Death and the Chapman

by Kate Sedley

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I answered, shaking my head.

  ‘She isn’t there! And the Duke disclaims all knowledge of her whereabouts. He says she’s simply disappeared!’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Disappeared! That word seemed to have haunted me, both waking and sleeping, these past few months. First Clement Weaver, then Sir Richard Mallory and his servant, Jacob Pender. Now, here was a great lady of the realm gone missing. Not that there was anything I could do about that, but it was a strange coincidence, nevertheless. I drank some more ale and glanced sideways at the little man.

  ‘What did my lord of Gloucester have to say about that?’

  ‘He just answered quietly that he would find Lady Anne however long it took him to do so, and left. He’s not one to rant and rave when crossed. His anger smoulders, never burns. He’s not a true Plantagenet in that way.’ There was a tender note in my acquaintance’s voice when he spoke of his master. It was obvious that he was devoted to the King’s youngest brother, as, I suspected, were all the Duke’s servants. I had noted the same look of loving respect in the eyes of his entourage who had protected him from the crowds yesterday morning. The people liked him, too.

  ‘Do you think my lord of Clarence knows where Lady Anne is hidden?’

  My question provoked a contemptuous glance. ‘Of course he knows! Don’t imagine that she’s disappeared of her own free will! She’s being held somewhere on Clarence’s orders. And somehow or other, he’s persuaded Duchess Isobel that what he’s doing is for her sister’s good. George Plantagenet has always been a plausible rascal.’ The little man spat on the floor, making a wet patch in the sawdust. ‘But whatever he does, his brothers remain fond of him, particularly my own lord. Christ alone knows why! Clarence is a treacherous bastard.’

  I noted the swift progression from ‘plausible rascal’ to ‘treacherous bastard’ and connected it to an additional consumption of ale. My little man was getting too drunk for safety, both his and my own. There might be servants of Clarence in this alehouse – in this very room! I preferred not to be overheard criticizing the Duke, however indirectly.

  ‘I must be going,’ I said, getting to my feet and hoisting up my pack. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’

  ‘Thank you for saving me from that brute of a pieman.’ He, too, got up and bowed ceremoniously, but staggering slightly as he did so. His speech was clear and unslurred, but I felt, all the same, that it was time to go. I returned his bow and made my way out into East Cheap once more.

  By mid-afternoon, I had sold all that was in my pack, and debated with myself whether to go straight to Galley Quay or wait until the next morning. There would be fresh ships in tomorrow, and in the meantime there might be shopkeepers willing to sell such items as needles and thread, ribbons and laces to me in quantity, reducing their prices accordingly. A third possibility was to declare the rest of the day a holiday. I had worked hard from early morning and had done well, earning more than enough to keep myself at the Baptist’s Head for two or three days longer; sufficient, in fact, to insist on paying for my room and to stop imposing on Thomas Prynne’s generosity.

  It was, needless to say, the last choice which appealed to me most. I needed to clear my head and put the confused impressions of yesterday and today in some sort of order. And so that I could salve my slightly uneasy conscience, I decided to walk down by the river, along the wharfsides, heading in the general direction of Galley Quay. If, when I reached it, there was still merchandise to be bought of the kind that I needed, I could do so. Otherwise, I would return to The Street later in the day, just before the shops were stripped of their wares for the night, which would be stored under lock and key in the living quarters. It had been my experience that shopkeepers were more prone to strike a bargain when they were tired and looking forward to their suppers. I had grown craftier, I felt, now that I had passed the age of nineteen. (Four days before, while I was still on the road from Canterbury, it had been my Birth Day, although I had mentioned the fact to no one.) I realized that, in the past months, since leaving the Abbey and being on the road, I had truly become a man.

  I made my way down to the river, where the gilded barges of the gentry sped along like great angry swans, imperilling lesser craft in their headlong flight. Watermen shouted abuse, crane operators paused in their work of unloading vessels moored at the wharves and people on the bank, including myself, stared sombrely but without resentment at these symbols of a power we could not hope to attain. But then, I suppose we English have never really envied our nobles, because we have always believed in Justinian’s maxim that what affects the people should be approved by the people, and throughout our history have taken steps, however slow and feeble, to ensure that this is so.

  I emerged on to the quayside near London Bridge, close to a flight of water-steps, where a fleet of small boats, both uncovered (one penny) and covered (two pennies), were moored, waiting to ferry passengers up and down the river. A party of youths in satin and velvet tunics, with shoe-pikes so long that they had to be chained round their knees, were vying with a couple of more soberly dressed citizens for the attention of the boatmen.

  ‘Wagge! Wagge! Go we hence!’ the young men shouted, and the boatmen, rightly calculating that there was more money to be made in tips from them than the other two would-be customers, swarmed up the steps to offer their services.

  I wandered on, threading my way in and out of the cranes and the workmen’s huts on the wharfside, deliberately letting my mind empty of all thoughts of Clement Weaver and Sir Richard Mallory, and now, the missing Lady Anne Neville. For a while, at least, I would allow myself to think of nothing but the pleasant October afternoon and the delicious supper which Thomas Prynne was no doubt at that moment preparing.

  A hand clutched my sleeve and a throaty voice said: ‘I thought it was you, Roger Chapman.’

  I was growing accustomed by now to hearing myself so addressed, although in my youth I had been known as Roger Carverson, or Carver for short, after my father’s trade. I recognized the voice at once, without turning my head, as Philip Lamprey’s.

  ‘We meet again, then,’ I said, stating the obvious, and he agreed with a friendly grin.

  ‘I told you, didn’t I? London ain’t that big.’

  I looked at him and noted that he was a little smarter than when I had seen him last, his patched and faded old woollen tunic having been replaced with one made of camlet. This was equally faded, and the grey squirrel fur which trimmed it had in places been rubbed right down to the skin. It also had a peculiar smell, as though at some time or another it had been next to a pile of rotting fish. In addition, it looked as though it had been immersed in water for a time and then roughly dried. All the same, the tunic was plainly of good quality, and the camlet – a mixture of wool and camel’s hair, imported from the East – had survived the treatment meted out to it.

  Philip saw me looking, and smiled. ‘Warmer than my old one,’ he said. ‘Niffs a bit, but then what d’you expect? Been in the Thames two or three weeks, old Bertha reckoned, when she fished it out along of its owner. And it’s been ’angin’ up in ’er place, down by the river, over to Southwark, for nigh on a year. Askin’ too much fer it, she was. “Belonged to a gentleman,” she said. “I ain’t lettin’ it go for nothin.” Though what she calls nothin’… But there, it’s not an easy way to earn a livin’, corpsing ain’t. Pays better than beggin’, but it wouldn’t be my choice, even though I’ve seen enough dead bodies when I was a soldier.’

  I had never heard of ‘corpsing’ then, but I could guess what it entailed. ‘You mean this woman, this Bertha, fishes dead bodies out of the Thames and sells their clothes?’

  Philip Lamprey nodded. ‘’S right. She don’t do it single ’anded, o’ course. ’Er ’usband and son do the fishin’. She jus’ strips the corpses and dries the clothes before she sells ’em.’

  ‘And what happens to the poor unfortunates who owned the clothes? I don’t imagine,’ I added drily,
‘that they’re then given a decent Christian burial?’

  My friend chuckled. ‘Lord bless you, no! They’re just thrown back in the river, where they came from.’

  It was the answer I had foreseen. I suspected that the trade carried on by this Bertha and her family was unlawful, and she could hardly advertise it by seeking the assistance of a priest.

  ‘And how were you able to afford this “costly” garment?’ I inquired ironically. ‘Have you suddenly become a rich man?’

  My tone was lost on my companion. ‘I’ve ’ad my eye on it fer a while now,’ he confided. ‘And yesterday, I ’ad a good day. I got m’self a good position outside the Archbishop of York’s ’ouse, near the Charing Cross, ’cause someone’d told me ’e was in London this week, seein’ the King. Meetin’ of the Council, or whatever. George Neville’s quite a generous man, contrary to what you might ’ave ’eard said of ’im.’

  The name Neville made me wonder if the Archbishop was aware that his niece was missing, or even if he was privy to her disappearance.

  George Neville and George of Clarence had always been as thick as thieves. Or, at least, so said the rumours which had penetrated even our monastic walls.

  I became aware that Philip Lamprey was still speaking. ‘…so I drove a ’ard bargain, and now it’s mine. Bertha was glad to get rid of it in the end, I think. It ’ad been around too long. She usually shifts ’er stuff much quicker. ’Ere,’ he added, nudging me in the ribs with one of his sharp bony elbows, ‘there’s initials embroidered in real gold thread up by the collar. See?’ He tucked one hand inside the neckline of the tunic, making a bulge in the material just below the grey fur border.

  I peered closely and could just make out two letters, or what was left of them, embroidered in tarnished gold thread. C.W. My heart was thumping against my ribs. C.W. Was it possible that this tunic had once belonged to Clement Weaver?

  * * *

  I told myself not to be foolish. There were many names which began with those letters. Nevertheless, I looked carefully once again at the camlet tunic. The C and the W had been intertwined, embellished with flourishes and curlicues. Much of the thread was now missing, but I could see by the needle-holes the original pattern. For whoever embroidered it, it had been a labour of love; a mother? a sister? Alison Weaver?

  ‘I think I may know the owner of this tunic,’ I said to Philip Lamprey. ‘Will you take me to see this Bertha?’ He looked dubious. ‘You ain’t goin’ to make a fuss about it, are you? You ain’t thinkin’ of callin’ in the Law? Bertha’s my friend. I don’t want to get ’er into trouble.’

  ‘I just want to know exactly where she found the body.’ Still he sucked his lower lip, unable to make up his mind regarding my intentions. ‘It’s a long time ago. She may not be able to remember.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I’d like to ask her, all the same. If you won’t take me, I’ll find her myself. I’m sure she’s quite well known on the Southwark side of the river.’

  With a sigh, Philip capitulated. ‘C’mon, then,’ he said. ‘But you’ll ’ave to pay fer the ferry.’

  I was more than willing to do so, and we headed for the nearest water-stairs, where the inevitable fleet of boats was waiting. As it was a fine afternoon, we chose an uncovered one and were rowed across to the opposite shore with a gentle breeze blowing in our faces. The waters of the Thames were a little choppy, but the sun crested the waves with gold, and the glittering distances promised another good day tomorrow.

  I had gained only the most fleeting impression of Southwark two evenings ago, when I had arrived there with my friends from Canterbury. And I had been up and gone very early the following morning, making my way across the Bridge to the city. But I had been warned of its reputation; of its bear-baiting pits, its cock-fighting rings, its stews and its brothels. It boasted, too, several churches, of which St Mary Overy was the largest, and one or two fine mansions on its outskirts. I remembered one of the pilgrims pointing out a house to me which, he said, had once belonged to Sir John Fastolfe. He had also recommended to my notice the Tabard inn, made famous by Master Chaucer in his stories.

  When we landed there were a number of whores in the striped hoods which were the badge of their profession waiting for a boat to take them across to the city.

  ‘We ’ear the Archbishop of York’s in town,’ one said to the boatman with a lecherous giggle.

  Once again, I felt a stab of disapproval and shock that churchmen should consort with prostitutes, which made me realize, not for the first time, that I was neither so worldly-wise nor so world-weary as I liked to think myself.

  I followed Philip Lamprey through a warren of narrow, filthy streets bordering the Thames, eventually emerging on to an abandoned wharf – Angel Wharf, so Philip informed me – a little way up river. Here, there was a settlement of near-derelict huts and hovels, occupied by what looked at first sight to be a tribe of beggars. A second, more searching look, however, told me that this was a permanent community, with its own boats moored alongside the wall, next to a shallow flight of well-worn steps leading up from the river. As Philip and I neared the entrance to the wharf an urchin seated on the ground and playing at five-stones gave us a piercing stare; then, apparently unconcerned, dropped his eyes again and continued with his game. But a few seconds later a shrill, ear-splitting whistle came from behind us, and I realized that he was warning of our approach. As we emerged from the dark, stinking alley into the afternoon sunshine, there was no one to be seen.

  Had I gone alone to Angel Wharf, I should have accomplished nothing. Indeed, there is the possibility that I might never have been seen again. It was a sort of thieves’ kitchen, where everyone made his or her living by working on the wrong side of the law; and where, as a consequence, strangers were viewed with the deepest suspicion. And people who had come to ask questions, like me, were the most mistrusted and unwelcome of all.

  Philip Lamprey, however, seemed perfectly at ease and shouted: ‘Bertha! Bertha Mendip! It’s me! Philip Lamprey!’

  As though by magic, a number of the hovel doors opened and a few moments later the wharf was full of curious faces all staring in our direction. To begin with, no one came close, leaving us standing in the centre of an empty circle, as if we were lepers. But finally, what looked like a bundle of evil-smelling rags detached itself from the ruck of onlookers, advanced a step or two and resolved itself into a tiny woman, thin almost to the point of emaciation, with shrivelled features and a skin like leather. With a shock, I realized that the dirty, unkempt hair straggling about her shoulders was still a dark chestnut-brown and bore only a trace of grey. She had probably seen fewer than thirty-five summers, but appeared to be twice that age until I looked into her eyes. These were a brilliant blue, full of eagerness and life.

  ‘Oo’s this, then?’ she demanded of Philip Lamprey.

  ‘Friend o’ mine.’ Philip plainly considered that sufficient introduction. ‘’E wants to ask you about this ’ere tunic.’ And he indicated the garment he was wearing.

  ‘Oh yes?’ Bertha sounded unimpressed, and, just as plainly, my friendship with Philip did not inspire her with confidence. ‘Oo is ’e?’

  ‘I’ve told you.’ Philip was impatient. ‘A friend. You can trust ’im.’

  There was an ugly murmur from the onlookers and I felt the hair rise on the nape of my neck. All I wanted to do was turn and run. Then I had a sudden inspiration. I remembered that Philip had called her Bertha Mendip.

  ‘I’m a chapman,’ I said. ‘I was at Glastonbury abbey as a novice until I decided that I didn’t care for the monastic life. My home’s in Wells. My father was a stone carver for the cathedral.’

  The tribal instinct is very strong in England, even today, in this enlightened new century. But fifty years or more ago, it was still stronger. The fact that I was a Somerset man born and bred in no way proved that I was trustworthy, yet Bertha Mendip accepted me immediately. She lost her aggressive attitude and jerked her head in the direction of one of
the huts.

  ‘You’d better come inside, then.’

  The interior of the hut stank with the smell of drying clothes which had been too long immersed in water and in contact with decaying flesh. They hung on poles at one end of the room, the smoke from a desultory fire curling through a hole in the ceiling. A young boy, presumably Bertha’s son, as small and shrivelled as she was, was throwing damp wood on to the blaze in an effort to keep it going. Of the husband mentioned by Philip there was no sign.

  ‘Well?’ Bertha demanded truculently, as though angry with herself for accepting me so readily. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘Whereabouts in the Thames you found the body which wore that tunic,’ I answered, nodding towards Philip Lamprey.

  She prevaricated. ‘It’s a long time ago. More’n a year. For some reason, no one would buy it.’

  ‘You asked too much fer it, that’s why,’ Philip interrupted. ‘It’s all right. You can trust ’im. ’E’s just tryin’ to find a friend oo disappeared last winter from outside the Crossed ’Ands inn. No one knows if this young man is alive or dead, an’ it’s ’ard on ’is family.’

  I had, inevitably, been forced, on our way here to satisfy Philip’s rampant curiosity regarding my interest in the camlet tunic, and so had told him my story, or such parts of it as were relevant to our mission. I prayed devoutly that I should not now have to repeat it yet again for Bertha Mendip, but fortunately, Philip’s explanation seemed to satisfy her. She thought deeply for a moment or two, then nodded.

  ‘In that case,’ she said at last, ‘per’aps I do remember. Come outside with me, both of you, an’ I’ll point out the spot to you. And Matt! You keep that fire going!’ she admonished her son. ‘D’you ’ear me?’