The Colour of Evil: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery

by Toni Mount

  Guildhall

  Thaddeus Turner greeted me with a smile, though a weary one. At least he appeared in reasonable spirits as we met in the doorway of his chamber.

  ‘God give you good day, Bailiff Turner.’

  ‘And you, Master Foxley. I’ve run out of ale, else I’d offer you a cup. It was a long night last night and a lack of good drink not the least of my problems. I’m bound for the tavern to buy more. Come with me to The Cat’s Whiskers over the way. I’ll tell you of all that went on last eve and you may tell me your news – I can see by your face you have something on your mind. Not ill-tidings, I trust?’

  The Cat’s Whiskers in Catte Street was an old building that might well have fallen down had it not been propped up by its neighbours on either side, like a drunkard on a Saturday eve. Its roof of thatch drew low, frowning over the entrance as though scrutinising any would-be customers but I knew the ale must be good forwhy the place supplied the lord mayor at Guildhall. The smell of malt hung in the air, evidence of a fresh brewing.

  There were few drinkers so early but the tapster brought a jug and two cups straight to us as we took the stools by the window. Having set them down on the board, he tugged his forelock to Thaddeus and then to me.

  ‘Thank you, Peter,’ my friend acknowledged as the fellow poured the frothing, golden liquid.

  ‘Can I get yer aught else, Master Bailiff? Joan’s made cheese an’ onion bread and a coney stew, if’n you’re wanting to break yer fast, sir?’

  ‘Aye, both would be welcome. Same for you, Seb?’

  ‘Nay. I be obliged for the offer but I ate my fill at home.’

  Gawain gave a whimper of disapproval from ’neath the board. Sometimes, I be certain he understands words such as ‘cheese’ and ‘coney’ – two of his favourite foodstuffs – and I was denying him. Mind, he had already devoured a bacon collop, a square of cheese and little Dickon’s dropped oatcake, so the creature was by no means starving, as he would make out. I have to admit, though, when my friend’s meal was served, the delicious savoury aromas of fresh bread and stew caused my mouth to water. But greed be a sin and I would not be tempted. I sipped my ale instead.

  ‘Last night, Seb,’ Thaddeus said betwixt spoonfuls, ‘There was such a to-do at Smithfield. A fight amongst the horse-dealers encamped there. So many bloody noses and broken heads, you would scarce believe.’

  ‘I pray there were no mortal wounds.’

  ‘One for certain: an Irishman stabbed through the neck. A mishap, so his friends claim. Another two or three have injuries that might go either way. There’s no telling as yet, Surgeon Dagvyle declared. Blackened eyes, split lips, a Fleming with a broken arm… the place looked a veritable battlefield.’ He wagged his spoon in emphasis. ‘Me and my constables arrested eighteen miscreants, apart from the injured. Angus the Scot – one of my men – took a knock that made him see stars and young Thomas Hardacre has a black eye to show for our efforts. We hardly had space to lock up so many and the magistrates will be busy ’til week’s end, dealing with the offenders.’ Thaddeus took a bite of bread and chewed, looking thoughtful. ‘In truth, dozens more of the rascals should have been taken and charged but we’d need an army of constables to do it and a place the size of Newgate to keep them in. I’ll be glad when this damned horse fair ends on Friday. It’s been naught but trouble this year.’

  I nodded.

  ‘As shall I. The Horse Pool at Smithfield be my customary place of quietude but there be no peace to be had there at present. The incomers be raucous as magpies.’ I drew my finger through the wet ring upon the board, left by my cup. ‘Do you know the cause of the brawl last night?’

  ‘Too much drink, women and money, no doubt. One or the other, if not all. ’Tis usually the way of it. But money may be the important reason in this case. Faked coins were certainly mentioned by more than one of those arrested. Complaints were made that horses had been bought and paid for with coin that wasn’t true silver. Like those you brought to me. I have to look into the matter; try to find out the source of this counterfeit money.’ Thaddeus wiped his platter clean with the last morsel of bread. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea as to where I should begin my quest, have you, Seb?’ He popped the bread in his mouth and turned his attention to the ale.

  ‘I may have a name for you in that connection.’

  ‘Heaven be thanked, if you have.’

  ‘Clement Mallard, a vintner in Lombard Street. I know not the connection but Guy Linton left us a puzzle, if you recall? The line of shells full of pigments?’

  The bailiff nodded.

  ‘I unravelled the mystery last night. Guy had spelt out the name, C. Mallard.’ I went on to explain how illuminators indicated pigments as an aid to memory though I realised, as Thaddeus began to bear a weary expression, that he had no need of such details. The fact of the name was sufficient.

  ‘Shall we go speak with this Mallard fellow?’ my friend said when I ceased my monologue abruptly. ‘Are you acquainted with him?’

  ‘We met but once. I went to his house, accompanying Guy Linton. Guy was painting Mallard’s portrait and was needful of my advice concerning it but the vintner barely acknowledged my presence. I doubt he would remember me.’

  ‘Do you want to come along with me anyway?’

  I thought upon the matter. Of course I wanted to unravel the mysteries of the two murders and the counterfeit coins – if the two were even connected – but my conscience cried louder each hour that I did not give my attentions to the king’s commission.

  ‘Two minds and two pairs of eyes are better than one,’ Thaddeus continued. ‘And I may well need a taker of notes… What do you say?’

  Clearly, he wished me to go with him to Lombard Street and would find a reason for it. I had not refused Guy Linton, who was ne’er much of a friend to me. Why would I not oblige my true friend in like manner?

  ‘I shall come but I gave my word that I should be home afore the dinner hour.’

  ‘Then we must make haste. I wouldn’t have you break a promise.’

  Mallard Court in Gracechurch Street

  I led Thaddeus to Clement Mallard’s place in Gracechurch Street, opposite the Leadenhall. As we went through the gated entrance and crossed the courtyard to the marble steps, my friend whistled, gazing around, impressed by the grandeur of the vintner’s house.

  An elderly woman crossed the courtyard to a side entrance. She was struggling with a basket laden with linen, clean and neatly folded.

  ‘Good dame, let me aid you,’ I said smiling and hastening to her. I lifted her load from her arms.

  ‘Thank you, young master.’ She pushed open the side door and held it that I might enter. ‘Just set it down there, if you will. There’s not many youngsters these days as will help the likes of me. Scared of my warts, so they are.’

  It was true. Her face was betokened with an alarming array of large warts.

  ‘Do I know you, lad?’ She looked at me, her head cocked like a blackbird’s, listening.

  I was amused to be reckoned “a youngster” and “a lad” at my age but perhaps I seemed so to one of such a weight of years.

  ‘Sebastian Foxley, at your service, good dame.’ I bowed.

  ‘I’ve heard that name of late…’

  ‘Forgive me. My friend and I have business with Master Mallard.’

  ‘Well, I wish you good fortune with him, the old warlock.’

  I bowed again and returned to my friend who yet stood upon the steps, gawping at the hall’s fine facade.

  ‘I knew there was money to be made in the wine trade,’ he said. ‘But this place is fit for a prince. I’m in the wrong business, Seb, if I ever hope to make my fortune. Look at those windows! So much glass! How can anyone afford all this?’

  ‘You are not likely to be half so impressed by the owner. Oh, and to forewarn you: he dislikes uninvited visitors.
’

  ‘That’s too bad. He can’t refuse the city bailiff.’

  We mounted the steps to the impressive portal of Mallard Court. Thaddeus knocked loudly upon the oak with his bailiff’s staff of office with its gilded finial and the city’s coat-of-arms. He was not in the habit of carrying it with him but I had advised him that it might be as well to bring it, to make an impression of authority. He straightened his shoulders, the better to display his city livery with its badge emblazoned upon his chest.

  A servant opened the door to us. The fellow’s haughty expression may have looked well upon an emperor but appeared quite absurd on a menial, even though he was better clad than Thaddeus or me. I remembered him from afore, upon my previous visit with Guy, though I doubt he recognised me. My visits here seemed to require I play the part of Everyman’s lackey. Why would anyone recall my presence?

  ‘City Bailiff Turner to see Clement Mallard.’ My friend could put a most authoritative ring in his voice when he chose.

  ‘Is my master expecting you? If not, then casual callers are not permitted.’

  ‘I am not a casual caller,’ Thaddeus growled. ‘Now step aside and go announce us to your master.’

  The servant did not move from barring our entrance into the great hall.

  ‘My master is not available at present.’

  ‘Then he’d better make himself available… Now!’

  ‘I shall enquire.’ Seeming unruffled, the servant stepped back and made to close the door in our faces but the bailiff’s staff prevented it.

  Uninvited, we crossed the threshold into the hall.

  ‘Tell Mallard I have questions to ask and be quick about it. And give me no nonsense about his being unavailable, or I’ll have you arrested for obstructing a city official in pursuance of his duty.’

  The servant stalked off, head held high, like an offended lordling.

  I had rarely seen this side of my friend afore. He could be quite impressive as an officer of the law but, left alone for the moment, he looked around the sumptuous hall in wonder.

  ‘Watch out for the malevolent ducks,’ I whispered, nudging him with my elbow to gain his attention. It would not do for the servant to see him awestruck. I pointed at the evil-featured birds carven into the lintels above the doorways and windows and on the beams above us.

  ‘They look blood-thirsty indeed.’ Thaddeus grinned.

  I was unsure whether, in this instance, a merry countenance was any more appropriate than one of wonderment but, as soon as the servant returned, the bailiff resumed his stern expression.

  ‘Wait here. My master will summon you anon.’

  ‘Indeed he will not. Where is he? I will speak with him now.’

  The servant did not answer but his eyes flickered towards a particular doorway.

  ‘I believe we shall find him in the parlour yonder, Master Bailiff,’ I said, remembering the whereabouts of that chamber from my previous visit.

  The servant scowled and attempted to deny us entry but Thaddeus shoved him aside with his staff and strode through the doorway. I followed after, attempting to emulate the bailiff’s impressive length of stride. I could not but refused to be cowed by the least degree. I gave the servant what I trusted to be a withering look. It had no effect. Mayhap, it was a skill requiring of practice.

  The man whom we sought half-rose from his chair, his lined face contorted into a wrathful scowl. If looks could kill – as the saying goes – Thaddeus and I would be dead as Mallard’s hearthstone in that instant. He raised his stick against us as though to fend us off.

  ‘What is the meaning of this intrusion? Phelps! Phelps!’ he shrieked. ‘Who are these blackguards you’ve allowed in? Get them removed at once. At once, I say.’

  That devilish face… I recalled how last time I had felt the urge to cross myself at sight of it. I had the like desire no less upon seeing it again and I sensed the bailiff, likewise, was somewhat taken aback by the visage in that he hesitated to speak.

  ‘Clement Mallard,’ Thaddeus said after a pause during which I saw him visibly brace himself. ‘I am City Bailiff Turner. I have questions to ask of you and it would be as well for you, if you answered them truly and honestly to the best of your knowl…’

  Mallard stepped forward and struck the bailiff with his stick across the upper arm.

  ‘Out! Out of my house. You have no right to trespass here. Go now before I beat the pair of you. Out, I say. I won’t warn you again. Phelps! Show them the door. I dare say they’re too stupid to find it for themselves.’ The old man resumed his seat, still waving and threatening us with his stick.

  ‘I shall return with my constables to arrest you.’ Thaddeus said with every ounce of authority, although I saw him rub at his arm.

  ‘On what grounds? You have no cause, you fool. I’m a respected citizen. You can’t arrest me for refusing to listen to your pointless questions. As for answering them… I have no reason to assist you – or that lack-wit mayor that you work for – and I will not be commanded by any gutter-scum in his employ.’

  ‘A murdered man’s last message consisted of your name.’ Thaddeus was certainly persistent. ‘Guy Linton’s dying words were “Clement Mallard”. Why would that be? In what connection did he know you?’

  In childish wise, the vintner gazed around, refusing to look at us. He began to hum, loudly but tunelessly, to demonstrate that he neither saw nor heard the bailiff. He was giving insult to the office of city bailiff and to the lord mayor whom Thaddeus represented. But what could be done? He was correct: for the present, at least, there was no cause to arrest him.

  At length, the bailiff turned and strode out of the parlour, head high but eyes afire with anger. I followed him.

  Thaddeus did not stop but made straight for the gate across the courtyard. His fists were clenched. Now was not the time for soft speech, not when his humours were boiling over like an unwatched pot on the flames.

  ‘Hsst! Master Foxley.’ The old dame came hobbling over to me, her basket now empty of clean laundry.

  ‘How may I aid you now?’ I touched my cap respectfully. I reined in my own ill-temper. It was not the washerwoman who was at fault. ‘Shall I take your basket for you?’

  ‘No. I need no aid. Never did, even when it was full, but it seemed unmannerly to refuse a courteous offer from a handsome young man.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But I recall your name now… where I heard it. Ralf told me… said you’d offered him work as a journeyman. That was a kindly act.’

  ‘You know Ralf Reepham?’

  ‘Aye, we’re old friends. Met in our youth when Ralf first came to London. I’ve always been the washerwoman for the unmarried men of Gracechurch Street – them with no wife to do their linen. I washed for Master Linton as well as sly-faced Mallard, the miserable old curmudgeon. And something was going on betwixt them two, I know.’

  ‘Guy Linton was painting the vintner’s portrait.’

  ‘More than that. Things I’ve seen; things I’ve heard, Master Foxley. I’m not just a fine looking woman…’ She laughed at her own jest. ‘I’ve still got my wits and my hearing’s sharp as it ever was. Money. That was at the root of it. Money. And a great deal of it. Take my advice, young master, and stay away from Mallard. He’s an evil piece of Satan’s own connivance. And more dangerous than he looks.’

  ‘I shall heed your warning, good dame. I can well believe what you say be true.’

  ‘Remember me to Ralf. I doubt I’ll be seeing much of him now he lives with you, over Paul’s way. Tell him, Joan Alder sends her regards and hasn’t forgotten he owes her a pot of ale.’

  Chapter 14

  Tuesday

  The Foxley House

  Jude and Chesca appeared at the board in good time for dinner. I had ceased enquiring their whereabouts or intentions. My brother seemed a stranger to me since his return and
as the answer to any of my well-meant queries concerning their activities for the day was usually a shrug or a “what has it to do with you?” kind of expression, I no longer troubled to ask. I could but hope he was conducting himself in a manner unlikely to bring the name of Foxley into disrepute once again.

  ‘Ah, Ralf,’ I said, pulling a heel of bread to mop up the spicy sauce Rose had made to go with our beef pie, ‘Joan Alder sends you her regards and reminds you that you owe her a pot of ale.’

  ‘You saw Joanie? Didn’t know you knew her, master.’

  ‘I did not until an hour since. We met at Clement Mallard’s house. She brought his clean linen as Bailiff Turner and I arrived and she spoke with me again after.’

  ‘How is she? Still over the ears in other folks’ dirty washing, plainly.’

  ‘Aye, but lively enough for all her years.’

  ‘All her years, you say? We be of an age, master, me and Joanie. Were right close, once upon a time, ’til she wed a fellow with better prospects than me, though nothin’ much came of it. Reckon she knows she made a mistake there.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘She was a fine-looking lass in them days.’ He sucked on a mouthful of succulent beef. ‘She wed this fellow, Hamo by name. He were a blacksmith by trade – and skilled, I’ll give him his due. But he was a rotten apple, that one. Joanie walked out on him after a year or so. He beat her bad and was into all sorts of – what’s the word? – nefinous business.’

  ‘Nefarious?’ I suggested.

  ‘Aye, that’s it. I b’lieve he’s still around, unlucky for Joanie, ’cos otherwise she could’ve found a new husband. A decent one… like me. But there it is: the way o’ the world.’ He chewed thoughtfully with his few remaining teeth.

  ‘Why she not poison him?’ Chesca suggested. ‘A Venetian woman get rid of unwanted husband. Phtt! And he gone. Then she marry better for love. Jood will tell.’