Do We Not Bleed
Page 3
“Were in the right place at the right time to do it and I need the killer taken and hanged as soon as may be. So it can be you two who hang for it or it can be the man who actually did the crimes, whichever you prefer, gentlemen.”
More silence. Catlin spotted the lads who had carried the litter exchanging knowing glances behind Fleetwood’s broad back. Enys cracked first.
He bowed to the Recorder. “I must have a warrant from you, sir,” he said, typical lawyer that he was. “Otherwise, I cannot do anything to the purpose.”
Mind, it was clever to ask for that so they could not be denied by Fleetwood if something went badly wrong with the investigation.
“Certainly,” said Fleetwood after a considering pause. “You, Mr Catlin?”
“Likewise,” croaked Catlin.
“We’ll do it this morning. Should I speak to my Lord Chamberlain, Mr Enys, since I believe you are acting for him, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir, but my duties are not onerous and the cases are unlikely to come to court for a while,” said Enys, who seemed to be warming to the idea of finding out the killer (or killers, thought Catlin) of two mere whores. No doubt it was the twenty pounds he could bung that was helping, Catlin thought, being a typically greedy lawyer. “Though I think it might help if Sir Robert Carey, my Lord Chamberlain’s son, were able to come back to London.”
“Certainly, certainly,” smiled Fleetwood who had probably expected to have to pay more, “I’ll write to m’lord, he’s attending Her Majesty, isn’t he?”
“I believe so,” said Enys, cautiously.
“Mr Catlin?”
Catlin too bowed to the Recorder. “I am at your honour’s service,” he said neutrally, his heart thumping with fright and fury. He wanted nothing whatever to do with the matter and was enraged at being blackmailed.
“Excellent,” said Fleetwood with great good humour, “I’m sure you gentlemen will find the wicked recreant immediately. Come, we’ll break our fast and then go and do the paperwork. God damn all paperwork.”
It was certain that very few places made a better breakfast than the Cock on Fleet Street. The mild ale was sweet and nutty, the bread fresh from the baker on Ludgate, the butter cool and not even slightly rancid, there was curd cheese and honey, there were fat slices of ham fried on a griddle with a mess of eggs and good black pudding.
Mr Recorder Fleetwood sighed happily as the loaded pewter plate was laid respectfully in front of him. There was a moment of doubt over who was the junior in the mess, as Fleetwood divided the food into three equal portions, but Enys good-humouredly took the serving spoon and knife and served Mr Fleetwood first and then Mr Catlin, taking the smallest portion for himself.
Court customs having been observed as they were at the Inns of Court, Mr Fleetwood bent his head to mutter a speedy grace, then drew his eating knife and spoon and waded into the breakfast with gusto.
Catlin normally had no more than a penny loaf with cheese and perhaps a heel of a pie from the night before, but he was sharp set from being up all night and emptying his guts as well. Mr Enys looked at the feast before him and played with it. His pock-scarred face was still pale.
“Come, come, Mr Enys,” boomed Fleetwood, brutally, “You’re not upset by the whore's end, are you?”
“Especially as no doubt she deserved it,” added Catlin with his mouth full of egg. Enys’s face was a mask and unreadable even when he was not being cautious, but there was a flicker of something fierce in his eyes.
“Hm. Certainly in the opinion of the man she famously kettled,” said Enys, “Could it have been him?”
“Possibly. Though why would he have started with French Mary? And why anatomise both women?” Fleetwood helped himself to some of the ham Enys hadn’t wanted.
At the next table, Fleetwood’s men were having their own breakfast – minus the expensive ham, but with the eggs and black pudding. They seemed quiet and subdued. Fleetwood waved his knife at them.
“Come, come, goodmen, are you troubled at the whore’s end as well?”
The oldest of them, Gideon the limner, looked up and nodded, his round snubnosed face troubled.
“Well I am, sir, to be honest. I know she was a whore but she was a good woman too.”
“Impossible!” sniffed Catlin, his mouth sour.
Gideon’s face hardened. “With respect, sir, she was a good woman. She was kind to the young ‘uns and she’s fed ten of them at a time before now, nor she doesn’t.. didn’t pander ‘em neither. And she pays her rent prompt and she don’t filch none of her customers and didn’t say nuffin against none of the other morts around.”
The younger of them looked up too. “She was kind to me an’ my sister when me mam died,” he said softly.
Catlin turned away. It stood to reason that a woman who sold herself was damned and that was all there was to it. It made no difference whether she was kind or not – to believe that anyone could earn their Salvation by good works was a Papistical heresy that denied the sufficiency of God’s Grace. As John Calvin and his Scots follower John Knox had so clearly shown. And he wished it wasn't true, indeed he did, but logic clearly showed that it was.
“Shouldn’t fink the King of London will be happy about it, either,” said the third man thoughtfully. “’E liked her too.”
Enys turned sharply to the man. “Where’s his game now?” he asked.
“Ah,” said the man vaguely, “I wouldn’t know that. Though a waterman might.”
Enys nodded.
“Know the King of London do you, Mr Enys?” Fleetwood asked shrewdly.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Enys, looking very uncomfortable, “He did me a great... er... kindness a month or so ago.”
“Be very careful of Mr Pickering’s kindnesses,” said Fleetwood, “None of them are unpriced.”
“Yes sir,” Enys didn’t meet his eyes, “I know it.”
There was a moment of silence while Fleetwood washed down the last of his black pudding with ale. He banged on the table as he stood up and headed across the common room for the door. Catlin and Enys stood to follow him, but then stopped.
A woman was coming through the door, her chin high, walking as if she owned the place. She stood squarely in front of Fleetwood and blocked him. He stopped and watched her cautiously. She was a magnificent creature, in a high-crowned feathered hat, a yellow-starched ruff, a low cut bodice with a stomacher embroidered with hawks, a gown of dark blue velvet and a forepart to her petticoat that must have been made especially on a Huguenot loom for it was a new red and yellow striped brocade of silk – an outrageous brazen advertisement of the fact that as a notorious whore and the Madame of the Falcon, she was legally obliged to wear a striped petticoat. Mistress Julia Nunn made her stripes a badge of pride.
She had her hands on her broad farthingaled hips and in her pattens stood as high as Fleetwood’s shoulder, though he was a big man.
She fixed him with a glare.
“Is it true what I hear, Mr Recorder,” she said, without curtsey or greeting, “That Kettle Annie Smith has been murdered?”
Fleetwood paused, eyeing her coldly. “Yes, it is,” he said curtly.
“And is it true that she was cut up like French Mary the other week?”
Catlin had to admire the speed and accuracy of the whore’s intelligence network. Someone must have taken a boat across the river immediately to the Falcon on Bankside to tell the Madame about it. He wondered who.
Fleetwood paused. “Yes,” he admitted.
Mrs Nunn shut her eyes for a second and Catlin saw her fists clench. “God damn him to hell,” she whispered and then looked up at Fleetwood again. With the stateliness of a duchess she curtseyed to him “Sir,” she said, “Is there anything we can do to help you find the evil man who killed her?”
“I doubt it,” said Fleetwood, still affronted and chilly.
At that Mrs Nunn very surprisingly curtseyed again and smiled. “May I pay my respects to her corpse, sir?”
Julia Nunn swept her glance over both of them and it seemed to Catlin that she found something amusing about them.
“I see,” she said. “My offer stands, gentlemen. If there is anything we can do to help you find the killer, simply ask.”
Catlin would not acknowledge her, but Enys bowed shallowly in thanks.
“We are just about to draw up warrants for them,” added Fleetwood, “Please tell your... ah... associates that I will do everything in my power to find the monster.”
Mrs Nunn swept another curtsey. “Thank you, sir,” she said and finally moved out of his way. The innkeeper served her aquavitae in a silver cup rather better than the pewter ones Enys and Catlin had been drinking from. Beer was carried to the two men at the door who had been attending the madame.
Catlin and Enys followed Fleetwood and his men out to the street which was full of noise and people as always, paid the spiky-haired boy who had been minding their horses and rode back up to Ludgate and the City.
The warrants were penned by one of Fleetwood’s busy clerks, signed and sealed by Fleetwood with a flourish and handed over before Catlin and Enys were firmly escorted out the door by his steward. Happily, the steward also gave each of them a purse with five pounds in it as the first part of their fee.
In the street, Catlin stood looking at his warrant for a moment, fighting memory. In his work for Walsingham, he had not always had a warrant but he had always felt more comfortable if he did. Of course he had no need for twenty pounds. He had collected a very pretty parcel of property from the many Papists he had arrested and sometimes questioned, and he lived off the rents of five good houses scattered about the City, whilst he lived in the sixth with a couple of manservants to attend him. He kept thinking he should find a respectable wife for himself, but he always shuddered at the prospect of sharing bed and board with some feather-brained woman who would prattle all the time and spend his hard-earned money on hats and stomachers. Although bearing in mind St Paul’s admonishment on the subject of marrying rather than burning, perhaps... He really didn’t want to re-open old wounds.
On the other hand he didn’t want to be arrested for the elaborately horrible murders of two well-loved whores and he certainly didn’t want to hang for them either. He sighed.
“I must be on my way, Mr Catlin,” said Enys, tucking his warrant into the breast pocket of his doublet, pulling his hat forward at an angle which would hide the worst of the pock-marks on his forehead. Catlin wondered why he was so anxious to hide them.
“Where are you going, Mr Enys?” Catlin asked.
Enys paused. “I want to ask the players what happened,” he said, “before they drink away the memory of it.”
Catlin sneered. “No doubt they’ll lie,” he said.
“No doubt they will,” agreed Enys calmly, “But as I’m sure you know, Mr Catlin, when you question carefully and measure one lie against another, it can be possible to find out more of the truth as a result. What will you be doing?”
None of your business, was Catlin’s first thought to this. He couldn’t let Enys do all the work, no matter what his inclinations, or Enys might find out too much that should stay hidden.
“I shall be visiting some old friends,” he answered cagily. “Shall we meet again for supper?”
“Certainly,” said Enys, taking his hat off to Catlin, “I shall have been at the sword-schooling this afternoon and will likely have a better stomach to my meat than this morning. Good day, sir.”
Catlin nodded to him and watched him go. Suddenly he felt bone weary and his eyelids made of lead and sand. Be damned to investigating, he would go home and sleep.
Bald Will was sitting in his favourite nook in the Mermaid, drinking double beer and watching the other men in the common room.
He liked to sit quietly and watch what people did, listen to their conversations if he could. Yes, that was part of what he had done for Sir Robert Cecil while working as a manservant in a great lord’s house, but he enjoyed doing it anyway. It was fascinating. Sometimes he would talk to the more interesting ones, especially anybody with a non-London way of speaking. Thank God Marlowe was out of London at the moment, on some shady piece of business. At least Marlowe had delivered his long-overdue play of Edward II to the Burbages. Not that there was any use for it, with all the theatres shut because of the plague, as Shakespeare knew to his cost. The bearbaiting and the cockpits were still open of course. According to the authorities, he thought bitterly, a man was at terrible risk of Plague from the man standing beside him in the pit of a theatre whilst golden words and thrilling play carried him to France or the Americas or the far past. He was at no risk at all of Plague, however, whilst roaring at a bear that was fighting off eight mastiffs or laying down more money than he had on the prettiest of two cocks in a cockpit. Alternatively the owners of the cockpits and bearbaiting could afford better bribes. Shakespeare had heard that Henslowe had been quoted an eyewatering amount to keep the Theatre open which he had refused to pay. So they had even had to stop the building of the new playhouse on Bankside because Henslowe was now frightened they would run out of money.
Bald Will took a bite of the bread, having balanced a hunk of cheese and a quarter of a pickled onion on top of butter. It was the best breakfast he could afford as a way of getting started on his poem. He drew the line at the extravagance of meat for breakfast. He needed to be careful with his money so he could stretch it out.
He crunched and swallowed, drank more double beer. Nothing. Still no poem. Not the tiniest fragment of a notion of one. If he could just pick a subject he could at least begin. Nothing appealed. It was taking a lot of his willpower to stop himself calling for aqua vitae and start the process of getting drunk for another day, just so he wouldn’t have to feel that painful internal void.
He also knew what had really caused the trouble and he was doing his best not to think about that at all. So he was quite glad of the distraction when he spotted James Enys, whom he had last seen just before cock-crow that morning. Enys came and sat down in front of him.
“By your leave, sir,” asked Enys politely.
“Mr Enys,” Shakespeare said, “How are you, sir?”
It occurred to Shakespeare that Enys was looking even uglier than usual. The pocky face was pale and had deep bags under the eyes.
“Middling,” said Enys with a smile, “How are you, Mr Shakespeare?”
Shakespeare beckoned the pot boy. “Aqua vitae?” he asked, “You look like a man who needs it.” Enys gave him a cautious look and Shakespeare smiled to show he meant no irony. “I saw you in the street this morning, well before dawn.”
“Ah yes,” said Enys, rubbing his... her face.
The boy came scuttling over with the two cups and Shakespeare even paid for both since he had not yet run through enough of the Earl of Southampton’s largesse to feel poor yet. And there was such a thing as investing for the future. God, he wished he could be rich so he could stop calculating pennies all the time. Enys took the horn cup and sipped.
“Bad night?” Shakespeare asked, hoping he... she? Blast it, he for mere convenience... would feel like talking to someone.
“It was a hell of a night,” Enys answered. “Christ, I...” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. His voice was trembling and he gulped more aquavitae.
Shakespeare put his elbows on the table and propped his head on one hand. “Go on?” he said in the low gentle tone he used when he was particularly consumed with curiosity.
The person who normally called herself James Enys but was really named Portia Morgan, leaned back on the bench and shook his head. Her head.
“You remember French Mary, that you told me a
bout last week?” he said.
Shakespeare tensed. Damn it, this was supposed to distract him from the horrible thing blocking his fountain of words.
“Last night I... we... that is Maliverny Catlin the pursuivant and I, found another one.”
For a moment Shakespeare didn’t understand. “Another French Mary?”
“No,” said Enys very quiet, “Another woman killed the same way and cut up.”
“Jesus Christ,” swore Shakespeare. The foul images from the week before broke down the walls he had put around them in his memory and stamped out to leer at him from behind his eyes. He gulped down bile and drank more aquavitae as quickly as he could. “Jesus God. Who...”
“Kettle Annie,” Enys told him.
“Oh no,” said Shakespeare, with a genuine internal swoop of sorrow, “Not her,”
Enys gave a weary nod. “It was only chance we found her.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment as Shakespeare finished his aquavitae. Enys was staring into space, no doubt as plagued by memory now as Shakespeare was.
“You and Catlin?” Shakespeare asked slowly. He had met Maliverny Catlin through Anthony Munday who was an occasional pursuivant as well as writer; Catlin had an ugly reputation. “How..?”
Enys’s face twisted in a lopsided cynical smile. “It was funny really. Quite a joke. You know I drank too much last night?”
Shakespeare nodded, forbearing to comment that getting into a speed-drinking match with players and poets had perhaps not been the best of ideas, because Enys had probably worked that out by now.
“So I was going home when I... ah... I needed urgently to piss.” Enys’s face was red as a boy’s. “So... as you know... ah...”
Shakespeare leaned forward. Of course, he thought, there would be a problem, he hadn’t considered that. Normally answering the call of nature was easier for women than men. All a woman had to do was find a gutter, stand across it with hips tilted and she could let fly under the tent of her farthingale and petticoats with no one any the wiser. Men, being trussed up by fashion in tight hose or cannions, had to find somewhere more private and untie their codpiece before they could piss. However, a woman in breeches...