A Rustle of Silk: A new forensic mystery series set in Stuart England (A Gabriel Taverner Mystery)

by Alys Clare

  I was on the point of saying yes when I stopped. Was it definite? Or could that blade have been driven into him elsewhere – in Dartmouth, for example – and his body taken to Old Ferry Quay in much the same way he’d been taken from there to Theo’s cellar, and thence to the crypt in the empty house?

  ‘Has it rained much in the last three weeks?’ I demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  I swore under my breath. ‘I think you’re right.’ I could definitely recall at least a couple of days of persistent rain.

  ‘You’re thinking there would be a lot of blood if he died where he was found? But that, because of the rain, even if there was, there will no longer be any sign of it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said heavily, ‘that’s exactly what I’m thinking.’

  It was Theo’s turn to curse. ‘What a pity we didn’t think to look when first we studied the body.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I agreed. ‘As it is, we can’t say for certain whether or not he was killed there.’

  ‘I would bet,’ said Theo after a moment, ‘that he was.’

  I looked at him, smiling. ‘And that view is based upon what, exactly?’

  He smiled too. ‘Oh, nothing very scientific. Just a feeling in my guts.’

  I nodded. ‘Well, my guts tell me the same, although I think we should keep an open mind.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘I think,’ I said presently, ‘that I shall go to Dartmouth.’

  Theo understood without being told what I intended to do. ‘I’ll ask Jarman Hodge to provide a description of the man he overheard.’

  ‘I’d be grateful.’

  I planned to set off for Dartmouth the next morning. I had to give some explanation to Celia, so I told her the truth, or at least some of it: that I was going to question the men at the warehouse where Jeromy was meant to have gone to collect the silk.

  Her reaction was not what I had expected. She went very pale, and sat down rather hurriedly on the chair she had just vacated. ‘You should – I—’ she stammered. Then, in an all but inaudible whisper: ‘It’s not safe!’

  I wasn’t sure what she meant. Not safe for whom? Me? Her?

  Then something dawned on me, and I mentally kicked myself for not having understood before.

  It would explain much; explain, for example, why my sister was so often pale with fear, why she jumped at sudden noises, why she insisted on keeping a candle burning in her room at night as well as lanterns in the gallery and at the top of the stairs. Her continuing presence in my house, when always before she had restricted her visits to a couple of days, three at most.

  Somebody had murdered her husband. For some reason – and I didn’t even guess at what it could be – she believed this somebody was going to come after her, too.

  ‘I do not believe you are in danger here,’ I said firmly. ‘This house has strong doors, two men sleep in rooms off the yard – oh, all right, one of the men is Tock, but he’s tough and he’s very loyal – and a dog sleeps in the kitchen, and when I am away from home, Sallie is always extra careful about locking and barring the doors.’

  She stared at me, eyes wide in her white face. She didn’t speak.

  ‘If you’re afraid for my safety, then I promise I’ll take care,’ I went on. Still she kept her silence. ‘I have to go, my dearest. I think it’s important.’

  She turned away. She said simply, ‘Very well.’

  I was still mystified as I set out but, after thinking it over for the best part of the ride to Kingsbridge, I had come up with no satisfying explanation. So as I turned north-eastwards towards Dartmouth, I put the matter firmly out of my mind and thought instead about my destination.

  I have very happy memories of Dartmouth. The Falco put in there whenever we were in the region – it was rumoured among the crew that Captain Zeke knew a very accommodating and generous woman nearby – and our many shore runs led to strong ties between the crew and the townsfolk. As if that were not enough, something that happened in August 1592, not long after I’d joined the Falco in the early months of that year, gave the town a lifelong place in my affections.

  The Falco was one of a small group of the Queen’s ships selected to sail to the Azores to intercept the Spanish galleons groaning their way home from the New World, laden so heavily that they were low in the water and, of necessity, slow-moving. The first treasure ship we encountered, however, was not Spanish but Portuguese, and her name was the Madre de Deus. After a fierce battle that went on most of the day we took her, and when we boarded we could barely believe our luck, for all of her decks were heaped with bounty. Not only gold and silver were in abundance, but also bags of coins and chests of pearls and precious stones, fine cloth and beautifully worked tapestries, ebony and enough spices to supply a score of apothecaries for a year. It was rumoured that there was also a particular parchment originating in the Portuguese colony of Macau, on the Cathay coast, and the rumour said it provided highly secret and very valuable information on the Portuguese trade with Japan and Cathay. So precious was it that apparently it had been hidden in its own cedar-wood case, wrapped carefully inside a length of fine cloth as if it were a priceless necklace. I can’t vouch for the truth of that rumour, if there is any, for I never saw the document or its case.

  We sailed back to Dartmouth in great heart for although nobody had yet made an accurate tally of our haul, we all knew it was extraordinary; someone said what we were bringing home was worth half as much as England’s entire treasury, but I’m sure that was an exaggeration. Anyway, we were full of glee at the thought of the news of our feat reaching the Queen’s ears, for she was said to be fiercely proud of her navy and therefore likely to reward us well.

  She didn’t actually get the chance. News of what we were carrying somehow preceded us back to Dartmouth; the more superstitious among the crew maintained that the ghosts of the many Portuguese sailors we’d killed had turned into dolphins and raced ahead with the tidings, while the more practical blamed the pilot who had met us at the river mouth and hurried on ahead. Either way, we had a welcoming committee: merchants, tradesmen, whores, thieves, lads, lasses and honest townsfolk had all turned out, not, as at first we thought, to cheer us home but to push their way aboard and help themselves.

  At first we tried to stop them, but very quickly it became apparent that there were just too many of them. I can hear Captain Zeke’s shout even now: ‘Fuck this, lads,’ he yelled, ‘are we going to stand by and see this rabble fill their pockets when we who did all the hard work stand and watch and end up with bugger-all?’

  We weren’t.

  The officers and the ship’s surgeon had to try to set a good example, but the sole effect of that was that we employed a little more discretion than everyone else. I dropped perhaps a dozen solid gold coins inside my boots and slipped a pearl as big as my thumbnail inside my medical bag and when I saw a huge emerald rolling down the deck, dropped from a shopkeeper’s bulging fist, I picked it up and put it in my mouth.

  By the time order was restored – and I’ve always suspected nobody was in any great hurry – they reckon that getting on for three-quarters of the treasure had gone.

  It was an event that will live long in Dartmouth’s memory. What was purloined that day saw the rise to relative security and comfort of many a household, for to those who have little, the acquisition of even a small amount of wealth makes a big difference. While I don’t like to imagine the Queen’s reaction when told the news – if, that is, anyone was brave enough to tell her – still I can’t help feeling pleased at the outcome.

  My cheerful memories had entertained me and taken my mind off my journey. Returning to the present, I was pleased to find myself with only a mile or so to go.

  EIGHT

  Dartmouth looked busy and prosperous in the sunshine. I rode past St Saviour’s church and turned on to the Spithead, reflecting that the prosperity of Elizabeth’s long reign had fired the townspeople into a fervour of expansion. Everywhere I looked there were signs o
f recent construction, and the sounds and sights along the quay indicated that many more projects were under way. Ships lined the waterfront, some of them, to judge by the activity, recent arrivals, and some on the point of departure. For a moment the old longing took hold of me. Where had they been? Where were they going? Why wasn’t I going too?

  I made myself turn away. I had a task to fulfil.

  Before I left Rosewyke, a messenger had arrived with a note from Theo. The young man had been hurrying, and was breathing hard through what looked like a recently broken nose: ‘Coroner says you’re waiting for this,’ he panted, shoving the document into my hands. I left him in the kitchen with Sallie, already fussing over him and drawing him a mug of beer.

  Theo’s note was brief but helpful, not only describing the location of the warehouse that Nicolaus Quinlie habitually used for temporary storage, but also giving Jarman Hodge’s succinct description of his warehouseman: Short and fat; struts about with his chest thrown out like a fighting cock; voice like a hinge needing oil. I found the warehouse and almost straight away spotted the man I had gone to find. I approached him, leading Hal by the rein, and said I was following up enquiries made by an acquaintance concerning a problem with a cargo. I decided not to be too specific. As I watched the man considering whether or not to be helpful – the small eyes in the fleshy face had a look of avarice – I casually jingled the purse at my belt so that the coins rang together. ‘Very well,’ he said, glancing swiftly over each shoulder, ‘but first we’ll get away from interested eavesdroppers. And you can pay for my time with a meal and a couple of mugs of ale.’

  I agreed, and he led the way along the quay and up a wide street with inns and taverns of varying quality on either side. We went into the yard of one of the busiest, and I left Hal in the care of a stableman with instructions to see to his care and money to pay for it.

  ‘Right,’ said the warehouseman after we had ordered what seemed like a great deal of food and he had taken the first four inches off the top of his mug of ale, ‘what is it you want to know?’

  I didn’t think I could afford to waste time. It was apparent that this fellow had an infinite capacity for food and drink and the funds I had brought with me were limited. ‘A while ago, someone came asking whether you had seen a man called Jeromy Palfrey.’

  The man twisted on the bench so that he faced me, a suspicious look in his eyes. ‘What of it?’

  ‘You remember the occasion?’

  He sniffed and spat. ‘What if I do?’

  ‘You made an observation concerning the unlikelihood of Jeromy Palfrey returning to the warehouse, or possibly to the town, again after some particular business.’

  ‘What if I did?’

  I sighed and reached in my purse. If we were to proceed beyond this man answering my every enquiry with a truculent question, it looked as if it was going to cost me an initial, tongue-loosening payment.

  ‘I’ll make it worth your while’ – I flipped the coin, which glittered in the dim light – ‘if you’ll be kind enough to tell me what you meant.’

  He made a grab, but my fist closed on the coin before he could even touch it. He grinned at me, revealing a few yellow teeth randomly arrayed around his gums and separated by wide gaps. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘It’s only talk, see, and I can’t swear to whether it’s true. I’m a God-fearing man,’ he added piously, ‘and won’t risk my immortal soul.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I murmured.

  He shot me a look. ‘Well, the talk is that the fellow’s gaffer has had enough of him. He’s unreliable, he’s lazy, he’s flashy and he’s too keen on making a fine show, for all that he’s not too fussy about paying for it, if you understand me.’

  I considered that. Much of it I already knew, but the last part came as a surprise. I wondered if Jeromy’s failure to pay for his luxuries was because he preferred not to or because he hadn’t the means. I knew he came from a wealthy family, however, and he had always been lavish in his spending, so it was probably the former. Rich men can always obtain credit.

  So Nicolaus Quinlie had had enough of his brash and decorative employee …

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ I said softly, leaning closer to my informant, ‘the rumours went as far as suggesting what action this gaffer intended to take?’

  The man toyed with a breadcrumb on the filthy table. ‘Might have done,’ he said coyly. I flipped the coin again. ‘Oh, very well, he did. Or, anyway, that’s what they were saying. He was going to …’ He screwed up his face, apparently in an effort to bring the memory into focus. ‘Word is, he’d said he was going to dispose of the man’s services, them being a luxury he could no longer afford.’ He sat back, leaning against the wall, a smug look on his face.

  I cursed silently. The crucial remark was still ambiguous, even if it had just been repeated verbatim from the mouth of the man who had made it.

  ‘So when you were heard to say you’d be surprised if Jeromy Palfrey ever returned again after this business, did you mean because his failure to turn up to collect the cargo would be what finally drove his gaffer to terminate his employment?’ I leaned closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. ‘Or did you mean something more sinister?’

  Just for an instant, the man’s fat face took on a savage smile. Then he wiped it away and said self-righteously, ‘Oh, I’m sure nobody was talking about anything sinister.’

  The food had arrived. I watched him set about his greasy, gravy-oozing pie with both hands, cramming large chunks into his greedy mouth. I didn’t think he’d been going to say more, but there was no point in doing so now, for I wouldn’t have understood.

  I had a deal to think about as I rode home. It was true that my trip to Dartmouth hadn’t revealed much more than I already knew, but one significant possibility had now been confirmed: that Jeromy might have been living beyond his means. I wondered how I could go about verifying this. He’d have engaged a lawyer, presumably, to take care of his affairs, as men of wealth always did. Perhaps I could make some enquiries, find out who this lawyer had been …

  Law. Suddenly I remembered something Jonathan Carew had said. I was to have entered the law, but influences and pressures steered my steps instead into the priesthood. He had studied canon law – as I understood it, that meant the laws that governed the church – but perhaps his knowledge extended beyond that field. He was intelligent; possessed, I was quite sure, of the true intellectual’s curiosity and wide-ranging mind.

  He would be, at any rate, a place to begin.

  I reached Tavy St Luke’s very late in the evening. I was tired, Hal even more so, but I didn’t want to wait till morning to speak to Jonathan Carew. No lights shone through the windows of St Luke’s, so I went on to the priest’s house next door – a modest dwelling, stone-built, slate-roofed, with a small kitchen garden adjoining – and tethered Hal beside the water trough, of which he took immediate and noisy advantage. Then I opened the gate in the low fence, walked up the path and knocked on the door.

  It was quickly opened and Jonathan stood there, holding up a lantern and with a frown on his face. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no trouble’ – not right at this moment, I could have added – ‘and I apologize for disturbing you so late.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ His expression became considerably friendlier. ‘Come in.’

  I entered the house. A fire burned in the hearth – the drop in temperature as darkness fell was a reminder that we were still quite early in the year – and a high-backed chair was drawn up into the circle of its warmth, a lamp and a leather-bound book lying open on a small table beside it. The little table also bore a pewter cup and a modest flagon of ale. It was ill-mannered, but I couldn’t resist having a quick glance round the rest of the room. It was simply and sparsely furnished, but as far as I could tell in the poor light, what items there were – wooden settle and round table, both burnished to a deep sheen; bookcase packed with volumes bound in leather like the one on the little table;
a pair of shelves bearing crockery, glassware and silver – all appeared good quality, well used, well loved, well-cared-for. In the corner, a narrow stair led up presumably to the vicar’s bedchamber.

  It was the house of a man whose needs were small, but who met those needs with the best that he could afford. It was a house in which I instantly felt comfortable.

  ‘Sit down’ – Jonathan pulled up a second chair – ‘and have a drink.’

  It wasn’t ale in the flagon but wine. Very good wine.

  I let the smooth, rich liquid linger on my tongue in appreciation for some moments before swallowing it. Then I said, ‘I believe Jeromy Palfrey might have had financial troubles. How can I find out?’

  Jonathan resumed his seat and took up his own wine. ‘He – or, rather, your sister – would certainly have had money troubles had he been deemed a suicide, for the law states that, suicide being a crime, the property of a man who dies by his own hand is forfeited and handed to the crown.’

  ‘Really?’ I was horrified. If I’d ever known that dreadful fact, I’d forgotten it. Thank God the truth had come out.

  Jonathan nodded. ‘Your sister would have become a pauper.’

  ‘She wouldn’t, for I’d have looked after her,’ I said quickly. ‘I will look after her.’

  His illuminating smile briefly crossed his face. ‘Yes. I’m sure you will. So,’ he went on, ‘what leads you to believe Palfrey was in difficulties?’

  ‘He spent lavishly, he ran a large house with quite a lot of servants, he was a man who loved the expensive and the fine-quality.’

  ‘Perhaps he earned a very good wage?’

  ‘He worked for a very rich man. Nicolaus Quinlie didn’t acquire all that money by being over-generous with his employees.’

  Jonathan nodded, conceding the point. ‘He came from a wealthy family.’