by A D Swanston
Lovell caught his tone and raised his eyebrows. ‘I see. What are your intentions now?’
‘I will speak to Pryse but I doubt he will tell us much here,’ replied Christopher. ‘If you are able to provide us with a cart and a constable to drive it, we will take him to London. A few nights in Newgate and the prospect of a traitor’s death should loosen his tongue.’
‘Dr Radcliff, are you quite sure that he is the man you seek?’
‘Quite sure, Mr Lovell. Go to the farm yourself and you will find a secret mint in the barn. That is where Pryse and his father produced the counterfeit coins, stamped with these dies.’
Lovell looked at the dies and nodded. ‘A bear and a ragged staff, just as you said. That is evidence enough. I will make the arrangements for tomorrow.’
Dark and dank and foul, yet the dungeons of Guildford Castle were less awful than the hellish cells of Newgate. There was a little more light and air and the stench was less gut-churning. And there were but a few prisoners crying out for pity. King John’s enemies, it seemed, had fared rather better nearly four hundred years earlier than did the gracious Queen Elizabeth’s.
A gaoler led them down to Pryse’s cell, where he sat in a corner on the stone floor. He looked up when they entered but did not move or speak. ‘Let us begin with your name,’ said Christopher. ‘Are you Hugh Pryse?’
‘I am Henry Brooke. I know no Pryse.’
‘Do not waste our time, Pryse. We know who you are.’ Christopher held up the two dies. ‘And we found these in your barn. How do you account for them?’
‘What are they?’
‘For the love of God, man, do not make matters worse for yourself,’ snapped Christopher. ‘I have no time for this. Try our patience more and you will certainly suffer a traitor’s death. Have you ever seen a man hanged, cut down while still breathing, his guts drawn from him and his body cut into quarters? Have you? Because that is what awaits you if you lie and dissemble. Tell the truth and you might yet be spared such an end. You know what these are and we know what they were used for. Where did you get them?’
Pryse shrugged and said nothing. ‘For whom were you working?’ Nothing. ‘For whom were you working?’ Louder this time. Still nothing. Christopher sighed. ‘As you wish. Tomorrow you will be taken to Newgate for questioning. Think on what awaits you there and, if you still refuse to speak, what awaits you in the Tower. Inside the curtain wall, not outside it in the mint.’ A flicker of fear crossed Pryse’s face. ‘And I suggest you start by telling Mr Lovell where your silver is hidden. It will save his constables much time in searching and might spare you a beating.’
They waited for a response but there was none. ‘Very well. Mr Lovell, he is well enough fed. I suggest neither food nor water. We will leave at dawn tomorrow.’ They heard the key turning in the lock behind them as they climbed the steps.
At the top Christopher asked if he might accompany the magistrate briefly to his house. ‘I have a task to perform and a small favour to ask of you,’ he said.
Seated at the magistrate’s desk and using one of his pens and his inkpot, he wrote a letter. It did not take long. He sanded it, folded it and handed it to the magistrate. ‘You would be doing me a great service if you would have this delivered to Lady Paulet,’ he said. ‘And my thanks also to you, Mr Lovell. The Earl of Leicester will be told of your part in capturing Hugh Pryse. Be sure of it.’
Lovell inclined his head in thanks. ‘Tomorrow at dawn, doctor. All will be ready.’
Outside, Christopher clapped Wetherby on the back. ‘Progress at last, Roland, and now it is time we paid a visit to the glass-blowers.’
‘With what purpose?’
‘I have been wondering why the coiners chose Guildford for their mint and how the coins were smuggled into London. Could it be that Guildford was chosen so that the testons could be hidden in a shipment from the glassworks? It would not have been difficult to ferry a crate or two of glass across the river and bring them in through Lud Gate or New Gate without arousing suspicion.’
‘It would not. Nor would we have ever known had Pryse not spoken of the town before they left London.’
Approaching the glassworks, the roar of furnaces reminded Christopher of the mint. And as they reached the cluster of low buildings in which the glass was blown and shaped and annealed, the heat from the furnaces greeted them like a burning blast of wind. Instinctively, they put their hands to their faces and turned away until the shock subsided.
To one side of the buildings stood a small dwelling – stone-built and tiled. Christopher hammered on the door, hoping that it was where they would find a supervisor or someone else in authority. It was opened by a tall man with a neat beard and dressed more appropriately for Whitehall than for a glassworks. His doublet was red and his hose white. ‘Good day, sirs,’ he said in a strong French accent. ‘Have you come to inquire about our glass?’
‘In a way, we have, sir,’ replied Christopher. ‘I am Dr Christopher Radcliff and my companion is Mr Roland Wetherby. We are in Guildford on my lord the Earl of Leicester’s business.’
‘I am Jacques l’Église, a sharer in this enterprise. Do you wish to order glass for his lordship? If so, it would of course be an honour to serve him. Be aware, however, that demand for our glass is high and we are very busy.’
‘The quality of your glass is well known in London, sir,’ said Wetherby with a slight bow, ‘and on another occasion it would be a pleasure to examine your wares. Today, however, we would like to inquire about a man we are seeking.’
‘What man would that be, sir?’
‘His name is unknown to us, but he would have made regular visits here and would have purchased glassware for his customers in London. Small amounts, probably.’
The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you seek such a man?’
‘That we cannot say,’ replied Christopher, ‘but the earl is most insistent that we trace him and will certainly look favourably on all who assist us in our task.’
‘If you were to furnish us with a sample of your glass – say a small flask – we would be pleased to present it to his lordship with a view to his placing an order for Kenilworth Castle,’ added Wetherby. ‘Next summer, the queen herself will be visiting Kenilworth on her progress.’
‘The queen’s progress? That is most gracious of you. I will certainly find a suitable item for the earl. A flask, yes. We are noted for our flasks. But as to the man you seek, we have many customers and I …’
‘He would have paid in silver coin.’
‘As do many of our customers.’ L’Église stroked his beard. ‘Although there was one man – we have not seen him for some weeks – who ordered glassware on each visit, paid in silver, and placed another order for the next time. Never a large order but he came every month. We understood him to be buying on behalf of London gentlemen.’
‘What was this man’s name, sir?’
‘He went by the name of Fossett. Gerard Fossett.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘A tall man, black hair and beard, finely dressed. Always courteous. One would not have guessed that he had travelled from London. He came by a coach which he drove himself. Unusual, but he was a regular buyer, so I said nothing about it.’
‘For how long was Mr Fossett a customer?’
‘About a year and a half, I think. I could check my records, if you wish.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur l’Église,’ said Wetherby, ‘that would be helpful.’
They followed him into the house where a thick ledger lay open on a table. L’Église turned back the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘There,’ he said, tapping a page with his finger, ‘Mr Fossett placed his first order on the tenth day of August 1572. It was for two dozen hock glasses at a price of ten pounds. He collected them on the twelfth day of September and paid in silver. On that day he also placed another order for hock glasses.’
‘His masters must have had a taste for German wine,’ said Wetherby
. ‘Personally, I find it somewhat insipid.’
L’Église turned over the pages. ‘Mr Fossett returned every month until November of last year. I do not know why he no longer came after that.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur l’Église,’ said Christopher. ‘That is most helpful.’
‘A pleasure to serve the Earl of Leicester. Come now and I will find a flask for him.’
Christopher followed the Frenchman. Gerard Fossett, l’Église had said. Tall, well dressed, drove his own carriage, black-haired and courteous. And found with his throat slashed in a mean alley off Cheapside before his corpse was removed from the deadhouse and dumped in the river? Ell’s handsome customer? He smiled. First Pryse, then Fossett. A little more progress and each step taking them closer to their prey.
By the time they trundled over London Bridge, the church clocks were chiming five in the afternoon. The journey from Guildford with the prisoner bound on a flat cart pulled by a sturdy pony had taken almost twice the time of that from London.
Pryse had not revealed the whereabouts of his money and on the journey had said almost nothing. To the name Gerard Fossett he had shown no reaction. Not a glimmer. Even at a crossroads near the village of Esher, where the constable had pointed to a thief swinging on a gibbet, his eyes taken by crows and his hair by wig-makers, and had amused himself with remarks about the dead man at least having died in one piece, Pryse had not spoken.
On the way up from the bridge to Newgate, they encountered few stares. Felons on carts being taken to gaol were a common enough sight on the streets of the city.
They left him at Newgate with instructions to the warden to put him with the penniless wretches in the lowest cells on the common side, paid off the constable with more than enough for his work and for a bed for the night, and returned the earl’s coursers to their stable in Whitehall. Newgate had reminded Christopher again that poor Joan Willys was still held there. Somehow he must find time to visit her.
‘A carriage next time,’ he said, stretching his back. ‘The older I get the more I dislike riding. And now it’s time to face the earl.’
The earl, they were told, was with Her Majesty but a message would be given to him that they awaited him in the anteroom to his apartment.
The earl’s audience with the queen must have gone well. They had been waiting no more than twenty minutes when he strode into the antechamber and summoned them straight into his apartment. ‘You have returned sooner than I expected,’ he said. ‘I trust this signals good news?’
‘Mr Wetherby and I believe it does, my lord.’
CHAPTER 23
Had the shadow disappeared? Had he lost interest or completed his shadowy task, whatever that was? There was no sign of him on the way to Newgate and Christopher sensed no presence. Joan first or Pryse? Let Pryse fester a little longer. Hopefully, Joan would be pleased to see him.
She was. When he entered the cell the unsightly face lit up in a lopsided smile and she rose from the cot on which she sat to bob a clumsy curtsy. ‘Dr Radcliff, I had not thought to see you. Mistress Allington said you were much occupied with your work.’ The pebble was still in her mouth, poor child, and she was not easy to understand.
‘I have been, Joan, or I would have come sooner. How do you fare?’
‘As you see, doctor, I am well and Mistress Allington brings me food each day. And she is taking care of my mother, may God bless her.’
‘That is good. Are the gaolers treating you properly?’
‘They poke fun at me, doctor, for my appearance, but I pay no heed to that. I am quite used to it. How much longer shall I be here?’ Christopher touched her arm. ‘The next assizes are at Easter, but I am hopeful that we will find a way to have you released before then. The evidence against you is weak and Alice Scrope is a whore and a liar. We have only to prove it.’
Joan looked doubtful. ‘If you are occupied with your work, doctor, how will you find the time to prove it? I would not wish to cause you more trouble.’
‘There is no trouble, Joan, I will find the time and there are others working on your behalf. We will keep you from the court.’ To describe Ell Cole as ‘others’ was stretching the truth only a little and he felt no pang of guilt. ‘If you think of anything more that might help us, be sure to tell Mistress Allington. She will tell me.’
‘I will, doctor, although I know no more than that Alice Scrope is a spiteful whore. May God give her what she deserves.’
‘No doubt he will, Joan. Be brave and we will somehow get this foul charge dropped. You may be sure of it.’
‘I will try, doctor.’
Hugh Pryse was brought up from the cells to a small room by the gate, in which prisoners were questioned or, occasionally, allowed to speak briefly to a relative. His hands and ankles were chained, one eye was half closed and a thin line of congealed blood ran down a cheek. Newgate was a dangerous place.
‘Have you thought more, Pryse, or are you still determined to say nothing?’
The voice was a dry croak. ‘I need food and water.’
‘You will have neither until you have told me your name and those of the men you serve.’
‘I am Hugh Pryse.’
‘Not Henry Brooke. That is a start.’
‘Water, for pity’s sake.’ In Newgate, water was as likely to kill a man as the lack of it and they needed him alive.
‘Pity? What pity would you have shown your whore when you were done with her? Would she have gone to feed the pigs too? Give him a mug of small beer, gaoler.’ From a pitcher on a table in the corner, the gaoler filled a mug and gave it to Pryse, who tipped it down his throat. ‘The others, Pryse, who are they?’
‘What others?’
‘You try my patience again. You and your father were not working alone. Someone employed you to produce false testons stamped with the Dudley crest. Who were they?’
‘My father was a farmer. I helped him.’
‘Your father was a coiner, as you are. I have seen your mint. Where did the silver come from? Who supplied it and who collected the false testons from you?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You do know. Or did they come only when you were out drinking and whoring in the town? Was his name Gerard Fossett?’
‘I know of no such man.’
‘That is unfortunate, Pryse. Let us see how many days pass before you are begging to speak. Back to the cell with him, gaoler. Enough food and drink to keep him alive, not a scrap more.’
‘As you say, sir.’ The gaoler led the prisoner out of the room and back down the stone steps leading to the subterranean hell below. If Pryse lasted two days it would be a surprise.
He saw her before she saw him. As he left the gaol through the great oak doors, she was approaching with a wicker basket on her arm. Her face was half hidden by a coif but he knew her gait and the set of her shoulders at once. He stood still and waited for her to reach him.
‘Good day, Katherine, have you come to visit Joan?’
She did not stop but brushed past him towards the prison. Not a look, not a word. He called after her. ‘I have seen Joan. She is well. And I have found the coiners.’ Still no word. She disappeared through the gates without so much as a glance.
He hesitated. Should he follow her and risk another rebuff or leave her to bring succour to Joan? He let her go. There would be a better time. And he wanted to see Ell.
Grace opened the door with her clay pipe clamped between her teeth. She wished Christopher good day but did not bother to ask him why he was there. He climbed the stairs and knocked on Ell’s door.
‘Come in, Dr Rad,’ she called out, ‘I am decent enough.’
Christopher opened her door. ‘How did you know it was me?’
Ell was lying on her bed, covered by a thin shift. She gave one of her throaty chuckles. ‘Should know your knock by now, shouldn’t I? A very polite knock, it is. Not like some. How are you, Dr Rad? Been to that place – something “ford”, wasn’t it?’
‘Gui
ldford. Yes, I’ve been and come back with a coiner.’
‘The strange testons?’
‘Yes, the testons.’
‘That’s good. Everything back to normal now, is it? No more funny money?’
‘Not quite, Ell. There’s much I still don’t know. Did you find Alice Scrope’s house?’
‘I did, doctor. The woman’s a whore, to be sure, and not too particular about her customers. A rough lot most of them, all except one.’
‘How so?’
Ell grinned as if she had a secret to tell. ‘The coroner. Saw him twice, dressed up like a gentleman in his doublet, but just the same as all the others underneath. Except you, that is.’
‘The coroner? Clennet Pyke? Looks like a haddock?’
‘That’s him. Ugly bugger. Perhaps that’s why he swives a hag like Alice Scrope.’
‘Well, well. Good work, Ell. Clennet Pyke of all people. Foul little toad.’ He laughed. ‘Perfect.’
‘No trouble, Dr Rad.’ She held out her hand. Christopher took a crown from his purse and gave it to her. It was one crown he should not reclaim from the earl’s comptroller, but a crown well spent nonetheless. ‘Anything else I can do?’ she asked.
‘Keep watching that house, please. Whenever you’re not busy, that is.’
‘Busy as I want to be these days, but for you I’ll make time. How are the dreams?’
‘Not so bad. Having a difficult job to do helps. Takes the mind to other places.’
‘I’m glad of it. Go well, doctor.’
‘Thank you, Ell. You’ve brightened the day.’
Clennet Pyke reeked of drink and looked as if he had only just risen from his bed. He was bleary-eyed and dishevelled. And far from pleased to see Christopher. ‘Dr Radcliff,’ he grumbled, ‘have you come to cause more trouble? Kindly be brief. I have much work to attend to.’
In Pyke’s study there was little sign of any work being attended to, but Christopher let it pass. ‘I have come about one Alice Scrope who lives near Wood Street. Do you know her?’