The Colour of Evil: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery

by Toni Mount

  ‘Seb? Are you done?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Aye, just these brushes to rinse and stand.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the look of this man,’ she said, viewing my handiwork with her head upon first one side, then the other.

  ‘In which case, ’tis probably not so wide of the mark and should be recognisable, forwhy he be no lovable fellow. I did not take to him in the least.’

  ‘Where’s Kate?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Abed. She was yawning and the hour grown late. Has Adam returned from Distaff Lane as yet?’

  ‘Aye. He’s in the kitchen, talking with Thaddeus.’

  ‘Thaddeus? At this time of night?’

  ‘That’s what I came to tell you, Seb. Thaddeus came to say that a man’s been murdered.’

  ‘Oh, Christ have mercy.’ I crossed myself. ‘But what does Thaddeus want of me now? Note-taking, I suppose. Well, he must wait upon the morrow. In any case, he will have to find some other scribe. I have the king’s commission to fill my time.’

  Having covered the portrait and put my brushes to dry, I went to the kitchen. Adam and our visitor were drinking ale, seated at the board. I refused the offered cup, having had my fill.

  ‘What brings you here, Thaddeus, my friend? Rose mentioned a murdered man. No one we know, I pray?’

  ‘You know him after a fashion, Seb. ’Tis the fellow you apprehended during the hue-and-cry yestereve. Philip Hartnell, if you recall?’

  I nodded, remembering the name.

  ‘What came to pass? Did a fellow prisoner slay him?’

  ‘No. I released him, allowed him to return home. He is – was – required to pay a fine and recompense the owner of the damaged candlesticks but how can that be done unless he be at large to earn money? He was killed in his workshop around suppertime. His goodwife was visiting her sister in child-bed but had prepared his supper for him beforehand. When she returned, she found him dead. I fear it was a terrible sight that greeted her, Seb, and most strange.’

  ‘How so?’ I enquired, finding my interest roused despite my better judgement. I pulled out a stool and joined them at the board. ‘Strange in what manner?’

  Adam poured more ale and for me also, though I drank quite unaware.

  ‘Thaddeus says the fellow was tortured first,’ Adam said.

  ‘Aye, that’s so. A multitude of knife cuts all over him – and done with one of his own blades, by the look of it – he being a cutler, as I told you this morn. No single injury was sufficient to kill him but with so many, he bled to death. It would’ve been a slow and painful death, I fear, poor fellow.’

  ‘And that’s not the strangest thing, is it, Thaddeus?’ Adam went on. ‘Tell Seb what you told me.’

  ‘His right hand…’ The bailiff paused, staring into the contents of his cup. ‘His hand was pierced and nailed to his workbench. Then…’

  I winced at the thought of the agony that must have entailed.

  ‘Then his hand was painted silver. That’s the oddest part of it. What could that mean, Seb? Does silver paint have some significance? You’re the only man I could think to ask. Do you know of any special meaning for such a colour? Why would a killer waste such a precious pigment? I’m supposing silver paint is costly stuff: am I right?’

  ‘You be correct, Thaddeus, although silver be less expensive than gold or lapis lazuli or even saffron. Was it applied as silver leaf or shell-silver?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Thaddeus said with a shrug. ‘What’s the difference? See? I knew you were the right man to ask.’

  ‘Silver leaf, like gold leaf, comes in thin sheets, finer than a hair’s breadth and is applied as a layer. Shell-silver is the powdered metal mixed with egg white – we call it glair – and painted on with a brush, much like other pigments. The same can be done with gold or even tin.’

  ‘Which is cheaper? Leaf? Or this shell stuff?’

  ‘The shell-silver but not by so much. Its advantage be that it goes further, being painted on, it can be spread across the surface, unlike leaf which simply sits where ’tis applied. Does that aid you at all?’ I yawned behind my hand, unable to stifle the urge any longer. ‘I could show you both leaf and shell forms in my workshop, if you wish? I have gold leaf but not silver, at present. But there be some powdered silver which I may mix for you to see how ’tis done.’

  ‘It would be of greater assistance if you came to view the body and told me what was used and whether it might have any bearing upon the case.’

  ‘But not now.’ My voice held a pleading note. I felt weary indeed.

  ‘In the morn, afore Prime, if you will. A corpse does not keep well at this time of year. It will stink all too soon, I know.’

  ‘Aye. I shall be there. I leave you in Adam’s company to finish your ale.’ I made for the stairs but paused. ‘Where does the body lie?’

  ‘In St Mildred’s, in Poultry.’

  I knew of the church. It stood beside that grim edifice of the Sheriffs’ Counter prison.

  ‘May Christ in His mercy keep you safe this night,’ I said in blessing and made to seek my solitary bed in the chamber overlooking the street. Exhausted as I was, I knew restful slumber was not assured me. As so often, my body desired rest but my mind busied itself with all manner of matters, anxieties and concerns and, unlike my bedside candle-flame, could not be stopped with a puff of breath.

  I lay in the darkness, fretting. The chamber was over-warm, so I felt my way to the window – its glazed panes Em’s pride and joy – and opened the casement. The air without was no cooler than that within and came with a stink wafted from some nearby latrine pit, accompanied by the sound of a wailing babe and a dog yapping somewhere, streets away. London was ne’er silent. The night airs lay too heavy to refresh. Mayhap, a summer storm was brewing upriver: the direction from which rain and thunder came most usually. As I listened, a distant rumble confirmed the likelihood. I brought the stool and set it by the open window, off to one side, such that I might view a thin sliver of the western sky, beyond the turret and gables of the Bishop’s Palace.

  Sure enough, the waning moon already edged towards a cloud bank, seeking to hide her face from the approaching storm. Lightning flashed, far brighter than moonlight, casting momentary sharp shadows which then dissolved back into the night’s gloom, as though they had ne’er been. Thunder rolled across the skies.

  Gawain whined and hid ’neath the bed. He was much afeared of storms, the foolish creature.

  The moon was gone. Raindrops the size of groats pattered down. The air cooled and an errant wind blew the rain in through the casement. I should have watched the storm but, having to close the window, I retreated to my tangle of sheets in search of elusive sleep. Since Morpheus failed to oblige me, I lay, listening to the warring of the elements above the rooftops.

  Gawain joined me, lying close at my side. It felt comforting to have someone living and breathing and sharing my bed. Em would have disapproved right heartily. I must have found solace too in running my fingers through the dog’s fur, as I used to with Em’s hair, forwhy black and white strands were woven around my hand next morn.

  I wakened afore cockcrow, surprised to realise that I had slept better than I ever had since my grievous loss.

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday, the fifteenth day of June

  St Mildred’s Church in Poultry

  The rainstorm had refreshed the city as Adam and I made our way to St Mildred’s Church, Gawain trotting by my side. It was early as yet, a little after four of the clock in the morn. Few Londoners were about so early but the sun was up and ready to illumine the day, casting bronze and copper shafts along the length of Cheapside and Poultry. A few stallholders were setting up their trestle boards and arranging goods for sale an hour hence, when the market bell rang, signifying the opening of business. Of course, a few shifty-eyed forestallers hung around, hoping to beat the
bell, if the beadles were insufficiently alert so early as this.

  Steam rose from wet cobbles and cracked crusts formed on patches of mud by the conduit. The overnight rain had dampened down the dust of the streets and a band of argumentative sparrows bathed in haste in a puddle afore it should disappear. The air smelled more wholesome also.

  The bailiff awaited us at the church door in company with a scowling priest. St Mildred’s was cool within the grey stone walls. Not so the humours of the priest Thaddeus had roused from his bed to fetch the key. He was much put out by our arrival at that untimely hour, well afore the office of Prime.

  ‘This needs to be done early, Father,’ Thaddeus was explaining. ‘The dead can’t wait upon your convenience in this warm weather.’

  In the porch, I set my burden to lean against the wall. I had brought the wretched portrait with me, concealed ’neath its cloth. St Mildred’s was more than halfway upon my path to Grace Church Street, and I would not trouble myself to make the journey twice to oblige Guy Linton. I had far better things to do this day than waste more time than was needful upon him.

  However, Philip Hartnell was another matter – a Christian soul requiring justice be done. If I might aid Bailiff Turner in his search for the man who denied the cutler his rightful term of days in this world, I would do so. The cutler had been a misguided thief himself – as I knew full well – but that did not give another the right to rob him of his life and send his soul, all unshriven, to Purgatory.

  ‘Will Coroner Fyssher be joining us?’ I asked as we went through to a small chapel dedicated to St Mildred. ‘I suppose you have informed him, Thaddeus?’

  ‘I told him in person last eve, before I came to you, Seb. No doubt but he’s still abed. You know the coroner as well as I do. His work is a duty he would rather shirk and put upon others’ shoulders whenever he may. Yours and mine, like as not.’

  I had little liking and less respect for London’s deputy coroner, William Fyssher. An idle and inefficient fellow, he was ever more concerned for giving as little time and effort to the pursuit of justice for the dead as he could manage. That was never my way, nor the bailiff’s, although, upon occasion, Thaddeus had so much work required of him by the city authorities, he could not be as thorough as he wished. Thus, I felt more inclined to assist my friend, rather than the coroner.

  The remains of Philip Hartnell lay upon a trestle board, serving as a catafalque, set by the Rood Screen. As yet, the parish’s common coffin had not been brought, for St Mildred’s must surely have one; most churches in London did so. A cleric was upon his knees at its head, having kept a vigil through the night. The body was decently covered in a white sheet but staining had occurred upon the pristine linen.

  ‘The deceased has not yet been washed and shrouded, as per your instructions, Master Bailiff,’ the cleric said as we approached. ‘But it should be right soon. ’Tis an abomination to leave it so in God’s house.’

  ‘I know, I know, Father Simon, and it will be done,’ Thaddeus said, his hands extended in a deprecating gesture. ‘But first, my colleague here must examine the remains. He has skills in observation that most of us lack. If we are to solve this murder, Master Foxley must see and learn all he may from the victim before any clues are hidden away within a shroud. Now, please to step aside, Father, and let Master Foxley do what he does best.’

  ‘He won’t defile this holy place, will he, spilling blood?’

  ‘Rest assured, he will not.’

  I had already folded back the sheet as Thaddeus joined me.

  ‘Father Simon fears you may be about to intrude upon the body, inwardly. I said you would not.’

  I nodded.

  ‘This was an outward assault. All the injuries be external. In any case, I be neither surgeon nor butcher to go cutting into a body. I ne’er have done so and have no intention to the contrary.’ I examined a myriad of small incisions down Philip Hartnell’s pallid cheeks, the blood now dark and dried. None was sufficient to have killed him but each was precise and done with a small, keen blade.

  Thaddeus took a cloth-wrapped item from his scrip.

  ‘This is the knife used. See the dried gore? Hartnell’s stepson has identified it as one of the cutler’s own making, taken from the display in the shop.’

  ‘I shall examine it after, if I may. Let us finish here first, such that Hartnell’s family can prepare him for his obsequies and burial. I would not delay them any longer than necessary.’

  The body yet wore its blood-soaked shirt but the garment was cut to shreds. The injuries had been inflicted through his clothes, for his hose were likewise in tatters. I waved away the gathering flies that would hamper my work, drawn in by the odours of blood and death. I examined the right hand: a shocking sight with the piercing nail yet in place, hammered through into his palm from the back. It had not been done easily. The bones in the back of his hand had been crushed. Had he survived, likely it must be amputated and his days as a cutler ended.

  ‘They nailed his hand to his workbench,’ Thaddeus reminded me.

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Adam was acting the scribe this day, making notes at my dictation.

  ‘To keep him still whilst they painted his hand, maybe. Or as a message… or a warning? No need to write that down, Adam, ’tis no more than supposition.’

  I examined the painted hand closely, using the scrying glass to observe how the pigment had been applied. It had been daubed on, probably with a piece of cloth. I returned to his shirt sleeve. A part had been torn – not cut – away and might have been used to smear on the pigment. Intriguingly, I realised it was not shell-silver that covered the hand like a glove but shell-tin, a more unusual but cheaper substitute. The perpetrator had come prepared with that paint and, mayhap, also bringing the long iron nail, yet had brought neither blade to cut nor rag to apply the colour. Had he brought the hammer required, I wondered?

  ‘The hand was not nailed to secure it whilst it was painted but afterward,’ I said. ‘See here? The nail has passed through the wet pigment, taking it into the wound. Will you both aid me in turning the body, please?’

  The cutler’s back was more deeply scored. The loss of blood must have been considerable, each cut weakening the victim a little more. The unfortunate man had had no swift and painless death.

  ‘In short,’ I said aloud as realisation dawned upon me, ‘I believe the victim was subjected to torture. Someone was desperate to gain information from him.’

  ‘Do you suppose he told them what they wanted to know?’ Adam asked but then answered his own query: ‘I suppose that’s unlikely, else why would they kill him after he had told them?’

  ‘To silence him, either so he could not inform others or so he would be unable to reveal his murderer’s name. Might you aid me to turn him one last time, please? Then we may leave him in peace.’

  My last task was one I had delayed, being reluctant to perform this undignified intrusion. It was not easy to prise open the mouth, the rigours of death having clamped the jaw but the stiffness was passing off. I had already noted the caked blood about his lips and thought the poor fellow, in agonies, might have bitten his tongue. I was mistaken.

  His tongue had been slit in twain, in the manner of a serpent’s. The gory mess quite turned my stomach. I saw Father Simon scuttle away in haste and heard the sound of retching through the open vestry door. Adam looked somewhat green also.

  ‘The brutes,’ Thaddeus muttered behind his hand. ‘I’ve seen enough of this. Are you finished here, Seb? I pray God you are, before we all empty our bellies on holy ground.’

  In answer, I did my best to conceal the worst by forcing the jaw closed once more and covering Philip Hartnell’s ravaged face with the sheet.

  ‘I shall need to see the victim’s workshop, Thaddeus, as the scene of the crime afore the place be cleaned up and put to rights. There may be more to learn from it.’


  The bailiff agreed.

  ‘I left instruction it was not to be disturbed until you’d seen it. There is more grim and gruesome horror for us to bear, I fear.’

  Adam was shaking his head, an expression of dismay upon his face.

  ‘If you prefer, cousin, you need not accompany us,’ I said, taking pity on him. ‘Instead, you might do me another service.’

  ‘Anything in preference…’

  ‘Call at Edmund Shaa’s goldsmith’s shop upon your way home and place an order for more gold leaf, if you will. We shall be much in need of it for the king’s commission, once we make a proper start upon that work.’ I turned to the young cleric – the one who had kept the night vigil. He appeared tired, knuckling his eyes like an infant, yet seemed to have borne the examination of the body better than the rest of us. ‘May you provide me with water to wash my hands?’ I had no intention of getting gore upon my attire and scrip. Nor would I wish to attract the wrong sort of attention from Gawain, awaiting us out in the porch, unless he had wandered off, in search of some more interesting diversion, such as a butcher’s stall or a cookshop.

  The cleric gave me such a look, as though I had asked him for the moon but went into the vestry to fetch what was needed – with utmost tardiness. If he had all day to waste, I did not. I called out to him and bade him hasten which earned me another glowering look upon his return. I was supplied with a dented basin, a scant cupful of cold water and a threadbare towel.

  ‘’Tis holy water. All we have. ’Tis not meant for the likes of you to rid your hands of filth. Treat it with reverence, as you should.’

  Now I understood his reluctance and made my ablutions accordingly, much chastened by his rebuke. I did wonder why he could not have walked the few paces along to the conduit in Cheapside to fetch some water of humbler kind.

  With my hands not only cleansed but sanctified, I thanked the cleric and returned the basin, ready to commence the next unpleasant step in the investigation: the examination of the scene of the murder.