Harknet was trying to attract his attention all the while, but Master Nyck appeared not to notice him either, and disappeared inside once more.
I wandered over to Harknet. ‘Good day, master. A sad tale, this, isn’t it?’
‘A rogue and scoundrel has died? You think that a disaster?’ he spat.
I was surprised to hear the dead man so roundly criticized. ‘You say Father Peter was a scallywag?’
‘Not only a scallywag! He was a foul influence on our village. Priest, indeed! My sow would be more honourable! She has more decorum and feeling for her brood than that man lying there. Look at all the unlawful pups he fathered with that poor dupe of a woman, and God alone knows how many other squalling brats he sired up and down the country. It is one thing for a priest to be confused about the rightness of the liturgy, when the King declares this and then the Queen declares thus. But a man in Holy Orders who fathers so many children, and who still feels the need to father more, is a man who is unsuited to his calling.’
‘He had many women calling on him to visit them? You saw this?’
He looked away, and I wondered. If he had been convinced of the truth of his words, he would have held my gaze. Yet some men will not. Perhaps this was one of the fellows who felt intimidated by another. Naturally, a man of his class would feel threatened by a man such as me. I was of a different level, as would be entirely clear from my clothing. To put him at his ease, I said, ‘Of course, a priest will naturally be asked to help many women with their prayers, or to intercede for them, when something—’
‘Intercede?’ he sneered. ‘Oh, yes, he would intercede, I have no doubt! You have no idea what sort of a man he was! He would intercede with any woman when she was on her knees before him, I’ve no doubt! He was nothing more than a lecher and a molester of women.’
‘You saw this?’
‘I don’t need to see the sun to feel its warmth, just as I don’t need to see the water to know when I’ve fallen in a river, and don’t need to look to see when I’ve stepped in ox shit – the smell’s enough! I have eyes to see, and … and, anyway, just look at the poor drab over there with all her squalling brats! She had nothing to hope for from him, did she? He gave her that litter and didn’t even attempt to protect or help them; he dropped them all and scuttled over here to a new benefice. That tells you all you need to know about him.’
‘She must have felt something for him to have travelled all the way here. And the man Roger, too.’
‘They were both probably trying to demand money from him after his behaviour before. She was desperate for money. That’s why she sold his coat.’
‘You saw his coat being sold by his wife?’
‘She was flagrant about it! As soon as she could, she was bundling the clothes up and giving them to a passing tranter. I made sure that the good Coroner was fully aware of it, too. The priest may have been a dreadful influence on the community, but that is no reason for his wife to become a drain on our parish. And as for her thinking she can do away with him with impunity – where would we be, if women were able to do away with their husbands for any imagined slight?’
‘Where indeed?’ I agreed. It struck me that a coat with eight or nine stab-slashes in the back would be worth little enough. But it did make me wonder what would have tempted the woman to dispose of coat and shirt.
I gave him a smile. ‘Women with any cause to dislike their menfolk, whether they had been bullied or beaten, might decide to take revenge, and then where would their tormentors be?’
He gave me an odd look at that and soon sidled away, muttering under his breath about city folk with no knowledge of real life, or somesuch. I didn’t feel he liked me. It was mutual.
Seeing the innkeeper return with a full tray, I beckoned him and took a good cup of ale. The earlier one with Dick Atwood was beginning to lose its beneficial influence, and my head was hurting again – although a large part of that could have been due to the voice and volume of the Coroner. He really was an appallingly loud man.
‘That fellow Harknet,’ I said to the innkeeper, ‘seems to have very set views about your dead priest.’
‘He is a whore’s son and never happy unless he’s making others miserable.’
‘He said a lot about Father Peter being less than strict in his relations with women about the place.’
‘He said what?’
I sought a polite phrase for such a delicate matter. It wasn’t easy. I was the son of a leather worker, not a master of philosophy from a university. ‘He implied that the good father was rather incontinent in his relations,’ I said, ending on a higher note.
The innkeeper was also not from a university. ‘Eh?’
‘He said the priest was groping and swiving women who went to him.’
‘Oh!’ Nyck’s face cleared as he absorbed the explanation, and then he pulled a grimace and glanced about him quickly. ‘You know why that is? Harknet is a vicious little churl – and unmarried. I dare guess that he is as jealous as a fool can be. Father Peter was a good man, I’d swear. He was kind and always had a listening ear for those with troubles or fears. Harknet would like to believe poor Father Peter was some kind of sinner because it fits with his view of the world. Look, Harknet is a devoted Catholic – now. When King Henry created his own Church, Harknet was terrified of upsetting people and enthusiastically turned to the new order. He was vocal about moving and promoted the English Church like one of King Henry’s courtiers. Well, everyone did. No one’s going to obviously argue with the King or Queen, are they? We like our ears in place. But Harknet took things too far, thinking King Edward would be on the throne for years and see him out. The fool tried to press anyone he suspected of being Catholic into declaring their devotion to the new Church. That made him enemies. So now that the Queen has tacked to a new course, he is in a difficult predicament. He finds he must woo those he was persecuting.’
‘That will make him a cheerful companion.’
‘No one trusts him. So now he seeks to curry favour with those who trust him least, and his erstwhile friends – those he supported when he was a committed member of the new Church? None of them will speak to him either. I suppose for him this is an ideal matter. Peter’s death gives Harknet a new reason to speak with the Catholics. Many of them will believe his poison, although most will want to have nothing to do with him. They remember how he persecuted them during King Edward’s reign.’
‘So you don’t think he’s right about the good Father Peter? About the women, I mean?’
He gave me a curious look. ‘No. Not at all. Look at her, his widow! Her misery is unfeigned, isn’t it? Do you think she would look like that if she had any doubts about his behaviour?’
I couldn’t help but think, as Nyck wandered off to serve more customers, that she would also look like that if, say, she had murdered her husband in his bed, clothed him and dumped him in the road, only to realize that the coat and shirt would incriminate her.
But then I have spent too long in London. I tend to think the worst of people.
When the inquest was finally done in the hour before noon, I managed to find a seat near the inn’s fire. I was well into my fourth cup of ale, and the world was feeling a great deal more comfortable. My bowels had settled to a general rumbling discontent, but there was no immediate threat of spewing, even as more and more members of the jury arrived, bringing with them the odour of the cowshed, piggery and their own unwashed bodies. After the drizzle, the inn had an overwhelming scent of wet sheep, too. The number of men wearing woollen clothing meant that the room became filled with a misty fug as all the wool gave up the moisture from the rain.
In short, although I felt that I was not going to be sick from the drinks of the night before, I was less convinced that I would not throw up as a result of the lack of cleanliness of the people in the room with me. I began to long for the streets of London, the fellows I knew in the drinking clubs, the wholesome taverns and alehouses, the gambling dens, the women who would
negotiate by the hour … And that brought me to thinking about Cat. She was a wrigglesome little wench, and I was very keen to renew my acquaintanceship with her. Ideally, without Henry at her side.
The thought was most appealing, and I was lost in a reverie when a shadow was suddenly cast over me.
‘Ha! Thought you would be here!’
The Coroner turned and pushed me along my bench by the simple expedient of squashing his arse into the gap between me and the fireplace. It was as if the fire had been dowsed with water. I could feel no heat at all. Grumpily, I thought about complaining, and then thought better of it and moodily sipped at my ale.
‘A hard morning’s work,’ the Coroner said with a grunt.
‘You are going to fine this parish how much?’
He shrugged. ‘The final sum will be a lot, especially when the Church gets involved. They will be looking for compensation for the death of their man, and no doubt will want the parish to pay for the hearse, the wax for the candles, and all the usual charges.’ He sighed. ‘The lot of the peasantry is not a happy one. These poor fellows fight every year against the elements, against diseases, against predators trying to kill their animals, against deer eating their crops, against the uncaring powerful people who own the land they live on, the houses they live in, and often every other aspect of their lives. Ye know, I feel more fellow-feeling with folk like these peasants than I do with me companions in London.’
‘Would you swap your place with them?’
He turned and stared at me with horror. If I was a demon that had materialized beside him, he could not have looked more appalled. ‘Me? Become a peasant? What are ye talking about? ’S’bones, are ye mad? Now, this matter about the accusation against you – I would like to say that you can go, if you want. I don’t think you had any part in this matter. It’s plain to me that the man Atwood was accusing you to divert attention from himself.’
An expression of acute suspicion flitted across his face as he said this, and I wondered why. I had not expected that he would show such feelings for others. Coroners tended to be rough and ready men, used to the sight of death, often caused by violence and cruelty. They rarely showed sympathy for the victims. Sir Richard in particular seemed a rough, hardy fellow with all the sensitivity of a bull.
‘Yes, well, I am glad to hear it. He was ever an unreliable, mendacious fellow,’ I added. One good accusation deserves a damaged character, after all.
‘A strange matter, this,’ Sir Richard muttered.
‘In what way?’
‘His wife said that she saw her man up ahead of her. D’you believe in ghosts?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Hmm. It would be a strange ghost, wouldn’t it, to appear in daylight, in a roadway, just to torment his widow.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because she and Roger, that fool of a sexton, both say that the body was cold. If he had been walking in front of her only moments before, he would have been warm still, and there would have been blood all about him. As it is, the man was clearly not killed there. Someone put him there to conceal where he died.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘You need to find where he was killed.’
‘I am glad you are so quick to understand.’
‘Not only that, I am quick to move, too. If I am swift now, I should be able to reach the City’s gate before curfew,’ I said.
He cocked an eyebrow at me. ‘So you’ll leave?’
‘As soon as I can.’
‘Aye, I suppose I cannot keep you here,’ he said, frowning, deep in thought. He stretched his legs out before him, groaning like an old man, and bellowed for fresh ale. Sitting there, scowling at the floor before him, he looked like a man who had been presented with a puzzle and was unsure how to deal with it.
Seeing him relax, I was tempted to ask, ‘What will you do with Atwood?’
‘Him? I’ll threaten him with a fine, if I can. I’m not sure that he hasn’t already disappeared, though. I was looking for him just now, and he is not here. Perhaps he has gone to the church – but I would not be surprised if he has left the village. He is not the sort of man to wish to wait while men like me suspect him.’
I didn’t care. Visions of Cat rose in my mind. As far as I was concerned, Atwood could find someone else to seduce the man’s widow. Cat was an altogether easier prospect, I thought.
The return from St Botolph’s took little time, and I was back at my house within the span of three hours, glad to find that Raphe had not completely emptied my stores of wine. I had walked with the tipstaff and his men, who were no longer needed, Sir Richard said. They were happy enough to be away from the town.
‘All I want,’ the tipstaff said as we trudged on, ‘is a hot ale, a bowl of pottage with a hot sausage boiled in it, and a saucy maid to sit on my lap afterwards. A pox on villages and peasants!’
It was a relief to be rid of them when I left them at the gate to the City, and I made my way homewards with a feeling of joy to be back in my natural environment again. There were few things that the tipstaff and I would agree on, but the obvious superiority of London as a place to live was not an issue we would debate.
At my house I was almost tripped as soon as I opened the door. ‘What is that thing doing here still?’ I demanded, as the dog rushed up to me, barking and throwing himself at my waist. He bounded about me, yapping excitedly. He looked like a slavering brute with rabies.
Raphe gave me a glowering welcome. ‘You didn’t say when I had to get rid of him. I thought having him help me guard the house would be a good idea.’
‘He’ll have to go,’ I said.
‘Why?’
I was about to reply that because this was my house, I could choose who lived within its walls, but even as I opened my mouth to speak, the dog threw himself upwards once more, and I accidentally caught him. The brute licked at my chin and cheek in an ecstasy of adoration. ‘He is affectionate,’ I said.
‘And quick to learn. He’ll make a good guard. There are so many stories of people being robbed in their homes. A dog is the best protection for a man like you,’ the devious little cully added.
Could Raphe be right about keeping him? I began to have second thoughts. After all, London could be dangerous. A dog to guard the house might be a good idea.
Raphe had succeeded. The mutt was granted a stay of execution. ‘Very well, the brute can stay for now. But the first time I see him piss in the house, he’s out.’
Raphe nodded while I went upstairs to my bedchamber and changed into my suit. The wine had stained it, but the material did not show it badly – it was already dark enough. I went to my strongroom and checked that my money box was safe and locked, and took some coins for the day’s expenses. The rattle of change in my purse put me in a cheerful frame of mind as I strode out of the door a little while later. It was at the doorway that I remembered I had left my handgun in the house, but I decided that there was no need to return to fetch it. I had left it on the table in my parlour, I thought, and as long as Raphe didn’t play with it, all would be well. And if he did pick it up, in all likelihood he would only injure himself. That thought was enough to improve my mood still further.
I had arranged to see Cat at the Cheshire Cheese, but we had agreed to meet at noon. It was unlikely that she would still be there, waiting hopefully for me. However, she might well have been there in order to view the lawyers and merchants, and decide which might succumb to her charms, and she could still be there now, waiting to see which man would be her best target.
It was worth going to look, I reasoned, and I bent my steps towards the tavern.
The Cheese was a raucous, low alehouse. I passed up the alleyway and in through the main door, slipping aside to allow a man to totter out, and he smiled at me charmingly, until a look of uncertainty splashed across his face and he darted from me to the far side of the alley, where he bent over and spewed copiously. He rose, blinking, wiped his face and, smiling once more, returned inside.
He had taken a turn to the right. I took a different path, leftwards, and walked through the various chambers. There were many rooms here, all smelling of the effects of drinking. The rushes hadn’t been changed in a year or more, from the odour of sour wine and beer. But as I moved through the place, the warm fug of men drinking, laughing, telling ribald jokes, haggling with the tarts for their attentions, soon got to me. Before long I had forgotten the odour of ancient drinking and could concentrate on the faces, hoping against hope that I would see Cat. Even seeing Henry would be good, bearing in mind he was a convenient conduit to Cat herself.
It was my enthusiasm that was my undoing. I was pushing past a table of gamblers when I caught a glimpse of a woman with a less-than-perfectly filled bodice at the farther side of the room. It was hard to tell, because the fire had been smoking, and there was a thicker atmosphere than usual, but I felt almost certain that it was Cat. I barged through the crowds, my eyes fixed on her, in case she might disappear from sight and I would lose her again. The men were squeezed into a small space, and for much of the way I was forced to barge past men who were happily chatting. Several passed comment on my parentage as I knocked into them, but by issuing profuse apologies for every yard I passed, I successfully avoided altercations. In fact, the disaster was not my finding an opponent who wished to quarrel with me, but two men I had not noticed because I was concentrating on Cat so firmly.
I was close to her, and fitted a broad smile to my face. Calling, ‘Cat! I am so sorry!’ I was about to hurry to her side when something caught my shin, and I tumbled to the floor.
It was such a surprise – for I had seen no impediment to my progress – that I fell badly and was winded. Something smelled very rank, and I realized that the owner of the boots to my left had stood in a dog’s turd, and I was just rising to my elbows and starting to climb to my feet, when I saw what had tripped me.
The Dead Don't Wai Page 7