by Sam Thomas
“Yes, we heard about that. It’s a terrible thing, but she was simply one of Mrs. Wright’s tenants. It really has nothing at all to do with her.” He paused. “If you’re here only to discuss the murder, I do not think you need to return. Mrs. Wright has nothing to say on the subject.”
I had not expected to be turned away so abruptly, and found myself at a loss. He started to close the door, but Martha stepped past me and blocked it. Anger flashed across the servant’s face, and my heart leapt in my chest. While I knew that Martha could defend herself against some men, she would be no match for this one.
He placed his hand on Martha’s shoulder and tried to guide her back outside. At that moment I saw that his fine clothes concealed well-muscled arms and a powerful chest. Martha tried to shrug off his hand, but he tightened his grasp. The tendons of his forearm jumped beneath the skin, and Martha gasped in pain. From the corner of my eye, I saw Will step forward, his jaw clenched, and I knew that we were moments away from violence.
“We have reason to believe that your mistress may be in danger,” Martha said between clenched teeth. “We believe that Jennet’s murderer will kill again, and next time he might not settle for a whore.”
“Stephen, who is it?” a woman’s voice called from inside. He relaxed his grip on Martha’s shoulder, and she slumped slightly in relief.
“A Lady Bridget Hodgson. She wants to see you about the murder in the city,” he called out. “Her maid says you might be in danger.”
“Does she?” the voice said. “Very well, see them to the parlor. I shall be with them presently.”
Stephen opened the door and led the three of us into a spacious room at the front of the house with a fine view of Micklegate Bar. I have to admit that the interior of Helen’s house surprised me. It was not so much that the furnishings were expensive—they clearly were—but that they were so restrained. I expected a cacophony of whatever baubles had caught her eye: gold leaf here, satin pillows there, silk hangings covering whatever space she could find. Such furnishings would have been appropriate for a low-born woman who had come into great wealth. Instead, the parlor seemed no less dignified than my own. The couch was in proportion to the room, and carefully covered in red silk with a subtle gold thread. The sideboard seemed to have been wrought from oak by the same joiner who crafted the couch, and the edge had been beautifully carved. I noticed a few books on a table, and wondered that a bawd would take the trouble to read.
“Lady Hodgson,” a voice came from behind me. “It is good of you to come to my home.” She spoke with a distinct Yorkshire accent, but not so thick as the one carried by the rough country folk. She looked older than me—I put her age around forty—but I knew I could be wrong by some years; the life she’d led would have taken its toll. She was not quite pretty, but carried herself in such a way that most men would think that she was. High cheekbones and a sharp nose gave her a severe appearance, but the deep brown of her eyes softened her visage. I noticed a thin and fading scar running from below her left ear nearly to her chin and instinctively raised my hand to the scar that marred my own cheek. As in the case of her home, Helen’s clothes would not have seemed out of place on a gentlewoman of far better birth. She curtsied and I nodded in response.
“Stephen said that you are here about Jennet,” she said. “I was very sorry to hear of her death. She’d only just come to the city.”
“And she died horribly,” I replied. “I have been charged by the city to help find her murderer.”
“It’s been a year since the city’s done something other than arrest and whip its whores,” she said bitterly. “I wondered how much violence could be done to a whore before the Justices intervened. It appears that murder breaks the pale. That’s some comfort, at least.”
“How well did you know Jennet?” I asked, declining her invitation to debate godly efforts to reform the city.
“Not well.” She shrugged. “As I said, she’d not been here long. One of the other whores brought her to me. She’d come to York in search of work but had found none. She needed the money.” Helen described Jennet’s descent into whoredom as if it were no more remarkable than the rising of the sun in the east. I felt anger begin to rise within me and I pushed it back down.
“Did you find men for her?” I asked.
“I’m not in any danger, am I?” she asked. “Your servant lied.” She looked at Martha, who stared back unblinking.
“We don’t know,” I said. “We think Jennet’s killer is influenced by the godly. He believes he’s doing God’s work.”
“And God’s work won’t be done until the return of King Jesus,” she said. “I know these fanatics well enough. But when your servant said the murderer might come for me…”
“My deputy may have overstated the case,” I said. “We simply do not know. But we do need your help to find the killer.”
Helen shrugged at Martha’s deception. A woman who took small lies to heart would not survive long as a bawd.
“Jennet only rented a room from me,” Helen said, answering my original question. “She was so new to the trade that she still sought business from apprentices and drunkards. I don’t trouble myself with such poor payers anymore. Do you know the man who died with her?”
“Not yet,” I said. “We don’t think he was from the city, so we may never know.”
“Whoever he was, they probably met in a tavern or alehouse, or even on the street. Beyond that, I can’t tell you anything. I hardly knew the poor girl.”
“You said one of the other whores brought her to you,” Martha said. “Who was it?”
“Isabel Dalton,” Helen replied. “She lives up in Hungate. She keeps an eye out for maidens coming in from the north who might need my help.”
I examined her face for even a trace of irony but found none. I clenched my teeth in the hope of restraining my tongue, but I could not do so for even a moment longer.
“Need your help?” I asked. “The last thing these poor girls need is help from a woman such as you!” Helen stared at me for a moment. I expected anger to match my own, but instead she smiled at me indulgently, as if I were an unruly child.
“And there she is, the true Lady Hodgson,” she said as if to herself. “I knew your judgment would come out eventually. It must have galled you to speak with me as if I were anything other than a common jade. I am relieved that you were able to speak your mind, Bridget.” At this familiarity, my vision narrowed and I felt myself choking on my fury.
“How dare you?” I sputtered, completely out of control. “I am a gentlewoman and a licensed midwife.”
“Yes, I can see that, can’t I?” she said, gesturing to my silk skirts. “You’re certainly doing well for yourself. Tell me this, my lady—how much of what you have did you earn by your own labor? Or did your parents give you land? And what of your husband? Surely you profited from his estate.”
I was so overcome by wrath that I had no ready words to respond to such impudence. I felt my mouth working, but no sound came forth.
“If you are short of cash,” she continued, “do you not have friends who can loan it to you? Does your family keep you safe from predatory men in your widowhood? Can you imagine what most women would give for such advantages? What Jennet would have given?”
I looked at her in shock, still unable to respond, but now my wrath had been joined by hurt, for her words had begun to cut.
“You started your life with money, land, and family,” she said. Her voice now had an edge of steel to it. “I started with nothing but a child in my belly and my master’s lash on my back. I came to this city alone, and I found my way with none to help me. I laid beneath more men than I can remember. Some beat me because they could, and I robbed them whenever I could. I had my head shaved for being a whore. In my youth I was whipped by men whose sons had lain with me the night before.” At this she stared furiously at Will, and I saw the color rising in his cheeks. He looked down to escape her gaze.
“The simple trut
h, my lady, is that I earned everything I have: this house, these clothes, these furnishings, everything including the French wine I drank last night. And the scorn that people like you heap upon me for it makes the wine taste that much sweeter.” By now her eyes were blazing and I realized that my first judgment of Helen Wright was wide of the mark—thanks to her strength, she was astonishingly beautiful.
She turned from me to Martha. “I hope you find Jennet’s murderer. If I can help in any way, tell me.”
Martha looked from Helen to me and back again, her mouth agape. “I … I will,” she stammered at last.
“Stephen will see you to the door.” She swept out of the parlor and disappeared up the stairs. Stephen returned and led us to the front door. He gave no indication that he’d heard any of his mistress’s outburst. Before we departed, he held out his hand to Martha. In his palm lay a small and exquisitely carved wooden serpent. Martha accepted it and looked at him in wonder.
“I work with knives,” Stephen said with a smile that chilled my heart. Visions of Jennet’s pale and bloodless body leaped into my mind. Martha nodded her thanks and slipped the snake into her apron.
As we walked back toward the city, Will and Martha kept their eyes fastened on the ground in front of them, not daring to look at me or even at each other. I counted it a blessing that the wagons, horses, and cattle threw up clouds of dust from the sun-baked road, for it kept us from having to discuss our visit. I’d never been spoken to in such a disrespectful manner, and they’d never seen anyone—a bawd, no less!—insult me so viciously. Indeed, they may have felt more embarrassed by the scene than I. We all remained silent until we passed through Micklegate Bar.
“We should find Isabel Dalton,” I said. “I know where she lives in Hungate, so it shouldn’t take too long. Will you both join me?”
I could see the tension run from their bodies at my words. At that moment, we silently agreed never to discuss Helen’s reprimand.
“Well, from a bawd to a whore in a single morning?” Will said. “Why not?”
Chapter 8
Isabel Dalton lived in Hungate parish, the same one where Jennet had lived and died. The parish lay along the city’s northern wall, and even the most hard-hearted observer would have wept to see the poverty of its residents. The roads were more dirt than stone in some places, and the houses were small and in various states of disrepair. In the shimmering heat and dust, the children seemed like ghosts as they darted in and out of the maze of alleys that made up the parish.
“Where will we start?” Martha asked. Many a gentlewoman’s maidservant would have felt ill at ease in such a place, but Martha had survived much worse.
“Isabel Dalton has been in York long enough that I know her,” I said. “She sometimes attends other common women in their travail, and in the past she would call for me if she needed help with a difficult birth.” I reflected for a moment on the strange fact that a gentlewoman and a whore could share the work of a midwife, and were it not for this, I should never have met Isabel. But if midwifery could bind me to a maidservant such as Martha, why could it not bind me to a doxy? I peered down the street, trying to get my bearings. “It has been some time since I’ve been to her home, but I should be able to find it.”
We set out again, and after a few wrong turns I found the house I’d been searching for and knocked on the door. I waited a few moments and knocked again. As was his wont, Will made to pound on the door, but I bade him wait. I did not want Isabel to think we’d come to her house with a mind to arrest her. A woman’s knock would do for now.
A moment later, we heard the bolt slide back and the door opened a few inches. A child’s pale face peered up at us, her delicate features framed by red hair that blazed in the sunlight. She was a beautiful girl, with porcelain skin and clear blue eyes. The girl looked me up and down, as if a visit from a gentlewoman were no new thing. I had to suppress a smile at her naked impudence—Birdy had reacted much the same way when she’d met the Lord Mayor in his robes and regalia, asking why he wore such strange clothes.
“Mum, there are some people here to see you,” the girl called over her shoulder before returning her gaze to us. “She’ll be here in a minute. What d’you want?” I opened my mouth to reply but a voice from inside cut me off.
“I told you to leave us alone, you godly whore!” The voice was that of a woman who’d had her fill of whoever she thought was at the door. “I told you I’d call the constable if you troubled us again. Close the door on her, Elizabeth.”
“It’s not them, Mum,” said the girl. “It’s a lady.”
The door opened a bit more to reveal a rather plain woman in her late twenties. Elizabeth had gotten her red hair from her father, it seemed. Isabel’s ears pinked when she saw it was me. “Oh, God. Lady Hodgson, I am so sorry,” she stammered with an unusually low curtsy. “I thought it was someone else. How are you? What brings you here?”
“I’m very well, Isabel, thank you,” I said, suppressing a smile. I decided to save for later the question of who the godly whore was, and why Isabel thought I might be her.
While we had known each other for some time, Isabel seemed reluctant to open the door any wider and let us into her house. I could not blame her for it. While I sometimes helped whores in labor, I also reported their bastards. The city had been so unkind to them of late that for some women I had become more enemy than friend, and I regretted the change.
“I am not here about your work,” I said, hoping to put her at ease. “I’ve come with questions about Jennet Porter.”
At the mention of Jennet’s name, Isabel’s face fell. She opened the door and ushered us inside. Her home consisted of a large room with a kitchen in one corner. The bed that Elizabeth and Isabel shared—with Isabel’s men, I could not help thinking—stood in another corner, with bits of straw poking through the rough coverlet. Two wooden bowls with the remnants of a pottage breakfast sat on the trestle table. As we came in, Isabel scooped up the dishes and dropped them into a bucket of water near the hearth.
Isabel had been one of my first clients after I finished my time as a deputy midwife. Her master had gotten her with child and dismissed her from his household when he learned of her condition. He said he could not have so lewd a woman in his home. With a child to feed and no easy route back into service, Isabel soon fell to whoring, sometimes with her former master. I had heard that he often sought her out on the Sabbath between the morning and afternoon services. Isabel owned only two stools, so we stood in a small circle in the center of the room. When Elizabeth asked what was happening, Isabel wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders and bade her hush.
“Helen Wright told us that you brought Jennet to her when she came to the city,” I said. Before answering, she stared at Will for a moment, not trusting him, but unwilling to challenge his presence.
“Yes,” she said, and once again looked in Will’s direction.
“I have been charged with finding Jennet’s murderer,” I said. “Mr. Hodgson is my nephew and he’s with me. We worked together last summer.”
She nodded, apparently satisfied with my explanation. One of the murders we had solved had taken place in a nearby brothel and caused quite a sensation among York’s jades, making the three of us famous in the city’s poorer parishes.
“I didn’t know her very well,” Isabel said. “She’d come to the city but couldn’t find work. She tried begging, but the beadles chased her off. She wanted to go home, but hadn’t the money. She was from Durham, I think. I took her to Mrs. Wright. I thought Jennet might get a room from her.” Tears filled her eyes. “I helped her as best I could,” she wept. “I’m so sorry.”
She took a step forward and buried her face in my shoulder. Martha reached out and put a hand on Isabel’s arm. She is thinking about how close she came to the life of a whore, I thought. It took a few minutes before Isabel recovered herself.
“Do you know who might have killed her?” Isabel asked as she wiped her eyes on her sl
eeve.
“Not yet,” I said. “We’re trying to find anyone who might have seen her the night she was murdered. Were there any men who troubled her before she died?”
“I didn’t see her often,” she said. “She lived in Hungate parish, but she mostly sought men in the inns down on Coneystreet.”
“Where do you work?” I asked.
“Mostly men come here. I’ve worked long enough that men know where to look for me. I take them elsewhere, or we arrange a later meeting.” She paused and then her face lit up. “I’ve started spinning.” She gestured at a wheel in the corner. “I don’t have any wool to work right now, but I’ll buy some soon. It means I can spend more time here with Elizabeth, and perhaps I can start spinning full days instead of whoring.” She seemed genuinely hopeful at the prospect of leaving off her old trade, and I said a prayer that she would find a way.
“Isabel, is there anyone who might have seen Jennet on the night she died?” I asked. “It’s our best hope for finding the murderer.” Isabel’s face fell at the reminder of the reason for our visit.
“Aye,” she said. “Talk to Barbara Rearsby, if you can find her. I’ve not seen her since the Sabbath but she and Jennet were fast gossips. I heard the women saying that the constable took Barbara to the gaol.”
I thanked Isabel and was preparing to bid her farewell when I remembered her strange and profane greeting when we’d arrived.
“Isabel, whom did you think it was when I knocked on the door?”
“Just one of them godly women who’ve started coming to preach us up of late,” she said with a harsh laugh. “They were after Barbara, too. She’ll tell you.”
“What do you mean?” Martha asked.
“They seek us out in taverns and alehouses, just as men do,” Isabel spat. “But they want to preach rather than lie with us. They tell us of our evil lives. As if we didn’t know. As if we’d taken up the comfortable life of a nun. They offered me many fine words and gospel passages, but gospel passages won’t fill Elizabeth’s stomach, will they? I told them that, and they called me a blasphemer.”