The Dead Don't Wai

by Michael Jecks

  What was the point?

  The sun rose, and with it I began to walk about the town. I was reluctant to go inside and listen to Sir Richard’s snores. I felt that my ears needed a rest from them as much as from his booming voice. In preference, I walked away from the inn, aimlessly. I had no particular route in mind, nor a destination, but when I passed along, my feet finding their own path, I suddenly realized I was already halfway to Sarah’s house.

  She was a peasant, I reasoned, and would surely be up with the sun. And at least this time I could be sure that Sir Richard was not with her. I remembered that shamefaced look about him as I saw him in the entrance that last time I saw her; I was still unsure what that look was for.

  It was a good-sized house, and I approached it warily, remembering Harknet’s dogs, but this was free of brutes, I was glad to note. I knocked, but there was no answer, and after a few moments, I made my way round the house to the rear, where I found a well-tended vegetable garden and a privy. The door opened as I stood at the back door, and Sarah appeared.

  ‘I knocked, but there was no answer,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I was in there,’ she said. ‘Since I’m alone now, I can’t always be at the door when someone knocks. I used to have the dog, but … anyway, what can I do for you?’

  I gave her my best grin. Women can never refuse me, because I have a transparently open face. I have been told that I have the most trustworthy features of any man alive, and certainly women tend to find it so.

  ‘I heard that you were widowed. I was sorry to hear that. When did your husband die?’

  ‘Die? Oh, no, he’s still alive. It was the same for me as for Dorothy. My husband was told he had the choice of remaining with me or he could remain in the Church. He took the obvious choice. Which was less of a troubling affair for me, because my family had the money in my marriage. Of course, he tried to claim that, as my husband, he had full claim on all my wealth, but since he was leaving me on the understanding that our marriage was never valid, I countered his demands with the fact that since he was never my husband, he never had any claims to my money. He tried to wriggle on that, but it was a hook of his own making, and I was happy to see him suffer on it.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘I don’t know; nor do I care. The Church doesn’t want distressed women appearing in churches up and down the land, so they don’t tell us where our husbands have been sent. I suppose they think it’s easier that way. Personally, I don’t care. He was happy to leave me, so I am happy to see him go.’

  ‘But it must be very hard to be alone now.’

  ‘You think so? Now I work to please myself, without having to please a man. It is a great deal more relaxing.’

  It was very brave of her, and I told her so. She laughed, for some reason I couldn’t quite fathom.

  ‘Would you like an ale?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  When she had fetched a jug and two cups, she set them on a bench near her back door, and we sat down and gazed over her garden.

  ‘Losing my husband was shocking at first. It showed me that I was worthless. The Church didn’t care about me, and thought I was not even married; my husband valued his work more than me. No one cared. So I hid myself away in here. But then I thought, “Well, what have I done that makes me so foul?” And the simple answer was, nothing! I had worked hard to make a man happy, and he had chosen to leave me. That was his weakness. But I refused to allow it to shape my life. Why would I?’

  ‘So you felt jealous of Dorothy when she appeared with Peter?’

  ‘Jealous? What did I have to be jealous of? She had been as badly treated as me. I thought Peter a fool, just like my own husband. It seems so cowardly for a man to desert his wife – still more his children – on the whim of a … Well, you know what I mean. No, I am not jealous. Dorothy and I often chat about things.’

  ‘I see. What of the miller and his daughter?’

  ‘Him?’ Her face changed.

  ‘Saul, the miller, was a horrible man,’ she told me.

  She had brought me into her house and installed me before her hearth. We both held cups of steaming ale served from a pot beside her fire. The light gave her features a golden glow, and I could see how her husband would have found her an appealing woman. She had a kind, soft expression, but just now it was hardening as she thought of the miller.

  ‘He was a brute. Polite enough to most people, but when he had been drinking, he was foul. When I was married, he was as respectful as a man should be, although he was one of those men who would always stare at a woman as though she were naked. But a woman grows accustomed to such behaviour. No, what distressed me and many other women was the way he treated his poor girl, Jen. Just like a wife.’

  ‘He raped her.’

  ‘Yes. She was a slight, sweet little thing. Dainty, gentle, kind. But so tired and worn always. She had to slave away for her father, and when he was in his cups, well, he treated her like a whore to satisfy himself. And from that it was a short step to selling her body to those who would pay for her. All the men here knew it. Some argued with him, saying it was a disgrace that a father should treat his child in such a manner, but if they pushed the matter too far, he would resort to blows. People were all scared of him. Then, there were others, who were prepared to benefit.’

  ‘How so?’

  She stared at the cup in her hand. ‘He wanted money for his ales. When he had none, he sold what he could. He sold his daughter to any who would pay.’

  ‘He was very violent?’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘Violent? He would fight with anyone. His fists were the most used in the whole of Middlesex.’

  ‘So many would have wished to hurt him?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  I considered. ‘Would his daughter, Jen, have sought to defend herself?’

  ‘Never. She was always timid and obedient to him. Away from him, she was clever and witty, but when he was about, she grew quiet and submissive. And then she met a boy who changed things.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He was a fellow called Hal, from a farm down near the river. A big, strapping fellow, who was not the brightest, perhaps, but he adored her from the first moment he saw her when he came through the village to London. Saul found them together, and swore he’d kill Hal if he found him on his land again. I think he feared that his little girl would be taken away from him. And she would have been, too, if Hal had been given a chance. But, of course, Jen wouldn’t go against her father’s instruction, so Hal went away again.’ She shrugged. ‘And then all this happened.’

  ‘What of Peter? You told Sir Richard that his brother was an honourable man, but some say he was a womanizer and lecher.’

  She gave me a very direct look. ‘He was honourable, in his own way. I did not lie to the Coroner. But he told me that he was the priest’s brother, so I sought to save his feelings and perhaps did not tell all the truth.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘He tried to be familiar with all the women of the parish.’

  ‘Do you think he could have been enjoying an affair with Jen, the miller’s daughter?’

  ‘If he had paid Saul the miller, yes, of course. He only ever wanted the price of his next drinks. I doubt any man could have rejected her,’ she added, sadly staring into the fire’s flames. ‘But this is not the sourness of an older woman. I can look at a woman like her and understand why men would find her appealing. I am only sad to think that such a fresh, young thing could be so sorely mistreated. Selling her to any man … I am sorry that her father died so quickly. He should have suffered more.’

  ‘I was told Peter tried to get into your bed, too.’

  ‘Were you? My, tongues do wag in this village. Yes, he once tried it on with me. He wanted to assault me in the church, but I made it clear to him that I was no foolish peasant woman who had no understanding, and if he tried such a thing again, he would discover that a woman’s fist could be as painful as any man’s, whe
n directed at his … well, you take my point.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. But you don’t think he tried it on with Jen?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he did. But she would not have accepted him, and unless he paid, her father would not have allowed him. So he would have gone to seek fresher pastures that were more readily available to him.’

  ‘Where? Would he have attempted any other women?’

  She smiled. ‘I very much doubt he got anywhere. Yes, he would have tried, but we are a small village, and all the women know each other well. I wouldn’t let him near me, and I doubt many others would have either. No, I think he died a frustrated man.’

  ‘But you didn’t talk about that with the Coroner?’

  ‘No, of course not! He would be upset, no doubt.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell him anything before he mentioned he was brother to Peter?’

  She laughed. ‘We all knew they were brothers! You could see it by looking at them, but we had all been told before. Peter let everyone know his brother was a Coroner; he threatened us with Sir Richard if we didn’t do as he wanted.’

  I saw Humfrie as soon as I returned to the inn. He could only have had two hours of sleep, and yet he looked the same as he did after eight. Which was not, perhaps, to his credit. He had that leathery sort of flesh that looks slightly grey no matter what the light illuminating it.

  Sir Richard was in the chamber, chasing egg yolk about a platter with a thick haunch of bread. He looked up as I entered. ‘Have ye met this fellow? Calls himself Humfrie, but has a good brain in his head.’

  ‘Really?’

  Humfrie cast a look at me. He appeared to have been chatting with the Coroner. Personally, if I had been a professional assassin, as I was supposed to be and as he was, I would have avoided talking to a man who was so deeply involved in the law as the Coroner.

  ‘I think you have some work to be getting on with?’ I said to Humfrie coolly.

  ‘There’s no hurry.’

  I bit back the comment about the valuable box that sprang to my lips, but glared at him.

  ‘Where have you been this morning?’ Sir Richard asked when he had finished his eggs. He set his platter aside and gazed at me.

  ‘I went to talk to Sarah.’

  ‘Oh, and what did she have to say?’

  ‘Only that your brother did indeed have an unsavoury reputation and had attempted to have his way with her.’

  ‘Even though she told me …’

  ‘She was trying to protect your feelings. She thought you would be hurt if she told you that your brother, whom you had just lost, was less Godly in his behaviour than he might have been. And apparently he used to tell people that you were a Coroner. She knew you were his brother before you came here.’

  ‘The woman could be lying now.’

  ‘She could, but why would she? What she did say was that the miller’s daughter had a friend. A strong man called Hal, who farmed down near the Thames. He came through here, saw Jen, and the two became lovers, so Sarah believed. The miller wanted nothing of that because he wanted his daughter all to himself, so he threatened the youth to leave. Perhaps this Hal came back, killed the miller, and eloped with the girl?’

  ‘Would she have agreed to elope with a fellow who had killed her father?’ Sir Richard said.

  ‘If her father was anything like …’ I had been going to say ‘my father’, but it didn’t strike me as the moment to share that. ‘Like the rumours suggest, I would think that it would be highly likely that she would be grateful to run away with someone who had killed him.’

  ‘It would fit the circumstances,’ Sir Richard mused.

  ‘Except for the fact of your brother’s death,’ Humfrie said.

  ‘Oh, aye. It doesn’t explain his murder.’

  ‘Nor the interesting fact that she was seen in the roadway about here with blood all over her,’ I said.

  ‘She may well have been covered in gore when her father died,’ Sir Richard mused.

  Humfrie shook his head. ‘The body found on the road was Father Peter, not her father. Her appearance here seems surprising. Master Jack told me that he felt your brother was lying in bed with the miller’s daughter when her father found them and killed Peter. He carried the body to the road to drop it off – why did his daughter join him? Then, when they returned to the mill, she stabbed him. Or her friend did.’

  ‘Hal,’ I said helpfully.

  ‘Yes. So he killed the miller and buried the body, and then he and this Jen fled the village.’

  ‘They probably made their way to London. They could make money there, selling her body. A new wench will always be able to make some money in London,’ I said.

  And it was then, as my thoughts turned back to darling Cat, that I felt my smile leave my face. Cat, the slim little temptress, the whore who looked so anxious, and who was so keen to hear more about the murder of Peter, who spoke to me and the Coroner about the matter, who had a large, hulking man with her, who was apparently so jealous of his waggle-tailed woman that he would knock on the door and break a man’s head just for sleeping with her. A slim little woman, who had a slight accent, who was experimenting with a new life in London, although she seemed experienced in so many ways. And Alice Pendle had said she was new to the city.

  I knew them as Cat and Henry – but since they knew me as Peter, that was a fair exchange. They needed money and had tried to rob me to get it. Cat and Henry – were they Jen and Hal?

  ‘What is it, man? You look like a constipated goat!’ Sir Richard said unhelpfully.

  I stared at him. I did not want to tell him that he had enjoyed a meal with the woman we were hunting for. Besides, there was a more urgent task now. Humfrie had to find the box from the church.

  ‘Nothing, Sir Richard, but I want to go to Mass, and I know my friend Humfrie will also want to come.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll join you both. May be interesting to see how the folks all behave.’

  In the church there was an overwhelming odour of incense that all but had me choking as we entered.

  There can be few more difficult situations than standing in a church, trying to behave respectfully as a man should on entering, only to inhale a thick fume and be overwhelmed by a fit of coughing that almost had me on the floor. I was standing at the front with Humfrie, when the wafts from the censer caught in my throat. Several horrified stares pinned me to the spot, with the people obviously assuming that I was suffering from some sort of possession. I saw a child pointing at me with a kind of fascinated horror, as though expecting me to roll about on the floor and begin spewing frogs or snakes, or some other superstitious nonsense.

  Luckily, the spasms left me, and I could continue with the service without disrupting matters further.

  The sexton, Roger, was officiating in the absence of either the priest or the local sexton. He gave me a condemnatory glare until I had fully recovered, and then proceeded to sing the strange words that seemed alien to me now after so many years of hearing English spoken. There was a strange mixture of reactions in the congregation. I saw Harknet had set himself up as the arbiter of good behaviour, and was standing up at the front, while Sarah was also there, but in her case nearer the back. Gazing about me, I saw no sign of Dick Atwood, but I did see Nyck, although Dorothy was plainly keeping the inn open. No doubt she would come to the next service, bringing her brood with her.

  Her story was still confusing. She had been so convinced and convincing when she had spoken of seeing a man dressed as a priest and then falling over her dead husband. But her story was not convincing, of course, since her husband had been long dead by then. Which is why I had immediately thought of Dick Atwood and accused him of dressing in the priest’s clothes, not that the devil had admitted to doing so. He had rather slavishly refused to comment, in fact.

  But that itself was strange, I realized. Atwood rarely worried about confessing to acts that might be illegal or immoral, but this time he had not. I would usually have expected him to shrug his s
houlders and admit what he had done, when found out, with a little smile of self-effacing humour. But when I accused him of dressing like a priest to disconcert Dorothy and her boys, he had not made any comment, other than to say it was interesting and that he had no idea what I was talking about. That itself was unlike him.

  Of course, he must have been the man dressed as Peter. Who else could it have been? Dorothy had seen a man looking like her husband, and …

  But wait! She said she had seen a man, someone looking like a priest. But what if she had been lying? She knew her oldest son was bitter about the family’s situation. The boy had a violent temper when he was drunk, as he had proved when he punched her. Perhaps … Suddenly my mind raced: what if she believed her boy could have murdered Peter in order to avenge his family for his father’s desertion? Could the lad have murdered Peter at the mill and then brought him all the way up here? More to the point, could Dorothy have believed that he might have done?

  One boy would have found it difficult to move the man so far, but two boys, perhaps, could have dragged him or carried him … But no. Peter was too big even for Dorothy’s two oldest boys.

  I turned to stare at the door to the church. She was back there at the inn. I would have to ask her.

  The censer swung and more fumes billowed like clouds on a windy day. I could feel a tickle at the back of my throat, tried to clear it, but instead got a lungful of thick, scented fog. I felt my eyes start almost from my head, and then, spluttering and wheezing, I had to escape the place, Humfrie at my side.

  ‘Are you quite well?’ he demanded.

  ‘I just breathed in too much of the incense.’

  He nodded, but there was a touch of suspicion in his eye, I thought.

  ‘You stay here and see if you can work out where the box might lie,’ I said. ‘I need to speak to Dorothy again.’