by Paul Doherty
"Mistress Alice, " he blurted out. "What do you know about the death of Lawrence Duket?"
Alice stared at him, lips pursed deep in thought. "What should I know, Master Clerk?" she replied. "I can guess you know that I knew both Duket and Crepyn. But I had nothing to do with the deaths of either man. "
Corbett could feel the cool, calm superiority of the woman and decided to reassert himself in a mood of official brusqueness. After all, who was this woman but a tavern-keeper? "Mistress Bowe, " he snapped, "common report has it that you were Crepyn's mistress and that the fatal quarrel between him and Duket was caused by you. "
Mistress Bowe simply stared at Corbett, then broke into peals of laughter which burst out like pearls cascading from a chest. "Master Corbett, I was Crepyn's friend but not his mistress and Duket certainly did not like me or any woman. "
Her words jolted Corbett back to reality. He remembered similar words on the lips of Jean Duket. Alice, studiously watching him, seemed to sense his mood and the danger of this inquisitive man breaking free of the spell she had so cleverly spun. She placed one lace-framed hand on Corbett's wrist and only then did he notice that both her hands were covered in soft, fine, black silk gloves. She noticed his curiosity and laughed. "Master Corbett, do not be surprised. I am a lady and these gloves protect my hands. A lady's hands should be as soft and smooth as shot-silk. Should they not?"
Corbett nodded. "Nevertheless Madam, " he replied without thinking, "like the truth they should be seen. " He could feel her hand on his as if it was a hot, glowing coal searing into his flesh. Suddenly, he felt afraid, like a swimmer out of his depth who wanted to give way to a strong current and be carried wherever it wished.
He abruptly removed her hand. "Madam, do you know anything about the deaths of either man?"
She bent her head and smoothed the polished top of the table with her gloved hands. "Of course I did, " she replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "Both men supped and drank here many times. I was friendly with both, lover to neither. "
"Why did you say Duket was never attracted to women?" Corbett continued.
She shrugged. "He was like that, " she replied. "He never complimented me, unlike other men, and I never saw him with a woman. "
"Was he a sodomite?" Corbett asked.
"No, Master Corbett. I think not. Why, are you?" The pert question angered him and he felt the blood surge from his heart and the heat enter his cheeks and eyes.
"Madam, " he snapped. "You forget yourself!"
"Sir, " she replied, her eyes now bright and brittle with temper. "You come into my house and suggest that I am a whore, the mistress of one man and the possible cause of the death of two. It is you, sir, who forget yourself!"
Corbett rose, the bench falling behind him with a crash. "Madam, " he bowed and turned to go but she too rose, her eyes now pleading, a soft hand on his arm.
"Master Clerk, " she said softly. "I am sorry!"
Corbett turned to pick up the fallen bench, he stumbled, hit his back on the table and almost fell. He turned, face flushed, and noticed she was now stifling the laughter. He grinned, shuffled his feet, picked up the bench and sat down again. The giant, Peter, reappeared, drawn by the crash of the bench and the raised voices, but Alice dismissed him with a wave of her gloved hand and, touching Corbett lightly on the shoulder, moved to another part of the kitchen and brought back two brimming goblets of wine. "The best Bordeaux, " she said. "Please. Drink. I'm sorry I offended you. "
Corbett toasted her with his cup and drank slowly. The wine was good, its sweetness filling his mouth and throat while he listened to her speak. She described her marriage, widowhood, the management of the tavern and the nature of her relationship with the two dead men. "I knew both men, " she repeated, "but only because they came here. "
"Jean Duket called you a whore and Crepyn's mistress, " Corbett replied. "Why?"
She grinned. "Jean was a stupid, malicious woman with a tongue like the clapper of a bell. She can say what she likes but her words are the fruit of anger and envy. "
"Do you know why Crepyn and Duket argued?" Corbett enquired.
"No, I do not. "
"Or why Duket should commit suicide?"
"No, " Alice replied. "But he was always a timid man. Fearful of his own shadow!"
"What was Crepyn involved in?"
Alice sat and thought, the doubt and perplexity visible in her beautiful eyes and face. "He was a money-lender, " she replied slowly. "A man who rose high in city politics. A man of the Populares who was loyal enough to the Crown but still supported the radical politics of the great… " she stammered, "of de Montfort. "
"And Duket? Why did he quarrel with Crepyn?"
"Crepyn was a money-lender disliked by many people. The Dukets were not the only ones caught in his net. "
She lowered her eyes. "Perhaps Crepyn deserved what he got, " she continued softly. "Sometimes I used to warn him but he only laughed. " There was a silence as she played with the hem of one of her silk gloves.
"Is that all?" Corbett asked.
She nodded. "For a while, " she added, then rose and walked to a large chest in the far corner of the kitchen. She took out a flute and brought it back to Corbett. "Your visit has saddened me, Master Clerk. I feel unhappy and angry at the stupid deaths of two men I knew. I always find the flute soothes the roused humours of both mind and body. "
Corbett sat as if in a trance. The flute was almost the replica of one he had owned in the golden time so long ago. Before it disappeared in a funeral pyre on which he had thrown the shattered flute. He stretched out his hand like a dreamer and took the flute, stroking its polished wood as if it was the face of a long-lost child who had suddenly returned. He put it to his lips and played, the spine-tingling, haunting tune, bitter-sweet, filled the room with its sound. Hugh played and could almost feel the Sussex sun on his face, almost see the small child dance and laugh, while his wife leaned against a wall, arms folded smiling at both player and dancer. He played on, ignoring the hot tears which scalded his eyes and rolled down his face. Then it was gone, both the music and the vision and he was alone in a room with a beautiful woman staring fixedly at him.
Corbett laid the flute down gently on the table, bowed and walked quietly out of the kitchen, through the tavern into the cold darkness of the street. He had forgotten about his mission, for old wounds had been opened and the pus poured out. He saw the dirt and filth of the street and the rubbish-filled gutter. The wine stains along the wall, the mongrel dog sniffing at the bloated body of a dead rat, the beggar in rags, covered with sores, cowering in the corner from the cold and the world. He knew he should not have played the flute; the world had been ordered then, closed and neatly filed like the scrolls in Couville's record office. In such a world he saw nothing good but, there again, nothing ugly. He felt the nightmares returning and remembered the disordered life he had led after his wife had died and the months he had spent in the cool darkness of that Sussex monastery. Then, just as he was about to leave Paternoster Row, he felt a hand on his elbow. He turned, and recognized one of the tapsters from The Mitre. The lad thrust the flute into Corbett's hands.
"My mistress, " he said, "says you should keep it and come again and play for her. " Corbett nodded and, gripping the flute, disappeared into the darkness.
Six
Corbett had taken from the coroner the names of the three wardsmen who had mounted guard on Saint Mary Le Bow and, the day after he had met Alice, he decided to interrogate them. All three were tradesmen plying their individual craft in the alleyways and lanes of Cheapside. All three swore to the same story and Corbett felt sure that they were speaking the truth as they saw it; they had been summoned by a messenger from one of the under-sheriffs of the city to guard the entrance of the church late in the afternoon on the same day that Lawrence Duket had fled there for sanctuary. They had assembled just before Vespers, had gone into the entrance of the church and seen Duket sitting in the Blessed Chair fast asleep. Th
ey had watched him stir, awake and so they left to stand guard outside.
After the bells of the nearby churches had rung for Vespers, (those of Saint Mary Le Bow did not because of Duket's presence), the rector had come and locked the church. They ensured it was secure and heard Duket push home the inside bolts. The door being safely fastened, they planned their watch according to a rota, one would sleep while two mounted guard. A brazier was lit for warmth in the shelter of some trees and, though all three confessed it was freezing cold and sinister to be in a graveyard on such a wild night, nothing untoward happened. They patrolled the church perimeter, they saw no one approach and found it impossible to conceive of how anyone could, even if he slipped by their guard, enter the church for all entrances a man could use were locked and secure. Thus it remained until dawn when the rector returned. He unlocked the door but could not open it, so he asked the watch to help him force it. They beat upon the door to waken Duket, thinking he was asleep and, when this proved fruitless, forced the door with a log until it bent in and the inside bolts snapped.
They found the church as it had been the previous evening. No marks on the floor or any sign of disturbance except in the sanctuary where the chair had been pushed over to the right-hand corner of the sanctuary near the wall. Above this, swinging from an iron bar fixed near the window, was the black-faced, lifeless body of Lawrence Duket. The rector and the wardsmen immediately ran down the church but one look at the dead man's face made them realize that it was too late. They looked around for any sign of disturbance or forced entry but found none. Bellet told them to stand near the body and guard it while he left to send for the coroner. Corbett knew what happened next and made each of the three men repeat their statements, especially the details about their forced entry through the main door. Corbett knew instinctively that the men were not liars, they had no ties with either Duket or Crepyn though they knew of them. They were three rather baffled tradesmen, who had tried to do their duty only to fail in the most mysterious circumstances, for all three swore that no one got into the church, nor did they hear any sound from it during their entire watch.
Satisfied, Corbett returned to the house of the coroner, where he made his request of a rather surprised and now petulant official. Of course, the coroner was shocked at his request, but when Corbett argued his case and flourished
Burnell's writ, he reluctantly agreed and sent a servant to the Guildhall with a message. He told Corbett that it would take some time so Corbett decided to visit the stalls and booths along Cheapside.
It was late in the afternoon when he returned to the coroner's house to find two burly individuals carrying spades and a hoe lounging dejectedly outside the door. Inside the coroner was mixing some evil-smelling paste and beside him, looking almost ill with the smell, was a tall, young man with shoulder-length greasy hair, poxed face and sallow features. The coroner introduced him as Stephen Novile, bailiff of the city and, with little ceremony, ushered both of them to the door. The bailiff seemed relieved to be going, though wary of Corbett.
"You know what you are doing, Master Clerk?" The voice was a high treble, almost squeaky.
"Yes, " Corbett replied. "I want you and your assistants, " he turned to nod at the wooden-looking labourers, "to take me where Duket's body is buried in the city ditch. I am on the King's business, " he continued crisply. "The body belongs to a suicide and so we are not disturbing hallowed ground. The coroner sent for all three of you as I understand that you were responsible for the burial. Yes?"
The bailiff nodded, his thin lips pursed, his shifty watery eyes unable to hold Corbett's gaze. He snapped his fingers at the two labourers and all four set off silently up Cheapside, through the shambles, past Newgate and across the old city walls.
The bailiff then turned to the right and walked down Cock Lane, a narrow rutted track with an open sewer running down the centre. It was an area notorious for its prostitutes, many of whom stood in the darkened doorways, their hair dyed and faces heavily painted. Dressed in eye-catching red and orange, they called out invitations couched in the lewdest way to every passer-by. One of them evidently recognized the bailiff and, for a short while, ran alongside them giving a graphic description of the man's sexual prowess in bed. The bailiff, his face plum-coloured with anger and embarrassment, squeaked with indignation. Corbett tried to hide his smiles and ignore the evident amusement of the two labourers who would have encouraged the woman even further if the bailiff had not turned and glared at them.
At last, they found themselves before the great city ditch which ran the entire length of the city wall. Twenty feet wide, its true depth unknown, the ditch had served the city as both sewer and cesspit since the days of King John the Angevin. The smell was indescribable and Corbett immediately pulled the hem of his cloak up over his mouth and nose. The ditch was full of refuse frozen hard by the winter cold and Corbett could only guess what it was like in the full heat of summer. The bailiff had come forearmed and he held a wine-soaked rag to his nose though the two labourers seemed oblivious to it all, walking backwards and forwards along the edge of the ditch, talking and mumbling as they tried to locate the actual spot where Duket was buried.
Corbett did not envy them their task, the ditch was full of refuse, already he had seen a rat gnawing and tugging at some mud-encrusted lump. The place was a dumping ground for dead cats, dogs, unwanted babies as well as the corpses of executed criminals and suicides. The labourers finally decided on the spot and began to dig then, cursing each other, the task and, with angry glances at Corbett, interfering clerks, chose another spot where they shovelled once again. Corbett turned his back on them and looked across the still frozen fields until shouts and cries behind him made him turn back to the city ditch.
"They have found the corpse, Master Clerk!" the bailiff shouted. "Come and have a look!" Corbett moved over, noting that the face of the bailiff was almost a whitish green and even the labourers had moved away.
The bundle they had disinterred lay upon the rim of the ditch, Corbett took out his dagger and, holding his cloak firmly over his nose and mouth, began to slit the cheap, soggy canvas covering. The corpse lay as it must have been before it was bundled up and dragged through the streets on a crude sledge to be buried in the dirt and slime of the city ditch. It was naked except for a loincloth, all the clothes and jewellery had been stripped from it, probably, Corbett guessed, by the bailiff and the labourers. The stench, even after a few days, was rank and offensive and he had to stop himself gagging as he studied the corpse. The eyes were shut but the mouth sagged open, the tongue still caught between the teeth, the skin was dirty white, puffed and damp, the belly slightly swollen. He studied the purple weal around the dead man's neck and the violet bruise just under the left ear where the noose knot had been tied. There were no other marks of violence about the man except for faint purplish bruises on both the man's arms just above the elbows. He then took careful note of the man's height and, with a sigh of relief, got to his feet.
The bailiff approached. "Are you finished?" he asked.
Corbett nodded. "Yes, bury him. "
The bailiff turned and shouted an order to the labourers and, within minutes, the corpse was dumped back and covered in mud. Corbett picked up a piece of wood, snapped it in two and then lashed them together with a piece of rotten rope to form a crude cross, which he stuck in the mud where Duket was buried.
The bailiff objected. "The man was a suicide!" he spluttered. "He does not deserve a hallowed burial!"
"The man was not a suicide, " Corbett retorted, weary
with the day's work. "And even if he was, he was still a man. " He delved into his purse and handed over some coins. "Your work is finished. You may go. "
The bailiff was going to object but he looked at the clerk's tense face, remembered the powerful warrant he carried, and so kept silent, pocketed the coins and, calling over to the two labourers, turned and trudged back to the city.
Corbett watched them go and, making the crude
cross secure, began to recite the Psalm for the dead. "Out of the depths, I have cried to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice. " Above him, a crow wheeled cawing raucously and Corbett wondered, not for the first time in his life, if the prayer could be heard and, even if it was, did it really matter?
Corbett returned to his lodgings later that day, took out his writing-tray, inkhorn, quill, pumice stone and roll of cheap parchment. This he cleaned methodically turning the rough vellum into a smooth writing surface before beginning to write down carefully the conclusions he had reached on examining Duket's body earlier in the day.
First, the corpse bore the usual marks of a hanged man. The deep red weal of the cord round his neck and secondly, the purple or violet bruise under the left ear. But what were the marks on his arms? The bruises just above the elbow? And how did they get there? Corbett put his pen down. The bruises could, he thought, have come from the fight Duket had with Crepyn in Cheapside, but it would have been the most remarkable of coincidences if Crepyn had managed to strike Duket on both forearms exactly in the same place. Moreover, the palms of Duket's hands were white and unmarked. Surely a man who was slowly choking to death would at least try in the throes of his death agonies to grasp the rope, perhaps even loosen the cord round his neck?
Finally and most importantly, Corbett thought, how could Duket have hanged himself from the chair? He had measured Duket's body and compared it to the rough measurements he had taken in Saint Mary Le Bow. A child could see the difference. Duket was too small to reach the bar. True, he could have thrown the rope over the bar but how did he secure the knot? Corbett thought back to those bruises he had seen on Duket's forearms.