners into a state of reverie perfect for quiet contemplation.
He took up the lute and began. His last effort at playing had been a failure but, to his surprise, today his hands moved lightly over the strings, the music flowed and he found himself playing while his mind was elsewhere. The questions had answers and he would find them. Katherine would emerge smiling from her tent. Joan would be released from Newgate and return home to her mother. He played the dompe twice and began to play it again.
The knock on the door was insistent. He put down the lute and went to answer it.
‘Come at once, if you please, Dr Radcliff.’ It was Daniel Cardoza. ‘Dr Mendes is concerned.’
‘And does your mother wish me to come, Daniel?’
‘She does.’
‘Then let us make haste.’
The lute went into its case and under the shirts and they were off within a minute.
They did not speak as they hurried through the lanes to Cornhill and thence to Leadenhall. Daniel unlocked the door of the house. Christopher ducked his head and followed him inside and up the narrow stair. Sarah and Saul Mendes stood by Isaac’s bed. Dr Mendes looked up at Christopher and shook his head. ‘I feared this could happen,’ he said quietly. ‘A false recovery is not uncommon in cases of head wounds.’
Isaac’s eyes were closed and he was as pale as he had been on the day Christopher had found him in the shop. ‘Can he hear me?’ he asked.
‘He is asleep, doctor,’ replied Sarah. ‘He cannot hear you, nor did God hear our thanks.’
‘His breathing is shallow,’ added Mendes. ‘The loss of blood was too great for him. That and the shock.’
‘Shock, doctor?’
Sarah held up a leather bag. ‘These were left on the doorstep this morning. I showed them to Isaac, God forgive me.’
Christopher took the bag and rummaged inside. It was full of coins. He took out a handful. They were false testons, marked with the bear and ragged staff. ‘Was he seen, the man who left these?’
‘No, doctor,’ replied Daniel. ‘I found the bag when I left the house.’
‘What is the meaning of it, Dr Radcliff?’ asked Sarah, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin.
‘Sarah, I do not know.’
‘These coins will bring only death. They must be thrown in the river.’
‘No, Sarah, I will take them to show to the Earl of Warwick. He should be told about them.’
‘As you wish, doctor. Take them and do as you will but do not bring them back here. They are a curse on this family.’
‘What I am wrestling with,’ said Wetherby, ‘is why, if it was your shadow, he struck with so little force. Why did he not break your neck and cave my head in like poor Isaac’s?’
‘I do not know. He took a risk in not disposing of us for good. After all, we might have caught a glimpse of him.’
From Leadenhall Christopher had made his way to Whitehall and now sat in Wetherby’s apartment. Outside the bowling green was covered with a thin layer of white frost. The room was warmed by a fire and smelled of the beeswax that had been used on the furniture.
‘Alas, we did not. We must try again.’
‘I would not put you in harm’s way again, Roland. And Isaac’s condition has deteriorated. When I visited him he did not open his eyes or speak a word. Dr Mendes fears the worst.’
‘I am cruelly sorry to hear it,’ replied Wetherby, ‘but it should not deter us from our task of finding our man. Surely he will lead us to the source of our troubles.’
Christopher handed him the bag of testons. ‘These were left on Isaac’s doorstep.’
Just as Christopher had, Wet
herby put a hand into the bag and took out a few coins. ‘Bears and staffs,’ he said. ‘What can be the meaning of this? A warning?’
‘I think not. If it were, surely the bag would have been left outside my door, not Isaac’s.’
‘Warning or not, we must try again, Christopher. What else is there to do?’
‘Ell Cole is trying to trace the Pryses. The son, it seems, was fond of women and not overly particular about their station. Ell is clever. I am hopeful.’
‘Good. When shall we try again?’
‘Roland, you have been badly injured. I am reluctant to put you in danger’s way again.’
‘Nonsense. Did I not spend a long night with you in St Ann’s church in the vain hope of catching the traitor John Berwick and did I not fire the shot that disabled him and allowed you and Katherine to escape his clutches? Am I now to be denied the chance to catch the scroyle who did this to me?’ He touched the back of his head and winced. ‘Still painful.’
‘When you are recovered we will speak of it again. Until then rest. Eat well and do not go to Eastcheap.’
Wetherby grinned. ‘I? Never.’
‘Hmm. Now I shall call on the noble Earl of Warwick. If he is like his brother he will expect to be told everything.’
Warwick was in his apartment, and, after a short wait, Christopher was ushered in to see him. ‘Dr Radcliff,’ said the earl, not rising from his chair, ‘what have you there?’
‘Testons, my lord.’ Christopher handed him the bag.
Warwick took one out and held it close to his eye. He sucked in his teeth. ‘God’s wounds, the bear and staff again. They are all the same?’
‘They are, my lord.’
Warwick shook his head and put the coin back in the bag. ‘Where were they found?’
Christopher told him about the bag, about Wetherby, about Isaac and about the body taken from the deadhouse and recovered from the river. Warwick sat silently with his hands steepled under his chin until Christopher had finished. After a moment or two, he asked, ‘What do you make of this, Dr Radcliff?’
There was no future in dissembling. Warwick would know at once if he strayed from the truth. ‘Very little, my lord. I see only disconnected events without obvious purpose.’
‘Surely these testons have a purpose, as have the slogans daubed on walls. Their purpose is to shame my family.’
‘Yes, my lord, but what of the plague crosses and the attack on Isaac Cardoza?’
Warwick pushed himself painfully to his feet and limped to the window, where he stood facing into the room with his hands behind his back. He spoke quietly so that Christopher had to strain to hear him. ‘When my brother and I were incarcerated with our father in the Tower, we spent many hours at the chess board. At first we were evenly matched but in due course, if I may be permitted to say so, I became the stronger player and won almost all our games. The reason for this was that although he was as skilled as I at making a plan, he did not pause to consider what my plan might be and then to take steps to counter it. He ignored the possibility that I might be setting a trap for him and played as if there was no connection between the positions my pieces occupied. His strategy was one of all-out attack while mine was more watchful and more adaptable.’ He turned to look out of the window.
Not entirely sure where this was leading, Christopher remained silent until the earl turned back to face him. ‘The point of my telling you this is twofold. First, we must assume our enemy has a purpose beyond these apparently random acts, even if we cannot yet see it, and second, I cannot help but feel that he is playing a game with us. A game full of bluff and deception. A game of confusion and disorder.’
‘If he is, my lord, it is a violent game.’
‘Which shows us only that he is determined to win it.’
‘And what prize is he playing for?’
‘That is what we must ascertain.’ Warwick paused. ‘The Earl of Leicester will return from Kenilworth soon. Until then, proceed with your inquiries and apply your mind to what our opponent might be planning next. Assume there is a connection between his actions and search for it. What connection could there be, for example, between a body taken from the deadhouse and slogans painted on walls or between these coins and plague crosses on plagueless houses?’
It was, like his chess strategy, a more considered approach than his brother’s would have been. Not that Leicester was a fool – far from it, no man who had risen as high as he could be other than clever and perceptive – but he could be impetuous, even rash, as his various failed ventures had shown. But who am I to judge, thought Christopher, the man who spent eight weeks in Norwich gaol for striking and killing a man in a fit of temper?
‘Yes, my lord. I shall think on it.’
Warwick picked up the bag of coins. ‘And I shall keep these. We do not want them flooding the markets and stews of the city.’
CHAPTER 18
It was all very well Warwick telling him to think. He had been trained to think. What he had not been trained to do was buy food and cook it. But a man had to eat. Since Katherine had stormed off, he had managed on what had been in the house but now the cupboard was bare.
Armed with her list, he started at Smithfield, where they had witnessed the woman found guilty of witchcraft dying in the flames. For a small chicken he handed over one penny, as she had instructed. But the trader, it seemed, had been instructed differently and demanded another halfpenny. ‘I have been advised to pay only a penny,’ replied Christopher.
The trader laughed. ‘Then you won’t be eating chicken for your dinner, sir. A penny-halfpenny it is and you won’t find cheaper.’
‘Why has the price gone up, goodman?’
‘It’s the false coins, sir. Never know when you might take one by mistake. Have to cover the risk.’
‘I thought the counterfeits were only testons, and they with the Dudley emblem. Easily detected.’ The trader dropped his voice. ‘Can’t be sure of it, sir, and no telling what the mint might mix with a little silver to make it go further. My father spoke of the trouble naughty money caused in the time of King Henry. False testons one day, crowns made of tin the next, I should not be surprised. A penny-halfpenny, if you please.’ Christopher shrugged and gave him a halfpenny. ‘Thank you, sir. I see you have a full purse. Take care. There are cutpurses about.’
Christopher moved on. At the next stall he asked the price of a pound of good mutton. ‘A penny-halfpenny last week,’ replied the trader, ‘two pence this.’
‘Is there bad money about?’ he asked.
‘No more than usual so far, sir, but there are rumours.’ He took the two pennies Christopher gave him and handed over the mutton. It was a poor start. Only two purchases and a penny over Katherine’s prices already.
It was no better in Cheapside. A penny-halfpenny for six eggs, two and a half pence for a small loaf of bread and two pence for six ounces of hard cheese. Everywhere the same story – traders in fear of counterfeit or devalued coins and raising their prices accordingly.
If the testons were intended to cause panic, they were succeeding. The price increases had been sudden and steep. If they continued, two pennies would become three, then four, then five until the poorest could no longer afford to eat. That would mean violence on the streets, more crime, more beggars, more homeless families, more dead children. The spreaders of rumours were as guilty as the coiners. Reality and perception confused and leading to disorder, even chaos. Leicester was right. What society could survive without faith in its currency? And that, of course, was why public conversation of it was against the law.
A pedlar had taken up position at the Eastcheap end of the market. An ancient pony stood beside him, two large sacks slung over its sway back. The pedlar held up a bottle. ‘Less meat, good people, and more wine. Wine to sharpen the blade and bring a smile to her face.’ He looked around the thin crowd that had gathered in the hope of a bargain. The wine would certainly have been stolen and probably watered. ‘Excellent Spanish wine
for but a few pennies. Take a bottle home and you won’t be sorry.’
‘No, but she might be,’ shouted a voice from the back.
Christopher was about to part with a few pennies when suddenly the pedlar put his bottle back in one of the sacks and took up the pony’s leading rein. ‘Constables on the horizon,’ he said, ‘but the wine will be as good tomorrow.’
Christopher could see no constables. The pedlar would have a boy, his son perhaps, perched among the kites on a roof, whose job it was to signal if he spotted a constable approaching. A pity, a few bottles of cheap wine would have made up for the cost of the eggs and cheese.
Once again he was tempted to visit Ell. Truth to tell he was always tempted to visit Ell, although he preferred not to admit as much to himself. He had no real reason to do so – she was entirely reliable. If she said she would let him know if she had anything to tell him, she would do so. With the lovely Ell, whore and intelligencer, he had never had cross words and she had never let him down. Let her sleep or swive or do whatever she was doing without interference from him.
Christopher sensed the shadow before he saw him. The man was there somewhere, hidden among the traders and the bickering clusters of men and women complaining about the prices they were having to pay, or he was lurking in the shadows, his eyes fixed on his quarry.
He managed not to turn suddenly but took his time, pretending to think about another purchase, and giving the hunter no cause for alarm. He made his way slowly along the line of stalls until he reached the corner of Gutter Lane. There he turned into the lane and immediately quickened his pace, hoping the shadow would follow him. A narrow alley ran off the lane about halfway along it. He ducked into it, put down his bag and waited. When he heard footsteps approaching, he took the poniard from his belt and held it ready to strike.
The footsteps stopped. Christopher saw in his mind’s eye the shadow hesitating before going further into the lane. He willed him to carry on. But the shadow had thought better of venturing further. The footsteps retreated.