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The Colour of Evil: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery

Page 12

by Toni Mount


  ‘House? Tush! I lodge in a poky room – a storeroom – at the back o’ the Boar’s Head in East Cheap. Leastwise, I do for now, ’til I can’t pay the rent come Saturday. Then, who knows where I’ll lay my head?’

  The journeyman shuffled off and I eased myself up from my crouched position. My hip creaked in protest, causing me to wince. Discomfort aside, I could delay no longer the purpose for which Thaddeus had brought me here. Guy Linton’s ornately carved desk was a sight of horror. Like Philip Hartnell, Guy had been tortured with a myriad of small cuts. His penknife lay bloodied beside him so, as afore, the felons had made use of the man’s own tools. Yet a stationer has little use for a hammer so, mayhap, they had to supply that upon this occasion. I could not see one lying about and there was no escaping the fact that one had been employed: Guy’s right hand was nailed to his desk in like manner as with Hartnell’s. It too had been daubed with a silvery pigment. I also saw a bag of coins, which I pointed out to Thaddeus.

  ‘Far too light,’ he said, weighing the bag in his hand. ‘Just like last time. Constable!’

  ‘Aye, sir?’

  ‘Take these to the Goldsmiths’ Hall for assay, Angus, and don’t think to spend them on a cup of ale along the way. They’re counterfeit coins, if I’m any judge.’

  ‘What did the goldsmiths have to say concerning the previous bag we found at Hartnell’s workshop?’

  ‘Almost all of tin, mayhap with a dash of copper, they think. And worse yet, they say similar forgeries are being found, here and there, about the city in increasing numbers. The lord mayor and the council are very worried. And, no doubt, you can guess who is supposed to track down the devilish coiners and bring them to justice?’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Aye. As if I have time when I’m not trying to discover murderers. I tell you, Seb, my job needs an army. One man alone can’t do it all.’

  And there was I begrudging him my aid. What a selfish dolt was I? Thaddeus laboured far harder and longer than an illuminator ever did.

  ‘See, here,’ I said, returning my attention to the clutter on Guy’s desk. ‘This be of considerable interest.’

  ‘The pigments? What of them, Seb? They’re the tools of his trade. I see naught unusual in that.’

  ‘But look more closely at these oyster shells.’ Like us, Guy mixed his dry pigment powders with beaten egg yolks in shells. At present, only the powder had been put into the shells, of which a box of unused ones sat on his desk. ‘Can you see that some shells have bloodied finger marks upon them… and this spillage of azurite powder?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I think he was tipping the powders into the shells even as he was dying, his hand already nailed down, having to do it in unaccustomed wise with his left hand.’

  ‘Why would he do that? He was never going to use them, was he?’

  ‘I know not but there be another odd circumstance. He has set out four shells containing blue. Why so many? And then he has lined up the shells in a straight line across his desk. Guy was not a man of tidy habits, as you can observe from the workshop otherwise. Why would he make such a neat and ordered line even as he breaths his last? These pigments were of great significance to him, Thaddeus. I feel it in my bones.’

  I took out my pen, inkpot and paper and sat at Ralf’s abandoned desk to make a note of the pigments the dead man had arrayed before him. Right to left, they be named dragon’s blood, realgar, azurite, lapis lazuli and another lapis, a second shell of azurite (somewhat spilt), malachite and crimson lake. Why so much blue? Was there a pattern, I wondered? If there was, I did not have wit enough to discover it.

  My final and most gruesome task had yet to be accomplished. I performed the office right swiftly: it took a few moments to prise apart the stiffened jaws. As expected, yet to my great horror even so, Guy’s tongue had been slit in twain. The purpose of so vile an injury was as mysterious as the line of pigment pots.

  ‘We must endeavour to find some common thread betwixt the two victims, Thaddeus. These were no random murders.’

  ‘What could it be? Both are – were – respectable artisans, owning their own shop.’

  ‘Aye, and the shops be not so far distant, one from the other. However, Philip Hartnell had a family; Guy Linton does not.’ I chewed my pen. ‘The one had recently been engaged in an act of thievery,’ I said, recalling the hue-and-cry in which I had played a part. ‘Had Guy Linton e’er been involved in some crime of which you know, Thaddeus?’ I nigh bit my tongue off, realising what I asked. Guy had recently committed an act of subterfuge and I had abetted him in counterfeiting his work. I would do better to keep silent.

  ‘Not that I know. His name rang no warning bells. If he was up to no good, I have yet to hear of it. Can you think of anything else that might connect them, Seb? Or shall we consider the matter over a jug of ale, if you have finished here?’

  ‘Aye. I can think of naught else I need to see. There are no footprints in the blood as there were at the cutler’s place. Did your constables determine to whom the marks belonged?’

  ‘All fitted the family’s shoes, so unless his wife or sons killed him…’

  ‘They provided no useful clue, then. You do not believe his family to be guilty, do you?’

  ‘No, Seb. All have alibis and, besides, they don’t seem the sort to commit such a ghastly crime. Could a wife do that to her husband? She wouldn’t be strong enough, in this case. As for the sons… could any man hate his father so much?’

  ‘I solved a case a while back, afore you were the bailiff, in which a son slew his father. He did hate him but – as you say – even so, he killed him with a blow. Naught so grisly as these two deaths.’

  ‘Shall we take that ale now?’

  ‘Nay, my friend. I have much to do but if you give me leave, I offer to go tell Master Richard Collop about Guy.’

  ‘Are they relatives, then?’

  ‘I do not believe Guy has any family – if he does, Master Collop will know. Guy was once his apprentice and, thus, his one-time master be the closest thing to family. Shall I inform Master Collop?’

  ‘Aye, it’ll spare me an irksome task. I hate telling folk of a horrible death when they know the victim. I’ll be pleased if you would; if ’tis no trouble?’

  ‘I have business with Master Collop in any case. I shall make a fair copy of my notes for you when I may. It might not be possible this day, but as soon as maybe. God be with you, Thaddeus.’

  The Stationers’ Hall, Amen Lane

  It happened that Master Collop was not at his shop in Cheapside. Neither was Hugh Gardyner, though that be by the by. A less courteous apprentice informed me, rudely, that if I wanted to speak with his master – and I relate his words exactly – ‘The ol’ goat was at the hall in Amen Lane’. Such insolence! I would report the rascal directly.

  Arriving at the Stationers’ Hall, I had to curb my impatience yet further forwhy Warden Master Collop was dealing with another matter, talking with some considerable degree of animation to a man wearing his official alderman’s robes. Since such attire was not for everyday wear, I supposed his visit must be of importance. At length, I succeeded in catching my old master’s eye and could see he would much appreciate any excuse to be done with the alderman.

  I moved forward, removing my cap and bowed.

  ‘Ah! Master Foxley,’ the warden spoke as if he had not noticed me afore. ‘You bring me news of that urgent matter we spoke of earlier?’

  ‘Indeed I do, Master Collop,’ I replied, realising his subterfuge.

  ‘My thanks, Alderman Faring, for bringing these facts to my attention. Now, if you will excuse me, I bid you good day, sir.’ With that, the robed official was dismissed. I wondered at my master’s daring as he turned to me, smiling. ‘Sebastian. Good day to you and I’m grateful for your timely arrival. ’Tis the third time in a week that the wretched fellow has accos
ted me and thinking this time to impress me by wearing his regalia – in which case he was much mistaken. So, you wish to speak with me, Sebastian?’

  ‘’Tis sorrowful tidings I bear, unfortunately, Master Collop, concerning Guy Linton,’ I said, in truth, being curious, wanting to know about the alderman’s complaint.

  ‘Oh, no. Got himself into yet another tight corner, has he?’

  ‘I fear ’tis worse than that. His journeyman found him dead in his workshop this morn.’

  ‘An accident?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Murdered.’

  ‘Poor fellow. May God receive his soul.’ Master Collop crossed himself, as did I. ‘I suppose Bailiff Turner has called upon you to determine what came to pass?’

  ‘He has. But I came to enquire of you, master, whether Guy has any family to inform, or to take charge of the funeral arrangements?’

  ‘I don’t believe so; not any longer. His father yet lived when Guy was serving his apprenticeship but that was all he had by way of relatives. He ne’er spoke of there being anyone else, and I know his father died, leaving him the shop in Gracechurch Street a few years ago. Guy inherited the business, along with his father’s ageing journeyman, Ralf. Is he the one who found the body?’

  ‘Aye, Ralf Reepham. It was a great shock to him but – so it seemed to me – there was little affection betwixt him and his master.’

  ‘Are you suggesting Ralf may have killed him?’ Master Collop stepped back in surprise.

  ‘Nay, you mistake me. Bailiff Turner and I suspect naught of the kind. Ralf would not have sufficient strength to… do what they did.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Two men at least; mayhap even three. They held Guy down.’

  ‘And you have an idea who they are, these devil’s spawn?’

  ‘Not as yet but we are doing our best. ’Tis early days, although Guy be not the first to suffer at their hands.’

  ‘There are others? By God’s sweet mercy, Sebastian, what is our city coming to, eh?’

  ‘One other, a cutler by trade, Philip Hartnell. He lived not far from you, master.’

  ‘Hartnell! Aye, I know him – knew him – well. A respectable neighbour. His poor wife… I must pay her a visit, offer my condolences and any assistance she may require. ’Tis a wonder I had not heard of his passing.’

  ‘I believe Bailiff Turner requested the family not to cause alarm by telling the neighbours too much. But I would ask you, master, concerning Ralf Reepham. Might he be considered a worthy scrivener, reliable and skilled?’

  ‘Why? Not thinking of employing him, are you?’

  ‘Aye. He was so forlorn, saying he had a roof over his head but only so far as the end of this week and bewailing the unlikelihood of earning a wage anywhere else. And I be falling behind hourly with the king’s commission. If Ralf be dependable, I have need of an extra journeyman. What do you think, Master Collop? Will I regret the day if I offer him employment?’

  Chapter 9

  Friday the eighteenth day of June

  I had spent the previous afternoon and this morn working on the miniatures for Vegetius’ book for the king but it was painstaking work.

  I had discussed the matter thoroughly with Adam as we dined yesterday and he agreed with me that it was worth taking on Ralf Reepham to help us with the commission, if the fellow was willing. Thus, last eve, we sought out the journeyman, finding him at The Boar’s Head Tavern where he lodged.

  Much as I expected, the man was overjoyed at my proposal that he should work for us at Paternoster Row, the more so when he learned Adam was not only of Norfolk but one of the Foxley Armitages. Though he did not know Adam personally, his family in nearby Reepham – the Meadows – had been acquainted with the Armitages in the past in friendly wise. Once such knowledge was exchanged, I discovered my presence at the board in the rundown tavern to be superfluous. These Norfolk men surely know how to chew the cud together, chattering on and on, singing the praises of their beloved shire, relating tales of the places and people they knew in common.

  In the end, I left them to their jaw-wagging and strolled back home, taking Gawain along Cheapside. Although it was past eight of the clock – as told by St Martin’s bell – it would remain light for another hour and I had no need of a torch to light my way. As I walked, I envisaged Guy’s line of shells, pigment-filled, attempting to unravel the mystery. Why two shells each of azurite and lapis lazuli? Why was the colour blue of such importance? Was it to do with St Mary, Ever Virgin, traditionally depicted gowned in blue? Had Guy been attempting, at the last, to pray to Her, beseeching Her aid at the end? Mayhap, it was, in some way, an artist’s prayer. Cudgel my wits as I might, I remained as baffled as afore.

  The Foxley House

  I set to right early this morn to begin the miniature of St George as the frontispiece for the Vegetius. In the meantime, Adam had returned to The Boar’s Head to fetch Ralf and aid him in bringing his few belongings to our house. Aye, matters had progressed during my absence last eve – Ralf was now to bide with us, sharing Adam’s chamber. I never thought the matter through so far, seeing our paying of the journeyman’s wages as enabling him to continue lodging at the tavern, as afore. But, as Adam argued, ’twas a lengthy walk for the elderly man with his bent back and, since we had room enough to spare, would it not save a deal of time if Ralf slept ’neath our roof? The logic was impeccable but I felt wary of the addition of a man we hardly knew to our household. However, my cousin being adamant, that was to be the way of it.

  I forewarned Rose, Kate and Nessie concerning an extra place to be set at the board for breakfast. I hoped that sharing food with Ralf would be the best means of introduction, that he might meet us all and we begin to know each other’s ways. He seemed personable enough last eve at the tavern and I prayed none would find any reason to object to him. After all, if Jack was acceptable to the womenfolk, then Ralf should be also, for I had heard no foul language from him. He neither spat nor belched over his ale as some do and his habits appeared reasonable, on brief acquaintance, leastwise.

  Ralf joined us, removing his cap and bowing to Rose and Kate. Even Nessie received a mannerly greeting which pleased her much. Little Dickon was patted upon the head, as was Gawain. We took our places at the board, Ralf seated beside Adam. I said a grace and we tucked into roll-mop herrings and new bread.

  ‘’Tis a fine meal, Mistress Glover,’ Ralf said, wiping his platter clean with the last morsel of his bread and sucking on his few remaining teeth.

  ‘Have some more fish, if you will?’ Rose offered. ‘And please call me Rose, Master Reepham.’

  ‘Aye, then “Rose” it shall be, so long as you call me “Ralf”, and I will have another roll-mop, if I may.’

  Thus, Ralf’s coming to us appeared painless. Not so, his climb to Adam’s chamber to stow his belongings. He had a deal of difficulty upon the outside stairs, puffing and wheezing and having to pause to catch his wind. And ’twas not so many steps – only a dozen. This was a problem neither my kinsman nor I had foreseen.

  ‘This damnable bent back…’ he explained once he had caught his breath, ‘… leaves no room to breathe deep. But fear not, it bothers me little otherwise. You’ll see… I go back down steps as easy as you do.’

  I nodded, hoping he spoke true.

  ‘I could get some timbers from Stephen Appleyard,’ Adam said, ‘Build a second handrail on the left hand, so you can pull yourself up using both hands.’

  ‘No, Adam, that’s not my difficulty… just getting my breath is all. I manage well enough.’

  However, matters resolved themselves in more advantageous wise in the workshop. Ralf was to work at the desk used previously by Tom Bowen, my one-time apprentice and late journeyman. Once seated there, he looked quite at home, sharpening quills to suit his way of working and pinning out parchment ready for ruling.

  I
returned to my St George frontispiece, designing how the coiled dragon should lie, entwining the hooves of the knight’s steed in the foreground as the evil beast thrashed in its death throes at the bottom of the image. Having had it brought to mind of late as the colour of evil, I marked the dragon’s scales with the letters ‘S-G’ to remind me to paint them later with shell-gold. But first, I had to mix and apply the gesso to those parts that were to be covered in gold leaf: George’s halo and the quarterings of his shield. These last I would then paint over, opposing quarterings in azure and vermilion and, when dried, I must remove the pigment with delicate touch to reveal golden fleurs de lis upon the azure ground – these for the arms of France – and the three lions upon the red ground for the arms of England. Only then could I paint the rest of the image. With so much involved and no time to be wasted, nevertheless, I would do as a good master should and have Kate assist me, such that she might learn the craft secrets of making gesso and applying it.

  ‘Take the powdered chalk and tip a few spoonfuls worth into the mortar,’ I instructed. ‘Now add a little white lead and a dash of the reddish-brown ochre – not too much. Aye, that be about the correct amount. Now mix the powders thoroughly, Kate.’

  ‘Why do we add ochre, master?’

  ‘A little colouring aids us once we put the gesso on the white parchment to see where we have placed it, to make certain we do not leave gaps where there should be none.’

  ‘Won’t the red colour show through the gold and spoil the look of it?’

  ‘Nay, lass. In truth, it does show through somewhat but gives the gold a warm glow, improving its appearance most agreeably. Keep mixing, Kate… until ’tis all of the same palest rosy hue… aye. Now put it upon the marble slab. Add a drop of honey. This begins to bind the paste and, later, aids the gold leaf to adhere to our little gesso cushions. Good, that be coming along well but now we must thin it, to make it useable. Egg glair goes in next. You recall that I showed you how to beat the eggs last week?’

 

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