State of Treason

by Paul Walker

  ‘Yes, though some years past.’

  ‘Then let us examine the body. The warden assures me that his women have washed the cadaver and laid it with sprigs of rosemary.’

  Askham rises from his seat and I follow. Oakes heaves himself from his chair with some difficulty, takes a bunch of keys from the table and meanders unsteadily across to a doorway. He fumbles with his keys and opens the door on to an arched undercroft. It is dark, save for four candles placed at the corners of a table by the far end of the space. We walk through the arches past a dozen or more dark shapes of draped corpses until we approach the candlelit area. A linen cloth is laid over the body on the table leaving the head and shoulders uncovered. The naked body has been cleansed and herbs are spread around the head. The flesh is mottled and bruised, but putrefaction has not set in. My eyes are drawn to the gash in the neck, which is a gaping disorder of pink, white and black. An eye bulges in a purpled socket. It is an altogether ugly sight. But is it Millen? I take one of the candlesticks and hold it close to the head. The look of a dead man will change markedly from the living state, through rigour and then a relaxation of muscle and skin. This mouth is drawn back, a blue tongue protrudes rudely and, with bared teeth. It is formed into a fierce snarl that would never be a natural expression. I place my hand before my eyes, so that it hides the jaw, and squint at the top of the face. There is a familiarity, but can I be sure?

  I say, ‘Can I see this man’s clothes?’

  Oakes stands behind me. He screws his faces and spreads his hands. ‘The women must be paid for their duties and…’

  ‘Warden,’ Askham’s voice is harsh, ‘I grow tired of your indifference and my belly aches with your serving of foul wine. You say this man had the clothes of a scholar. You would not gift a velvet cap, gown and boots to your women. Bring the garb of this man to us – and with haste.’

  Oakes is startled at these words, stares at Askham with open mouth, then turns and scuttles back to his chamber.

  ‘You are unsure?’

  ‘Yes, it is difficult to match the features of this dead man with a living and breathing person I knew, but not well.’

  We wait in silence for some minutes until Oakes returns with his hands carrying a dark bundle of clothing. He has a cloak, cap, doublet and boots. All have been cleaned and will, no doubt, fetch a tidy profit for him. I pick the cap and with care, place it on the head of the corpse. I should not be surprised, but the icy touch of the scalp causes me to shiver. I gather up the cloak and drape it around his shoulders. When all is in place I hand a candlestick to Askham, bid him put it by the head, then I step back and peer at the lifeless face, again hiding his mouth with the shade of my hand.

  ‘It is him. It is Christopher Millen.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We leave without words of thanks to Oakes. Askham orders his men to convey the body to Whitehall and says he will accompany me back to my house.

  *

  It is near midnight when we reach West Cheap. I offer Askham a bed for the night and he is wise to accept as the rain has turned to a stinging sleet. The house is quiet and I take Askham to the parlour where Mistress Hilliard is asleep in a chair. She wakes with a start at our entry, informs us that John waits in his chamber for our return, then hurries to find Gregory and arrange refreshment.

  I say, ‘Let us save our talk of Millen until Doctor Foxe joins us.’

  The Captain’s manner does not lend itself to light conversation and I do not press him. We settle in silence for some minutes until Elspeth brings claret, cold meats and pickles for a late supper. We drink, pick at the food and warm ourselves by the fire while we wait for John.

  ‘Your wine is an improvement to our cups at the dead-house, William Constable.’

  ‘Faint praise, indeed. I note that you were insistent that I should share with your sour tasting.’

  He smiles his apology with a tilt of his head as John enters. He looks at us both in turn and mutters a quick welcome.

  ‘What news from the dead-house, gentlemen?’

  Askham answers. ‘A corpse was found in the mud flats of the river. The cause was murder by a deep cut to the neck and William has identified the body as Christopher Millen.’

  ‘So,’ John clicks his tongue and rubs his hands as though anticipating this news, ‘how does this inform us about the astrological chart and conspiracy?’

  Askham looks to me to provide an answer. ‘We must suppose that it is no coincidence and that the prime movers in the conspiracy heard about our search for Kelley and Millen. There was a danger to their scheme if Millen was found and questioned by us, so he was murdered.’

  ‘You have it William, and you summarise the position like a practised intelligencer.’

  Eighteen

  Three of us are taking breakfast when Mother appears with Jane Dee and joins us. Mother guides Jane gently to a place at the table and takes a seat by her. Jane has her head bowed and is reserved in her manner. The bruising on her face has not diminished and her hand brushes the side of her face with a nervous regularity. She is encouraged by Mother and in a short time appears more at ease and enters into polite conversation. I am pleased that my mother has taken her care in hand and I am relieved of this burden. I would also see her recent unhappiness put to the back of her mind and Mother will be more adept at moving her attention to lighter things. When asked about the presence of Captain Askham, I explain that we supped together last night and that he was offered shelter from the icy weather.

  I say, ‘We will both accompany the Captain to Whitehall this morning. I will attend Doctor Huicke’s patients and John wishes to renew friendships at court.’

  John dabs his mouth with a cloth. ‘I am sure that the lady Amy and Mistress Hilliard will be pleased to be free of a fussing old man in this household. I have no great love of the court, but I must show my face there from time to time so that I am not forgotten.’

  ‘False modesty does not sit well with you, John,’ answers my mother. ‘Mistress Hilliard, likes nothing better than to serve you and receive your compliments.’

  Jane looks up from her bowl and says, ‘Doctor Foxe, did you know of my mother, Elizabeth Fromond, who was one of the ladies for the Countess of Lincoln? She was at court before my birth. I followed my mother to wait on the Countess for a short time before I wed the Doctor.’

  ‘Indeed lady, I remember your mother. I trust that she is well.’

  Jane mutters thanks in a low voice and Mother places a hand on hers by way of comfort. Does she miss the company of her mother? I understand that John’s short reply will be because he disapproves of the reputed loose morals of the Countess. Mother rescues an awkward silence.

  ‘I hope that you will hurry back to this house, William. I have invited Mistress Morton to meet with Jane here as she was confined to her chamber on her last visit. She may wish to discuss an adjustment to my remedy.’

  Is this another attempt to engineer an encounter between me and Helen? I fear that in this case it will not succeed as our stay in Whitehall is unlikely to be short. Nevertheless it may benefit Jane to enjoy the company of one who more closely matches her age.

  *

  I regret that I may have been too rushed in an assessment of John’s recovery. The cold and dampness in the air causes a recurrence of his hacking cough and our travel to Whitehall is slow. The three of us make our way to Mylles’ chamber to report on the events of last night. He is keenly interested in the killing, but disappointed that Millen cannot be questioned. He requests that Askham widens his search for associates of Millen and Kelley.

  John says, ‘Is it known if either of these men has patronage or contacts at court?’

  ‘I understand that the earls of Warwick, Oxford and Southampton have used Kelley’s services,’ answers Mylles. ‘I know nothing about Millen, but Sir Francis may have some insight when he returns.’

  I wait for others to put the question, but when it seems that others will not, I s
ay, ‘Would there be profit in disclosing the news about Millen’s killing, or should we guard this information?’

  ‘An interesting point, William. What are your opinions Doctor Foxe and Captain Askham?’

  Askham is undecided, but John is firmly in favour of holding back the information of our discovery, as disclosure may lead to increased caution among the conspirators. After brief discussion we resolve to follow John’s lead. I make arrangements to meet with John in the physicians’ quarters three hours after noon and we make our separate ways to the royal apartments.

  I meet with Richard Joynes and, together with a group of his companions, we dine together in a large chamber set aside for those of lower consequence. There is a general chatter about Her Majesty’s appearance early this morning and the tour of her courtiers with her close ladies. It seems that she was in poor temper and had sharp words for some on her promenade, including two of her ladies dismissed to their chambers in tears and a serving boy who she ordered whipped for his clumsiness.

  ‘What was the cause of her ill disposition?’ I ask Richard.

  ‘I believe she had words with Oxford.’

  ‘Oh, do you know the cause?’

  ‘No doubt, coin was at the heart of it. He is known to spend beyond his means. Her Majesty is often displeased with him, but always relents as she values his handsome face and pretty clothes.’

  ‘Have you had any dealings with Oxford or his entourage?’

  ‘I have learned to keep my distance to avoid the risk of scorn for my low station.’

  I sympathise with Richard, then excuse myself from the table to attend to my duties.

  Forester is away from his chambers and has left me a note of two gentlemen who wish to consult me. I find Sir Peter Layton seated on his own by a fire. He is a large elderly gentleman who complains of gout in his right foot and asks that I consult with him in his chair as it pains him to walk. I confirm his diagnosis and say that I will have an infusion of root ginger prepared and delivered. He greets my remedy with surprise and confesses that he would prefer his usual salve of boar’s grease. My last patient is the young ward of the Earl of Sussex who I bled the other day. He is in good health and as I do not have the inclination to argue, bleed him a little again.

  I am done a good hour before John arrives at the physicians’ quarters. We retire to my chamber with a glass of sweet wine before our homeward journey. His face is a little flushed, which he blames on his liking for the warmth of roaring fires and he appears in good spirits. I mention my understanding of Her Majesty’s displeasure with Oxford and her general ill temper.

  He says, ‘I met with Mistress Parry and my intention was to enquire about any particular interest in astrology here, but she was full of talk about Oxford. The Queen had discovered that he had sold land recently granted to him and failed to show remorse when rebuked. He was also admonished for neglecting his young wife, who is Burghley’s daughter.’

  ‘Was there no mention of Kelly or Millen attending court?’

  ‘I regret not. Mistress Parry regards astrology in much the same way as me, and showed no interest. You will pardon my rudeness, William.’

  ‘Of course, so we learn nothing from our visit, except for the misbehaviour of a young earl.’

  *

  It is dark, and Helen has departed when we arrive back at West Cheap. John retires to his chamber and I find Mother reading in the parlour.

  ‘You are late, William. Helen was disappointed at your absence.’

  I kiss her, take a seat by her and enquire after her health, although the continuation in her improvement is apparent through her appearance and time out of bed.

  ‘How is Jane? Did she enjoy her time with Helen?’

  ‘They are well matched. Jane has a sharp mind beneath her timid disposition. Their conversation was lively and prolonged. Helen promised a salve for her face bruising and has taken Jane to the Morton household in Leadenhall, where she will stay for a few days.’

  Nineteen

  It is Sunday and seven of our household have accompanied John to St Giles at Cripplegate. John’s presence causes a stir and the deacon begs him to take the pulpit. He needs no second invitation and preaches with great feeling and at length about the closeness of the common man to God. He deplores the wicked obstacles placed between man and God by Rome and warns of everlasting pain for those who lapse to the false promises of Catholicism. Mistress Hilliard is clearly enraptured by his sermon and her attention to his words is unwavering. Mother sits composed and thoughtful, but begins to sigh quietly as John repeats his message to vocal expressions of approval in the congregation. His ending is met with great shouts of approbation and I wonder how many of these are genuine.

  The air is cold, but fine and it is a short distance back to West Cheap from St Giles. I walk at the head of our group with Hicks and he is eager to inform me that the small dispute with bankers has been settled and we have the funds from our wool trade. Harry Larkin is waiting at the front of our house for Hicks and they head around the house to their chambers in the courtyard. I am in my library when Hicks knocks and enters.

  ‘Some news from Spytalfields, sir. I fear it is not good.’

  ‘What news? Ah, is it the instrument maker?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Does he have trouble with its fabrication?’

  ‘It is worse than that. I sent Harry to enquire about its progress. He has returned with information that the workshop is burned and the master craftsman is dead.’

  ‘Dead, how?’

  ‘I do not know, sir. Harry did not stay to discover the details.’

  Another fire and a man killed. I cannot think that there is a connection; houses burn every day and the instrument has no significance in the conspiracy. And yet…

  ‘Hicks, you will accompany me to Spytalfields. I wish to learn more of this poor unfortunate who we entrusted with our work.’

  It is another hour before we are ready to begin our journey. We are obliged through courtesy to accept Mother’s invitation for light refreshment to mark John’s preaching. The conversation is animated; John relishes the attention and reason to expound on his convictions. My excuse to depart with Hicks on a matter of business raises no query and the discussion continue as we exit. Although it is a short distance to travel, it is many years since I visited Spytalfields and am surprised to find a great number of new buildings on the path through Bishopsgate to our destination. I remember it as a place of open fields and scattered dwellings, but now it is more like a small town with close-set houses forming streets.

  Hicks leads me towards the ruined priory where there is much building work and plundering of the priory stones. Hicks points to a small group of buildings, some two hundred yards beyond the priory.

  ‘What is the family name of the late craftsman,’ I ask Hicks.

  ‘Hutchison; a man of middle years with wife and children.’

  A yeoman and goodwife watch us from the front of a house and usher children inside as we approach. I bid them good day and enquire where we may find Goodwife Hutchison. The woman is about to answer, but the man stops her and asks the nature of our business. When he learns of our commission his caution eases a little. He shakes his head.

  ‘She is dead, along with her husband. They were friends to us and we will miss their good cheer and companionship.’

  ‘I am distressed to hear this news. I had heard of Master Hutchison’s fate, but not his goodwife. Were they taken in the fire?’

  ‘Do you not know? They were both killed, most horribly by the evil scum that set the blaze.’

  We are told a tale that has a terrifying familiarity. After dusk and three days past, a group of mounted and armed men arrived with flaming torches. They broke the door and shutters setting the house aflame in short time. Master Hutchison was grabbed by three men and had his throat slit with a short sword. The goodwife protested, tried to save her husband and when she persisted was run through by the same sword. The two children es
caped and are sheltered in the yeoman’s house. The constable and justice attended, but the attackers were not identified by the gathered witnesses.

  Hicks says, ‘Did Master Hutchison have enemies or jealous competitors for his trade?’

  ‘No, he was a quiet and kindly man who could calm a wild dog.’

  ‘Was there no help from neighbours or a hue and cry?’

  ‘It would have been our end if we had got too near. They were hard men, practised at giving injury and death.’ The quiver in his voice betrays shame at not doing more to save his friend.

  I reach inside my purse and hand two silver crowns to the yeoman.

  ‘It is a most distressing story. Our commission for Master Hutchison is of small account set against this tragedy. Let us hope that the evil murderers are caught and punished with due severity. Please take these coins for the comfort of the poor children deprived of their parents.’

  The yeoman mutters his thanks while his goodwife gapes at the coins, the like of which she may never have seen. Before we turn to go, I have one more question.

  ‘Did you see the man who did the killing?’

  ‘He was not known to me and it was dark.’ He pauses and adds, ‘He had the way of a soldier; a large man with dark cowl over his head. He had no beard; that much I could see.’

  Our return journey is quiet as we both consider the dreadful fate of the Hutchison family. I see that Hicks is much affected. I am loth to break the silence, but there is a nagging thought I must put to rest.

  ‘Hicks, who knew that Master Hutchison was charged with the manufacture of my instrument for navigation?’

  He stares at me as though I have taken leave of my senses. ‘Why, Doctor Constable, you do not think your instrument may be the cause of such calamity?’

  ‘It is most unlikely, Hicks, but Sir George Morton will seek reason for the delay in delivering the instrument.’