“We’ll not leave before,” Matthew advised the quaking Hopkins, whose horrified expression made it clear he had no desire to touch the puppet master.
Reluctantly, the little carpenter got down. He walked gingerly through the grass around the other side of the cart where the body was. He seemed both fearful of the corpse and of the puppets, and Matthew wondered if the carpenter still thought of them as dead babies.
Matthew took the shoulders; Hopkins, the feet. The car-penter averted his eyes. With much effort they got the body into Matthew’s cart, and then Matthew covered it with an old blanket he had thought to bring along for that purpose.
“What about the puppets?” Hopkins asked, eyeing the scene.
“I’ll send someone back from town for it all,” Matthew said. “The dead man had a name, although we don’t know it, and possibly heirs. This stuff is worth something; then there’s the purse and the clothing.”
Hopkins shuddered and regarded the huge mound of flesh beneath the blanket. “I’d wear no murdered man’s clothes. No, not if I must go as naked as Adam otherwise.”
“Nor I. But someone will. It’s good cloth and the boots still have wear in them.”
“Was it robbery, then, Mr. Stock?” Hopkins asked as he climbed up on the seat of the cart.
“I don’t think so,” Matthew replied, driving the gelding forward and then turning the cart around so that it was headed for the road and Chelmsford again. The men rode on without speaking until the town came into view and the prospect of parting company with the corpse put Hopkins in a better frame of mind. He began to jabber about the weather.
“Another hot one, Mr. Stock,” he observed, squinting up at the sun. “As dry a month as anyone can recall.”
“Indeed,” said Matthew.
“We could use rain,” he said.
“Certainly.”
“A good hard rain.”
Matthew agreed.
Then the carpenter said, forgetting that the question had already been asked and answered, “Who was it did it, Mr. Stock, him that killed the puppet master and did his face that way?”
“God knows,” said Matthew.
“God curse him with a like fate,” Hopkins mumbled with an audible sob, as though the puppet master had been kin and Hopkins himself had cause to grieve.
“Amen to that.”
They were on High Street now, passing between the houses. Midmoming. The town busy. The constable and his cart and its mortal cargo drawing stares.
He hailed a neighbor and asked him to go find John David' son and bring him along to the undertaker’s. Then he stopped the cart and let Hopkins off. Hopkins jumped down, took a last look at the corpse, and wished Matthew luck. Matthew watched as the carpenter dashed off toward the nearest ale' house.
Matthew proceeded down High Street, acknowledging the greetings of passersby, until he came to the undertaker’s. There he helped the undertaker carry the dead man inside and then the two of them waited for nearly a half'hour until Davidson arrived.
Davidson was a big, heavily muscled man with square head and jaw, but he paled at the sight of the corpse and crossed himself twice. He had never seen a murdered man before, and his expression of revulsion and horror made it clear he thought it no pleasant sight. “Jesus God,” he said, and then he said it again, in a slightly different tone as though, like his pious cross' ings, the holy name would ward off a similar fate for himself.
Then the coroner came and Matthew gave his report, deliv' ering into the coroner’s keeping both the dead man’s purse and the staff, which Matthew thought had belonged to the mur^ derer. The coroner examined the purse and the staff and then asked about the horse that had pulled the cart.
“Gone,” said Matthew. “Stolen.”
“By the murderer, doubtless,” remarked the coroner, count' ing the dead man’s money.
The coroner agreed with Matthew that there was little to be done. His verdict would be death by murder, the murderer being person or persons unknown.
Davidson helpfully offered to ask about town to see if anyone knew who the puppet master was, but Matthew said it would be of little worth. Itinerant entertainers tended to be men of shift' ing identities—in a month’s time they might travel a hundred miles or more and not spend two nights in the same village or town. He said he thought it unlikely that the victim’s name would ever be known.
With all this, the coroner agreed. “The man was not from hereabouts,” he stated in a way to suggest the sentence might well serve as the dead man’s epitaph. “At least he didn’t die a pauper,” he said, grinning. “The town will be saved the expense of his burial.”
The coroner hefted the purse, then carefully counted out a sufficient sum to pay for a plot and modest headstone. The rest would go to the poor of the parish.
So having done all a responsible man could, Matthew went home.
Joan stopped her packing to hear Matthew’s news. “Murder, was it?”
“No question about it.”
She shook her head and closed the lid on her chest, applying pressure to make sure it was securely closed and fastened. “May God preserve his soul, poor man.”
“It wasn’t robbery,” Matthew said.
“Not robbery? What then—a quarrel?”
“Perhaps.” He described the scene and the evidence he had found, including the staff.
“The murderer rode off on the dead man’s horse, casting the useless staff aside.”
“So it appears.”
“Headed off? Where?”
“God knows. The puppet master was doubtless heading for London. It’s a good guess his passenger was traveling in the same direction, not necessarily to the same destination.”
“Let’s hope not,” Joan exclaimed, turning to face her hus-
band with a look of alarm. “For is it not likely the puppet mas-ter was headed as we, for Bartholomew Fair?”
Matthew considered this, then said, “Well, that might be. On the other hand, the fair isn’t the only resort of the populace where such a fellow can do right by himself. As for the mur-derer, he might have set his course no more distantly than the next town.”
“Chelmsford?”
“Or anywhere beyond. He might be in London by now, sold the horse. He’s the worst sort of murderer. There’s not one chance in a thousand we’ll find him.”
“Well, all I can say is that it’s a great pity this should befall the town just as we are leaving it a week. Is the miller up to the business? He’s had virtually no experience.”
“John Davidson is a good man. I’ve given what evidence there is. The coroner’s jury will find accordingly—murder by person or persons unknown. The poor devil will be buried— decently, his own purse will guarantee it—and that will be the end of the matter. You’ll see. There’s one thing, though.” “And that is?”
“The body was marked.”
“How marked?” Joan asked, interested again.
Matthew described the wounds on the dead man’s forehead, tracing their position with his forefinger.
Joan shuddered and made a noise of dismay. “Oh, that is fiendish—to mar a dead man. What can it mean?”
Matthew admitted he didn’t know what it meant.
They talked no more of the matter. Matthew went down-stairs and while he waited for the loading to be finished he examined a bolt of cloth that was to be one item of his wares he intended to display at the cloth fair. It had been just then that one of his weavers had come into the shop with the idiotic question about the holiday Of course, St. Bartholomew’s Day was a holiday—like any saint’s day. A holiday for everyone.
• 33 •
• 3 •
It is the day before St. Bartholomew’s Eve, and the several acres of low ground that stand opposite the Priory of St. Bar' tholomew and have given Smithfield its name—and that in wet weather are a slough of mud and in dry, merely dusty and stink-ing from all the cattle normally sold there—have been turned into a little city of t
ents, booths, and stalls with a maze of narrow lanes and alleys for the better navigation of the fair-goers to come. In one such booth, a pig seller’s, a quarrel is in progress, its rancor already drawing a small audience of idle tradesmen and other passersby. The quarrel is between Ursula, mistress of the booth, and her servant, Rose, a pretty but dreamy girl somewhere between the age of thirteen and twenty. This same Rose has committed the unpardonable crime of idleness and has gawked after the bearward’s helper, a young fellow named Gabriel, whom she has met only the day before and with whom she is already deeply in love—so much so that the very sight of him starts her heart to flutter like a sparrow’s and her face to flush as though she had spent a long hour over her mistress’s cooking fire.
But Ursula is no patroness of youthful love, although the great tun of female flesh does occasionally supplement her income from the pig booth by bawdry on a small scale, especially during fair time, and the sight of such goings on beneath her own nose is more than Ursula can endure, being the bumptious woman she is and, according to her reputation, the greatest scold in Christendom. With her red, swollen forefinger, Ursula points accusingly at the thin, quaking girl. “Up, idle stare-about! Lean polecat! Beshrew your laziness and get to work, or I’ll make mincemeat of what little brain God gave you.”
Rose shrinks under her employer’s threats, and thinks those thoughts she fears to express, for Ursula has tremendous girth, an Amazon’s strength, a sailor’s vocabulary. Her unslung belly is encased in an old sweaty and saucy smock. Her huge upper arms are sunburned and quiver like jelly, nourished on the greasy succulence of swine’s flesh famous throughout England as Bartholomew pig. As though it were a unique species of God’s creature and not ordinary pig done to a turn over a pit of hot coals.
So Ursula, whose bulging eyes sometimes see all, sometimes nothing but her own immediate concerns, has spied Rose in the act of grievous dereliction. While the girl should have been setting up the crude tables or washing them down, unpacking the wooden cups her mistress serves her patrons tepid ale in, spreading rushes on the dirt, or occupied with some other joyless task at her mistress’s behest. It was such an indiscretion that now occasions Ursula’s rage and the bellowing and glower-ing, threatening and jabbing that have drawn the handful of idle gawkers around the pig-woman’s booth—they having nothing better to do on this hot morning in August but to entertain themselves with Ursula’s fulminations.
Twice that morning the young man with pale eyes, fair hair, and a face like an angel has limped past the pig-woman’s booth, stripped to the waist so that his compact upper body and smooth white neck brave the sun and invite the admiring stares of the female population of Smithfield and not a few of the male. The young man’s bad leg—it seems shorter than the other, hence the hobble—is more the pity. A blemish on perfection, surely.
They first met the day before when both of them had gone to the skirts of the town to dump trash in the huge fly-ridden pile of debris, garbage, and animal and human waste accumulating there. Her load is heavy, too heavy for her delicate frame, for she is no plump country wench with a boy’s muscular shoulders and thighs but city-bred—a dunghill flower aptly named Rose. He offers her help in emptying her burden, having already disposed of his own, pushed there in a rickety wheelbarrow. She accepts the offer with thanks, thinking it kindly intended and not as an opportunity for some lechery, of which she has had ample experience.
They walked back from the midden heap slowly, through the narrow lanes, conversing. He told her that he was a stranger in London and that his name was Gabriel Stubbs. A lovely name, she thought. He was religious and he spoke of Christ’s love and how perfect it was and of the evil days into which the world— yea and England too—had fallen.
His pale eyes shine with faith and understanding; words drop from his lips like honey. She delights in each syllable, under' standing half of what he says. She longs to see him again.
Rose is unlearned and diffident, but she has an adequate knowledge of herself. And that is the beginning of wisdom. She follows his words with difficulty. But with patience and mildness of speech, Rose is made to understand.
She is aware of her comeliness, for it is often praised. Not by Ursula, however. Rose’s flesh is smooth and clear of blemish; milk'white, in startling contrast to her raven hair. Her body is firm and slender; her small, high breasts make pleasing mounds in the front of her simple smock. She has small hands and feet. When she walks down the lane of booths, men’s eyes follow her. She is often the subject of rude remarks, lecherous invita-tions, and, occasionally, assault upon her small, vulnerable per' son.
But she has been honored too, and that remains very much in her mind along with her thoughts of Gabriel. She has been selected by the stewards of the fair to be one of twelve Smithfield virgins to accompany the Queen in her progress on the final day of St. Bartholomew’s feast. She has been promised suitable attire—a gown of white linen and bright ribbons to adorn her hair, a purse of silk full of copper, and a basket of late summer flowers to strew in the Queen’s path and make sweet the air of filthy Smithfield.
What if Ursula has demanded Rose turn both gown and purse
over to her as recompense for Rose’s lost time while participate ing in the ceremony? Rose still counts herself fortunate. After all, how many girls in England, be they virgins or no, comely or otherwise, enjoy such a distinction? To be in the Queen’s train! If only for an hour!
That it is a distinction she has been assured by the stewards. Even Ursula has seemed impressed—at least with the prospect of the gown (which Ursula can sell) and the purse, and Ursula having done nothing herself to earn either.
Of England’s mighty monarch, Rose has but the vaguest con-ception, and that shaped by rumor. She has never set eyes on the Great Lady, and in her mind, the Queen is like a figure in the Bible, the fairies of field and wood, or the spirits who haunt empty houses or howl at the moon from their graves. All credited on faith alone. That, therefore, the royal personage should come to Smithfield, tread upon this vulgar soil rich with martyrs’ blood and beasts’ dung too, and that she, Rose Dibble, the most obscure and humble of maids, should play the white-garbed virgin in her train, is almost beyond her imagining.
Yet the stewards—great men, they—have assured her that it is so. And certainly Ursula’s jealousy has confirmed it. Rose has been chosen from among the maids of Smithfield. She shall have her place in the Queen’s progress. And all will be for Rose’s good, because the stewards have said it is so.
Rose runs afoul of her employer again that morning, when the proud sun is at the perpendicular and man and beast below are already limp with its strength, and the fetid air within the tents and booths is almost beyond endurance. Gabriel has passed by the pig booth and called out a greeting to Rose, who has just commenced scrubbing one of the trencher tables on which her mistress’s patrons will feed come tomorrow. She returns the greeting, quite without thinking.
But Ursula hears the voice too. She recognizes it now, alert for the limping figure with the wheelbarrow. Sees him too, standing there impudently, in open defiance of her will.
“Damnation and hell!” she cries. She comes growling forward from beneath the shady bower that has been her resting and cooling place this half-hour, her heart full of envy at the lithe girl who does her shit work. Rage strong in her gut, she seizes Rose by the shoulder, almost ripping the smock that is more than tattered already, jerking the girl around to glower at her and scream in her face with her hot, garlicky breath and pinch Rose’s shoulder until scalding tears run down the girl’s cheeks.
“God Almighty, I am cursed with a curse by this skinny witless child,” Ursula complains to whoever will listen.
The boy tries to intervene—a dangerous move—and is sent sprawling in the dust. Where he remains, too amazed by the sudden blow to speak or rise. Some of the neighbors notice the ruckus, grin and mind again their own business. Meanwhile Rose tries to apologize, managing a poor, pitiful excuse for hersel
f that does no good at all. She promises she will not look in the street again, promises to keep her eyes as fixed upon the booth as though it were death to look elsewhere.
“A most likely promise with most certain outcome,” Ursula snorts contemptuously. “You will gawk, as soon as my back is turned. Yea, and daydream too, for such is your nature. But I will be boiled in pig grease if you will do so without my revenge. Proud hussy, thinking yourself so much since you are named among the Smithfield virgins. Smithfield virgins! As though there was one virgin above the age of six or seven in Smithfield, let alone a dozen. Hear me now, you dishrag, you hank of hair and bone without the sense God gave a goose. If you offend again ...”
Ursula pauses, trembling with rage. No crowd witnesses her fulminations now. Her neighbors have grown weary of her ranting and are content to ignore her. All save the wine seller, Jack Talbot, who wanders by, observes the fray. Meanwhile Rose’s heart has half-stopped in her throat for terror. She knows this is only the beginning of Ursula’s wrath. For Rose is accustomed to the pig-woman’s rantings and ravings, batterings, slaps, pokes,
and pinches. Has Rose not bruises enough to show for them, on shoulder and arm, backside and bum?
“Tomorrow the fair begins and my booth is still a shit hole, thanks to you,” Ursula says, her breath finally catching up with her spleen. “I work my fingers to the bare bones while you make faces and flash your titlets at every idiot who strolls by. What? Is it the bearwarden’s new whelp you lust for, he lugging the dung barrel and hobbling like an old soldier? Very fine com-pany, I warrant! Dung for dung! You polecat! You bony-ribbed black bird!”
The observing wine seller now intervenes. A tall, lanky, good-humored fellow with a narrow, pinched face and close-set eyes, Jack is a friend of Ursula’s, twenty-five or thirty years of age. One of her gossips. An old-timer at Bartholomew Fair, like Ursula herself. He has more than once interceded on Rose’s behalf when Ursula’s brutality became extreme.
The Bartholomew Fair Murders Page 4