by Jason Vail
“That’s why he’s forcing us to do it, while he takes the credit. Just like the business with the emeralds.”
“We are too good for our own good.”
“With no reward at the end.”
The writing of the letter took longer than it should have. People of Stephen’s class never wrote down their own letters, but instead dictated them to clerks. However, the chief clerk was ill and his adjutant was nowhere to be found. The letter had to be in either Latin or French because no one wrote letters in English except merchants. Stephen could speak French, of course; his mother had taken pains to ensure that, although the business of the manor and the household where he grew up had been conducted in English, for fluency in French was one of the great distinctions of the gentry from those below them who labored. Gilbert’s French was not up to the task despite his long association with the coroner, Sir Geoffrey Randall; it was just good enough to take orders or get by in casual conversation but not practiced in the formal phrasing required for such a letter, nor was he sure about the spelling, which was more complicated than Latin. But Stephen was wary of his Latin and did not want to rely upon it, for making a good impression on the sheriff seemed a good idea. So he dictated in English, which Gilbert then put down in Latin, a halting process that involved much thought-gathering and false starts. Then the draft had to be copied over in clerk hand.
By the time they finished, the sun had started its course toward the horizon and was casting lengthening shadows from the walls into the bailey.
A spring breeze greeted them as they emerged from the castle into the broad expanse of High Street, carrying away the aromas of horse manure, smoke and privy that were the signature scents of the town. Stephen breathed deeply at the momentary freshness; it was a luxury enjoyed mainly by those wealthy enough to have a house here, such as the goldsmith Leofwine Wattepas, whose tall house loomed at the corner of Mill Street. Like all houses in town, its shop occupied the ground floor, the windows’ shutters down to admit light and the fresh air, Wattepas’ apprentices and journeymen visible within hard at work.
“Don’t goldsmiths know how to spot false coin?” Stephen asked, nodding toward Wattepas’ shop.
“I would think so,” Gilbert said. “Metals are a goldsmith’s business.”
As Stephen veered toward the shop, Gilbert added, “You don’t think that Feyn was actually passing false coin?”
“I don’t know. I want to find out.”
“Oh, dear!” Gilbert exclaimed. “You don’t think he paid for his chamber with bad money, do you?”
“He might have,” Stephen said.
Gilbert shook his head. “Dear me, it will mean we have to inspect every penny we’ve taken in to spot them!”
“I suspect you may have to. I wouldn’t want you or Edith to lose a hand, after all,” Stephen said, for the penalties for passing bad money were harsh and the court often made no allowance for the innocent who came into possession, particularly if a large number of coins was involved.
One of the journeymen at Wattepas’ put aside the bowl he was shaping with a hammer on a wooden dish, and came to the window. Stephen recognized him but could not remember his name. “Can I help you, sir?” the journeyman asked.
“I’d like to see the master,” Stephen said.
The journeyman frowned. “He’s not in.”
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know, sir.” The journeyman hesitated. “He went out this morning and hasn’t come back yet.”
“Who’s there, Oslar?” called a woman’s voice from the interior of the house, which Stephen recognized as belonging to Wattepas’ wife, Lucy.
“It’s Sir Stephen Attebrook, madam!” Oslar called over his shoulder.
Lucy Wattepas emerged from the rear of the house. There were few people in Ludlow who presented a more severe image than Mistress Wattepas, her major rival being the gossip Felicitas Bartelot. She wore an expensive embroidered wimple that made her face seem larger and more severe than it might have done without it, emphasizing her receding chin and overbite, her nose appearing large and dominating. But it was her eyes that one was most drawn to, piercing and judgmental, a cold gray, eager to find fault and assess social position, always in a way that might put her on a rung above whomever she dealt with.
“My husband has gone out,” she said crisply in a tone that seemed intended to dismiss all further questions about the matter. “If you have business, you shall have to come back later.”
“Perhaps one of his boys could help,” Stephen said, indicating Oslar and the other two journeymen, one of them a recently promoted apprentice who had taken the place of a journeymen caught up in an affair of stolen emeralds and murdered last month.
“What is your business, then?” Mistress Wattepas asked, in a way that suggested Stephen could not possibly have business with a goldsmith, since he teetered on the edge of pauperhood, where by rights he should have fallen long ago and no doubt properly belonged. “I am as capable of handling matters as anyone here.”
Stephen was surprised she would offer her services. “I need to find out if this is good money.”
Mistress Wattepas regarded the pennies in Stephen’s hand. “Oslar, fetch the scales and the weights.”
“Right away, madam,” Oslar said. He hurried to a cupboard to the right, and came back with the scales and a small box, which he put on the counter and stepped back.
Mistress Wattepas made no move to take the money, and continued to look at Stephen with pursed lips. He realized that she had no intention of plucking coins from his palm, for that might force her to touch him. He dribbled the coins onto the counter top. Mistress Wattepas selected half a dozen pennies, which she deposited upon one pan of the scales. She opened the box and removed several small weights which she put on the other pan of the scale. The pans teetered up and down and finally came to rest, the one with the money only a tad beneath the other.
“Inconclusive,” Mistress Wattepas sniffed, leaning close to peer at the pennies in the pan. “Could have been clipped, but that doesn’t make them bad.”
“I had been so sure …” Stephen said, disappointed.
“Wait!” Mistress Wattepas commanded. She took up one of the pennies and held it up to the light, turning it about and rubbing it with her fingers. She contemplated the penny. “Michael! Go get a jar of vinegar and the salt bowl from the kitchen! And an empty bowl!”
The apprentice so addressed rushed back into the depths of the house. Stephen could hear him calling to one of the servants for the items Mistress Wattepas wanted.
It wasn’t long before Michael came back to the shop. He put a clay jar and the salt bowl on the counter by the small pile of pennies along with an empty wooden bowl.
Mistress Wattepas poured vinegar from the jar into the empty bowl and added two pinches of salt. She stirred this mixture with a long, bony finger on which there was a ring with a large blue stone. She wiped her fingers on a cloth, careful not to get any of the vinegar on the ring. Then she dropped the penny she had inspected into the vinegar. “We shall let it rest a moment,” she said.
When she judged the moment had passed, Mistress Wattepas recovered the penny from the vinegar and wiped it on the cloth. What Stephen had thought was the dull gray of tarnished silver had been replaced by the sheen of copper.
Mistress Wattepas put the false penny on the counter. “Bad money, all right.”
“What about the rest?”
“You’ve seen the trick of it. I shall leave it to you.”
Chapter 8
“You want vinegar,” said Baldwin, the inn’s chief cook, perplexed. “Are you ill?”
“And salt,” Gilbert said.
“Salt? Salt and vinegar? I’ve never heard of that kind of remedy. What is the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter, except perhaps for a little sickness of heart,” Gilbert said. “Now off with you. We haven’t time to waste.”
“It might not be that bad,” Step
hen said as the cook went off to the pantry.
“I fear the worst,” Gilbert said. “Wait until Edith finds out.”
The cook returned with a pot and a wooden box. He put them on the kitchen table. “There you go.” It was now late in the afternoon, almost supper time, but instead of backing away to prepare dinner’s leftovers for supper, Baldwin stood and watched.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Gilbert asked.
“Certainly,” Baldwin said, not moving.
“People are hungry,” Gilbert said.
“I know,” Baldwin said.
Gilbert took up the pot of vinegar and peered inside. “Not much here.” He fetched a bowl from the shelf, poured the vinegar into the bowl, and added a couple of pinches of salt from the box as they had seen Mistress Wattepas do.
“Now you,” Gilbert said.
Stephen fished in his pouch for the pennies, which he plopped into the bowl. He stirred them with a finger, now and then taking up a penny and rubbing it.
“Washing money,” Baldwin murmured, watching at this operation as if he was witnessing alchemy. “Or are you trying to turn it into gold?”
“A cloth,” Stephen demanded after some time.
Baldwin hastened to sacrifice his apron, eager to see the results of this alchemy.
Stephen rubbed the pennies, one at a time, and deposited each on the table. When he was done, he had thirteen gleaming copper pennies and three silver ones.
“Damn it,” Gilbert said. “Damn it to hell.”
Stephen’s brows rose at this unaccustomed profanity.
“What’s going on?” Baldwin asked.
“None of your business,” Gilbert said.
“This has to do with that fellow in the privy, doesn’t it?” Baldwin asked.
“Never you mind. Forget what you’ve seen. Tell no one.”
Stephen sympathized with Gilbert’s upset. Once it got around that the inn had accepted bad money, it might be hard for the inn to pay its bills, since its creditors would fear the coin it offered in compensation.
“We’ll have to check every penny,” Gilbert sighed.
“I’m afraid so,” Stephen said. He slid the three good pennies toward Baldwin. “Have one of the boys run up to the wine shop for more vinegar. We’re going to need a lot of it.”
Edith Wistwode received the news that they would have to wash every penny the inn possessed better than Stephen or Gilbert expected. There was no stamping, shouting, cursing or hair pulling. No frothing mouth or rolling on the floor. There was but a grim frown, crossed arms and a tapping foot as she gazed at the copper pennies on the kitchen table.
“Well, that’s it then,” Edith said, surrendering to necessity. “There isn’t time to do it today. We’ve supper to get out. And there won’t be time in the morning. We’ll have to do it tomorrow afternoon. You and I, and no one else. Can’t trust the staff around so much money.”
“What about Stephen?” Gilbert asked. “We should have a witness.”
Edith eyed Stephen as if he was a rat who had slipped into the kitchen. “I suppose he will have to do.”
“I appreciate your trust,” Stephen said.
“You’re welcome,” Edith said before she stalked out to the hall.
As the discovery of the false money was supposed to be a secret, it didn’t take long before the entire town knew about it. At dinner the following day, some of the craftsmen and shopkeepers in the neighborhood who stopped by for a bun and cup of ale, suggested that the inn be renamed the Bad Penny or something similar. Other jokes were uttered at the front window, none of which Edith found to be funny or tasteful, but there was nothing she could do to stop them.
Consequently, Edith was in an even more foul mood as her daughter Jennie and the servants cleared away the dinner plates and wooden trenchers, and applied themselves to sweeping the floor, while Edith superintended to ensure the capture of every speck of dirt tracked in.
“Fetch the box,” she ordered Gilbert at the foot of the stairs, which mounted to the upper floors of the inn to the left of the great fireplace.
“You know how heavy it is, dear,” Gilbert said. “I don’t think I can manage by myself. I shall have Mark fetch it.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Edith snapped. “I’ll have no one else near the money but us.”
“Very well,” Gilbert said, head drooping, which lowered his inconsiderable height even more. He turned to climb the stairs.
Stephen slipped around Edith and followed Gilbert to the first floor and down the hallway to the rear of the house, where the master bedchamber occupied the corner overlooking the yard.
Gilbert fumbled with a ring of keys at the chamber door. He found the appropriate key and unlocked the door. “I don’t think you should come in.”
“Is it really that heavy?”
“There is quite a lot of money, I’m afraid.”
Stephen remained in the doorway while Gilbert crossed to a cupboard by the bed, which was also locked. He unlocked the cupboard. There was a large chest at the bottom of it. Gilbert grasped the handles and lifted it with a groan that became a gasp as the chest slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor.
“Oh, dear,” Gilbert said. “My poor back.”
Stephen entered the chamber. “Go down and clear the hall. I don’t anyone to see.”
Gilbert nodded and left the chamber.
Stephen bent down and lifted the chest. It was, indeed, extraordinarily heavy, and a grunt escaped his lips as he stood up with it.
He lumbered out into the hallway to the top of the stairs. “Is it clear?” he called out.
“It’s clear!” Gilbert called back from the bottom.
Stephen contemplated the stairs with indecision and some dismay. They were almost as steep as a ladder, and he wasn’t sure that he could get the box down without falling or dropping the box. It was this obstacle that had prompted him to offer his assistance, since he had been sure that Gilbert could not have managed it. He hit upon the solution of backing down the stairs, depositing the chest on one stair at a time, until he reached the hall.
“There you go, Edith,” Stephen said, panting at the struggle and glad there was no one about to see him performing manual labor, grateful that Gilbert had thought to close the shutters as well. “Where do you want it?”
“In the kitchen,” she said.
Edith threw a table cloth over the kitchen’s largest table to prevent any coins, which were no larger than a man’s fingernail, from falling into any cracks and being lost as pennies left about were prone to do.
With the chest on the table, Gilbert began counting the money and separating it into one shilling piles. Edith took one pile at a time and washed it in the vinegar and salt solution in a cooking pot. This was a time-consuming task, especially since each coin had to be rubbed dry to ensure that any tarnish, should it be false money, came off.
No one other than Stephen was allowed in the kitchen while this went on, not even Jennie, although Gil the younger, Gilbert and Edith’s son, raced through a couple of times despite his mother’s sharp orders to stay out.
Toward the end of the day, Baldwin stuck his head in and inquired what he was to do about supper. Although Gilbert had joined in washing money after he had counted it, they were only half way through, and Edith told him to take what bread and cheese they had in the buttery and use that.
While Baldwin and his helpers fetched food, with Edith standing between them and the kitchen table to impede their view, Jennie came to the doorway.
“Mistress Wattepas is here,” Jennie said, drawing her mouth down in an effort to elongate her round face in imitation of Mistress Wattepas. “She wants to see Sir Stephen.”
Stephen roused himself from his stool where he had been napping. Who would have known that washing money was so tedious? He rose and stretched. “What does she want?”
“I have no idea,” Jennie said. “She didn’t say. Just ordered me to fetch you out. ‘Fetch Sir Steph
en, if you please.’” Jennie’s voice gave a good imitation of Mistress Wattepas’ upper class accent even down to the sharp, dismissive tone.
“I’m to be fetched, eh? Let’s go see what she wants.”
Mistress Wattepas was seated at Stephen’s favorite table near the fireplace, gazing into the fire. She did not rise when Stephen came up, as she should have done, given their differing social positions, but Stephen did nothing about that. The girl with Mistress Wattepas did stand, however, and it took all Stephen’s self-control not to gape at her. She was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, which meant of marriageable age, but her auburn hair fell down her back in a single thick braid, signifying she was not yet married. She might have been taken for a maid, since Mistress Wattepas was not the sort to go about without a gaggle of them. But there was something about the girl that suggested she was something more. Perhaps it was her shift, a fine maroon with long sleeves. Or her face, which bore something of a resemblance to Leofwine Wattepas’ in its squareness, the cleft in the chin and the same eyes, although there was nothing blockish or masculine about her appearance. This girl had the look of a daughter, and so must be Adele. Stephen had heard about her but had never seen her. Stephen slipped onto his bench opposite the two and the girl sank down as well, her eyes toward the floor so there was no chance their gazes might meet.
“Good afternoon, Mistresses,” Stephen said, “or I should say good evening.” He hoped there would be an introduction to this girl, but none was forthcoming.
“Is it?” Mistress Wattepas asked. “Good, I mean? I suppose it is for someone.”
“Is something the matter?”
Mistress Wattepas’ mouth turned down, becoming more severe than ever. “Yes, there is.” She took a deep breath, as if what she was about to say took some effort. “My husband — he has disappeared. I should like you to find him.”
It took Stephen a few moments to digest this declaration. People, especially prosperous craftsmen who were pillars of the town, did not just disappear. “I don’t understand,” he said.