The Abbey Close

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Shut your filthy mouth,’ said Semple, his jowls quivering. His stringy colleague brought the edge of his hand down on the prisoner’s neck.

  ‘Peace, Mr Semple,’ said Pattison, squinting through myopic eyes. ‘He won’t have the use of his tongue for long. I’ll wager you an abbey crown the bastard bites it off when the rope tightens.’

  Danforth and Martin looked at each other and then strode towards the trio. Brody looked up at them from red-rimmed eyes. The smell from him was pungent: sweat, urine and alcohol. His ragged clothes hung on him. What had once been a powerful man, thought Danforth, had been lost to alcoholic ruin, the world’s most effective creator of scarecrows.

  ‘Youse again?’ said Pattison, exasperated.

  ‘We’ve no need for you,’ added Semple. ‘Be about your own affairs. We have taken up our murderer, we have his confession.’

  ‘This man confessed?’

  ‘He did. As though confession was required. The whole burgh knows of this old dog’s treatment of his daughter, foul and shameful though it is. He has now confessed to it, yet still the drunken animal rails against the monks.’ At the word, Brody began again.

  ‘Ma lassie’s shame-faced chastity taken by the pious pricks! Ma money robbed and ma mule taken! Ah’m undone! They’re aw undone me!’ Danforth felt a wave of dislike for the man. His daughter was dead and yet he wept for his property. Some men did not deserve children.

  ‘Worry not,’ said Semple. ‘You’ll not live long enough to suffer it.’ Confusion crossed Brody’s face. ‘You are taken up for the murderer you are.’

  ‘Whit’s that, murderer? The monks hae killed her?’ He began to cry – loud, racking sobs.

  ‘Enough of this,’ said Danforth. It seemed that Brody did not even comprehend that his daughter was dead. ‘This creature is incapable. What is to be done with him?’

  ‘Hanged,’ smiled Pattison. His face was gaunt, collapsed over missing teeth.

  ‘At what verdict, sir?’

  ‘At our verdict.’

  ‘That cannot be. He was not caught red-hand.’

  ‘Then the Abbot’s courts will have him,’ said Semple, shrugging.

  ‘These lands are only a burgh-in-barony. You cannot give a free man the penalty of death.’

  ‘Free man? Brody scratches out less than a yardland in the common field – he is a poor husbandman. A nothing.’

  ‘Yet free he is, and entitled to justice. You overstep your privilege. This matter must be remitted to the Sheriff’s Court, and brought before the Assize. Where is your Provost?’

  ‘We have no Provost here, sir, nor are we inclined to elect one. Two baillies might manage without a fool to lead us. And who are you, sir, to order us? Are you a lawyer? An assessor? A ... a forespeaker? Mighty suspicious to appear out of the blue sky all of a sudden and ask questions.’ Anger, in its red and trembling glory, had begun to blaze a trail across the baillie’s face.

  ‘I am no lawyer, sir, nor in any wise inclined to that fractious and avaricious profession.’ Danforth raised his nose in the air. He disliked lawyers on sight, recalling their wild training grounds by the whorehouses of London, their festive guisings and their loathsome profiting from neighbours at war with neighbours. A profusion of lawyers meant a community at odds with itself.

  ‘You’re an Englishman. We are at war with you fellows, and in times of war the niceties of your courts don’t matter. Or perhaps you’re come as a spy?’ Danforth bit his cheeks, his face a stony mask. He had worked hard to master Scots after growing tired of explaining and excusing his English. He fancied he could pass for a native when he put his mind to it.

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Martin, ‘for that. You may attempt whatever you wish, but I don’t think that the Abbot will wish to hear of lawlessness. It may be that Prior, Cardinal and king will take an interest, should this man be found innocent after unlawful execution.’

  Semple and Pattison wore matching scowls, but contended themselves with roughly handling Brody. ‘Ach,’ said the latter, ‘the filth may rot in the Tolbooth then, until the next Assize. It makes no odds to us. He’ll hang as well at Yule on the Sheriff’s verdict than now. Aye,’ he added, ‘let him suffer for his crime before he meets his end at the end of the rope at Yule. They can shove the Yule log up his arse for all I care. Good evening to you, gentlemen.’

  ‘We have made no friends there, I’ll be bound,’ said Martin when the baillies had dragged the weeping Brody into the Tolbooth.

  ‘No,’ said Danforth. He was looking sadly at the clock. Now its hands would be counting down the time until a man lost his life. ‘No, once again we meet hostility. Do you not tire of it?’

  ‘Of what, sir?’

  ‘Of finding every man who might be an ally to us suspicious and full of mistrust. It should not be so.’

  ‘It’s the nature of the world, sir.’ Martin wore a dubious look, and scratched at an eyebrow. ‘Each man grasps after what he feels is his own by right, and feels wary that another will try and encroach upon it. I can’t say as I like it, but I see it.’ Danforth sighed.

  ‘So young, and yet a cynic. I prefer to try for a better world. Do not roll your eyes in your head; they might become stuck there. Did you think him guilty, Martin, that woeful old ruin in there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor I.’

  They found Mistress Caldwell sitting before her fire; Archie was nowhere to be seen. She began to rise when they entered.

  ‘Please, mistress, do not get up.’

  ‘What news, gentlemen? she asked, kneading her hands. ‘Is the girl dead, truly?’

  ‘It appears so,’ sighed Danforth. He knuckled his forehead and shook water from his earlobes. Mistress Caldwell’s eyes danced and glittered.

  ‘And all as Archie said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do they know how it’s come to be? Some stranger come in for the market, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘They have taken a man.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her father.’

  ‘No! Old Brody?’ she gasped, clapping a hand across her mouth. She settled back in her chair, digesting the revelation. ‘That wastrel. That worthless Abbey-loon.’

  ‘You have some grievance against the Abbey, Mistress Caldwell? You have some complaint, or difference in opinion?’ Danforth’s back straightened.

  ‘Ah ... no,’ she said. ‘Why, it’s only that he’s no better than my Archie – a common servant. Worse than a low servant, come to that, for the whole town knows he drinks and beat his own child. Some say he did worse wi’ her, but then people will say anythin’ about a pretty young girl livin’ alone wi’ a drunken man, father or no’.’

  It was Danforth’s turn to sigh. Unspeakable acts were like magnets to the ghoulish. Well, perhaps Mistress Caldwell, having been the subject of gossip for so long, felt it was now her due to revel in the misery of others. ‘Will he hang?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps. It is unclear. It must be remitted to the Assize. If it is and he is found guilty then I think that yes, he will hang.’

  ‘Then God have mercy on his damned soul.’ She crossed herself, gazing into the fire as Archie had done. At the same time both she and Danforth shuddered. The man would die: of that Danforth felt certain.

  The Book of Hours was open at the Act of Hope. Danforth took his pen in a shaking hand.

  Let her pass unharmed through the gates of death

  to dwell with the blessed in light

  he wrote in Latin. Then, in Scots, he added, ‘A murderer undiscovered. Much suspected by me.’ He contemplated writing more, but his hearing disappeared, and a continuous ringing sounded in one ear. He shook it off, and tried to sleep.

  As Danforth and Martin fought discomfort that night, the clouds over the town continued to shift and thicken. As the night wore on, Danforth felt one certainty. Under one roof, one mind must be seething and boiling. One mind, at least, knew exactly what had happened.

  7

  Danfort
h awoke full of resolve. He washed in the icy bowl of the garderobe – he was beginning to suspect Mistress Caldwell never refreshed the dirt-flecked water, and he had to flick away some dubious fluff that skimmed its surface – checked on the horses, and joined Martin for Mass. They took it at St Nicholas again, Martin agreeing that the service was more rewarding and the company more agreeable. No drunken louts thronged the little chapel; perhaps, Martin suggested, even those who usually used the Lady Altar as their gambling den would be too weak from the market day’s revelries even to trouble that place.

  As they puffed down the wynd, wind whistling at their robes, Martin slipped, Danforth catching him by the elbow.

  ‘Thanks. Jesus, the muck in this place.’

  ‘Yes, there is little point in washing.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true enough, especially in that damned inn. Christ, you wouldn’t see a dump like that anywhere in France. I swear the clatty water in that garderobe still had my belly button dirt in it from yesterday morning. Jesus, to have to live like this. Reckon I was made for better things, to be honest.’ Martin nearly stumbled again as Danforth jerked his hand back and wiped it on his breeches. ‘Here, what are we to do now?’

  ‘I intend to inspect this corpse,’ said Danforth. Martin wrinkled his nose in response. ‘You have never seen a body after death?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ protested Martin. ‘I’m as much a townsman as you, sir. I’ve seen many bodies, stacks of them. It’s only that ... it’s only that they have been very recently dead. Fresh, you know. Or even boiled clean and strung up, the criminals. I have never seen one which has lain any time, nor in any place in which it might be abused by the elements. And Mr Danforth: I have never seen a girl after death, nor have I ever cared to. Yet if it must be done then let’s get to it quickly, and the sooner it’ll be over. It will not be a pleasant morning’s work.’

  ‘No, but it is all that I might do. I have some experience in these matters.’

  ‘You’re no justice, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘No, but I was close to a coroner. The office is different in Scotland, and so the Cardinal put me to better use.’ He could recall the delight on Cardinal Beaton’s face at having an Englishman who had turned his back on England. ‘Despite what is bruited of me,’ Beaton had said, ‘I bear no hatred towards the men of England. Be my friend, Mr Danforth – do me service and together we might defend the faith not as Englishman and Scotsman, but as God’s warriors.’ Those words were always a comfort. Danforth’s mind recited them like a Hail Mary.

  ‘Our coroners,’ said Martin, ‘are the king’s servants. They seize goods for the sovereign. Yet I own I’ve never met one, nor even a coroner as was, save yourself.’

  ‘Indeed, though I was but the city coroner’s right hand. I was an appointed officer until the murders of Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher bade me flee. When suspicious deaths were reported I would investigate them. In case,’ he added, ‘there might be some chance of enriching the coffers of the crown. It was work I found I could no longer do when it meant bringing further wealth to King Henry and his familiars. I was only young of course – younger than you are now, and I could not stomach it long. Yet I have seen death. I know it, in its many hideous guises. I am aware of the evil man can inflict on man. It holds no terror for me.’ He only half-believed his own words, but saying them, he hoped, would make them true. He could already smell the old smells.

  ‘I say again: it won’t be a pleasant morning’s work.’

  Silence fell between them for a time as they made their way along Moss Street, which connected the bottom of St Nicholas’ wynd to the High Street. Here they paused. ‘We need not become part of this matter,’ said Danforth. ‘We can even yet look through our fingers.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, sir. If this fellow’s innocent, his name despoiled and his life lost, I would think justice for the girl unserved. And there’s something more here. Something strange. I’ve felt it since I saw that paper, on the same cross as the libels.’

  ‘Aye, well, I meet you in one thing. I am reminded of the words of Antiphon, sir,’ he said, quoting: ‘We know that the whole city is polluted by the killer until he is prosecuted, and that if we prosecute the wrong man, we will be guilty of impiety, and punishment will fall on us. The entire pollution shall fall on the burgh,’ he added, ‘if this man proves innocent.’

  ‘A wise fellow, this Antiphon. We should all be so wise. What became of him?’

  ‘One of Athens’ goodliest orators. He was condemned for treason and put to death.’

  ‘That’s a comfort.’

  Danforth knocked on the door of the Tolbooth and found it open. Inside the wide main hall sat a chubby man, the burgh’s disinterested gaoler, idly cracking his knuckles. He half-rose, putting a hand to the dirk in his waistband. His piggy eyes raked them, before fastening on their smart, mud-splattered, secretarial robes. The sight seemed to sober him and the pudgy hand fell. With surprise Danforth and Martin each recognised him as the tipsy oaf who had come charging out of the Abbey’s brew-house. There was no answering flicker of recognition on the ruddy face.

  ‘Soft, sir,’ said Martin. ‘There’s no cause for alarm.’

  ‘Who are ye?’

  ‘We are men of the Lord Cardinal,’ said Danforth. Before he could continue, he was cut off.

  ‘Oh aye? I’m Logan, the gaoler. I’ve heard tell o’ you fine gentlemen. Stayin’ up in the Oakshawside wi’ the Caldwell wench. Damned fine wummin that, though nothin’ to look at. Were she a widow I’d no’ mind joinin’ ma name to hers. Haughty, though, like most o’ them.’ His eyes, drifting, refocused. Danforth wondered if he had drank much the previous night. ‘Busybodies, as the baillies say. Wherefore are ye come?’

  ‘We would speak with your prisoner.’

  ‘That you will no’. He’s locked in his chamber.’

  ‘Then you will allow us through.’ A sudden light flared in the gaoler’s eyes.

  ‘Cardinal’s men, eh? Ye might provide the condemned some spiritual comfort at that. Of course, I shall need some surety o’ yer good office.’

  Rolling his eyes, Danforth produced some coins, of the lowest value he could find in his purse. The gaoler took them, bit them, and then put them in his own pocket. He jangled the keys from his belt and unlocked a door to tiny room. ‘Ye’d better no’ tarry. He’s a dangerous swine.’

  ‘We shall have caution.’

  Brody lay on the floor of the chamber, on a pile of soiled straw. As they entered he looked up at them in fear before raising his arm to protect himself. He bared broken, painful looking teeth and gums.

  ‘Peace, Brody. We are come to have answers from you. We are your friends.’

  ‘Ah huv nae friends. Ah huv nae daughter. Ye’re come tae hang me.’

  ‘We know of what you are accused,’ said Martin. ‘We saw you taken up yesterday. The baillies say you’ve confessed to the slaying of your daughter.’

  ‘Ma daughter slain! Ma mule stolen! Ah confessed nothin’, sir,’ said Brody, furrowing his brow in an effort to remember, ‘save that Ah confessed tae beatin’ the wean, tae givin’ her right Christian discipline. Though no’ harshly enough. Oh, but Ah should hae boxed her the more; Ah should hae broken her.’

  ‘You beat your girl?’ Martin’s lip curled downwards. ‘Then is it any great wonder she fled, and met her end?’

  ‘Ah didnae spare the rod, but that’s a’, nor forbore tae skelp her as often as wiz needed. Ah didnae meddle wi’ her otherwise, Ah swear before the saints. It wiz they bastardin’ monks. She neglected her duties and fell in close wi’ they cowled devils, giein’ her body to one. An’ noo they’re engaged in conspiracy, in a plot, the whole pack o’ them. Ma name slandered, an’ their crime buried wi’ me an’ ma daughter, ma poor Kate! It’s one o’ they monks has slain her, sir, by St Andrew his’sel. An’ the murderer has escaped wi’ ma mule.’

  ‘Cease your prattling on the monks,’ snapped Danforth, not meeting the man�
�s eyes. ‘Else you are guilty of defaming your betters without proof or cause.’

  ‘But she telt me, sir, she telt me she wiz taken up wi’ a monk, that she meant tae flee wi’ him. They made a common stewed strumpet o’ her. An’ now she lies deid. They made me look upon her, though it sickened me.’ He gestured to some of the straw, sodden with vomit. ‘They made me look upon the corpse.’ Tears pricked out in the red eyes. It was difficult to feel pity for him.

  ‘Listen, Brody,’ said Martin. ‘Did you write, or cause to be written, a bill advertising your daughter’s loss, her vanishing, some time in the last week? Did you cause it to be set up in Glasgow?’

  ‘Whit?’ Brody sniffled. ‘Ah cannae write, man, nae mer than ma sign.’

  ‘And you know of no one who would write on your behalf?’

  ‘Naw. Naeb’dy.’

  ‘If you speak the truth, Brody,’ said Danforth, ‘and I have my doubts that you do, then the truth of the matter shall come to light. If you lie, then the fires await you for the violent drunkard that you are. Come, Martin, leave the wretch.’

  ‘Gladly. Sick of him pouring pity on himself.’

  Danforth turned his back on Brody, disgust trouncing pity. Pathetic boor. The image of the stately old William Danforth swam into his mind, kind-eyed and smiling, as he had been before grief at the death of his wife, Danforth’s mother, and his master, Cardinal Wolsey, had driven him into his grave. He had died in 1530, after turning his back on life. His was another death to be laid at the door of King Henry. Danforth thought of him often, wondering if he would have understood his turning his back on England. He thought – he hoped – that he would.

  They re-entered the lobby of the Tolbooth. Logan took the opportunity to spit into the cell before closing and locking the door. Danforth eyed him with distaste, wondering which was the more repellent, gaoler or prisoner. ‘Rails he still against the monks, then, aye? Monks meddling wi’ maidservants, eh? Well, they’re bent over anyway,’ he grinned.