The Colour of Evil: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery

by Toni Mount

  ‘Mayhap, Mistress Routledge’s cookshop can supply the lack. Nessie, here, take this and go see what be available.’ I sorted through my purse and found a half groat – definitely of silver.

  With Nessie scuttling off, Rose turned to me.

  ‘’Tis as well you came, Seb. I have not coin enough.’

  ‘Did you not look where I told you, in the parlour chimney? I said to take what you required.’

  ‘I did so before your brother returned. Seb… the bag was empty. There were no coins.’

  I stared at her, shaking my head.

  ‘But that cannot be. ’Twas overfilled upon Saturday last. I could fit no more in the bag. I have not taken so much as a penny from it since. How can it be empty? There has been no sign of any thievery, has there? Besides, ’tis well hidden, as you must have discovered.’

  ‘I fear you must have misremembered. Could you have put it elsewhere?’

  ‘There be naught amiss with my memory. I did put money elsewhere as it could not all go in the bag but it was full, as I told you. You say the bag remains hid there but empty?’

  ‘Aye. What do you make of it?’

  ‘So much loose coin would be troublesome to carry for a thief in haste. Why would he not simply take the bag to keep it in? Unless he took a handful at a time, at leisure, to refill his own purse.’

  ‘You know who took it, Seb?’

  ‘Apart from Emily and me… and now you, Rose, but one other person knows of that hiding place behind the brick. Jude.’

  ‘But surely he would ask you and not just help himself. He would say something…’

  ‘Would he? Perhaps not. My brother thinks I owe him. He believes he yet has the rights to half this house; this business.’

  ‘But you said he signed it away. That the guild forced him to.’

  ‘They did upon the business side but, at the time – you may recall – Jude had run the workshop into such a mire of debt and difficulty, it was nigh worthless. Wanting money enough for his travels, he also made the house over to me, such that I gave him every penny I could raise to buy his half share of it. In truth, the amount I could come by in so short a time afore he departed, it may be that I paid somewhat less than the full value. Not by much – a few marks or so – but enough that he feels I owe him more.’

  ‘Even so, if that’s the case, why would he not ask you for it?’

  ‘Forwhy I gave him short answer when he did so a few days since.’

  ‘So he has helped himself without a by-your-leave.’

  ‘It would seem so, Rose.’

  ‘Leaving us no money to fund your work nor put food upon the board. What does he think? That money sprouts like weeds amongst the worts or rains down from heaven?’

  ‘Knowing Jude, I doubt he thought at all. Just took what he wanted.’

  ‘But all of it! Every penny! How could he do such a foolish, discourteous thing?’

  ‘Sweet Rose, you of all people must know what my brother be capable of. Not marrying you was the most foolish and discourteous action of all. Wedding that silly foreign child was nigh as bad. He will come to regret both, if he does not do so already.’

  ‘But what shall we do about the money? Will you demand he returns it?’

  ‘He will deny he took it and I have not the evidence to prove his guilt.’

  ‘Then how can I feed us?’

  ‘The brick in the parlour was not the sole place of secret keeping. Fear not, lass, we shall not starve but neither shall my brother remain here, since I cannot trust him.’

  Later that eve, I had words with Jude in the garden plot. In the soft moth-light, with swallows wheeling and piping in the dusk, I was forced to make the most difficult decision.

  ‘Jude, you must leave this house. You be no longer welcome ’neath my roof nor at my hearth. I be right sorry for it but it cannot be otherwise.’

  ‘What! How can you say that? I’m your brother; your flesh and blood. This is my home as much as yours. Call yourself “Christian”, you bloody hypocrite? Will you throw Chesca on the street? She’s a child in a strange land. You can’t expect…’

  ‘You married her, Jude. Chesca be your responsibility, not mine. As to what I can and cannot expect… I expected more courtesy from you than we receive. I did not expect you to rob this household of every penny we had put by.’

  ‘I never did such a thing. How dare you accuse me?’

  ‘I accuse you forwhy, other than Emily – God rest her soul – only you and I know of the loose brick in the parlour chimney. Upon Saturday last, the coin bag was full. Now ’tis empty. How else can you explain that unless you have been helping yourself?’

  ‘Why blame me? Perhaps your precious bloody Adam took it. Or Nessie. How do I know you haven’t told half the street about where you hide your damned money?’

  ‘Then, if all know of it, why did naught go missing afore you came?’

  ‘It must be Adam’s doing. He doesn’t like me. He’s bloody jealous of me, the snivelling bastard. He’d do it in the hope you’d blame me. I know it.’

  ‘If you knew our kinsman better, you would realise that be not his way at all. He might tell you to your face, if he disliked you, but ne’er would he do anything so underhanded as you suggest. Adam be an honest man, which, I be sorrowful to admit, you are not.’

  ‘Honest! You call the man who displaced me here honest?’

  ‘You displaced yourself. You left of your own free will. Now you return and think you can take what be no longer yours.’

  ‘Are you calling me a thief? A bloody hedge-breaker? Yet Adam is treated as your brother and I’m not. You’re a false-hearted, sanguinosso, maledetto traditore.’

  ‘I refuse to argue the case with you, Jude,’ I said, having no idea what he had called me but it sounded bad enough. ‘Mayhap, a court of law would call you “innocent” for lack of proof but you know you stole the coin, as do I. We both know the truth of it. Thus, since my trust in you lies forever broken, you and Chesca will leave upon the morrow. I be sorry for it but can see no other way.’

  ‘If we were in Venezia or Firenze and you betrayed me like this, I’d bloody nail you. That’s what Italians do to the likes of a fucking Judas.’ With that, he turned away and stormed back inside the house.

  Even from the garden, I could hear his feet thundering up the stair and the chamber door – my chamber door – slamming at the farthest end of the house, rattling the shutters and likely raining dust from the roof-beams. His furious temper had not mellowed one whit during his time in strange lands.

  Chapter 15

  Thursday, the twenty-fourth day of June.

  The Feast of St John the Baptist.

  The Foxley House

  I had slept on the straw-stuffed palliasse upon the workshop floor last night – in hope of it being for the final time. I passed the dark hours better than I expected, considering my conscience might well have driven away slumber. But it did not. Should I feel guilt at having told my brother to go? Mayhap, but I was relieved rather than discomfited by what I had done. If that was wrong and against the love a true Christian should bear his brother, it could not be helped. Later, I would confess my sinful lack of fraternal feeling and do due penance but not this day. The Feast of the Baptist was a holy day of celebration, albeit, Bailiff Turner would not suffer every Londoner to enjoy it as he pleased. If Thaddeus had his way, some would end the day behind prison bars.

  It was a fine morn. The sky was painted the hue of the Virgin’s robe and veiled with a gossamer-fine mist overlaying the halo of the sun’s golden light. Already, upon street corners and in marketplaces, folk were piling up kindling in readiness for the St John’s Night bonfires. Along Cheapside, groups of apprentices huddled, plotting their mischiefs for later. It was to be hoped naught too rowdy or violent was being planned but these things could get out of hand with little enco
uragement. A few pots of ale too many and a good-natured game of football could turn riotous so easily.

  I had been in Norfolk this time last twelvemonth. In Foxley village, the celebrations had been in a similar vein but smaller. Just two bonfires: one for the upper end of the village and one for us at the nether end of The Street. Good humour had prevailed throughout, although the wrestling matches were keenly contested with mighty Cousin Luke – he of blessed memory – proving the victor over all, to no one’s great surprise. Adam had won the yard of ale prize as best archer of the day, I recalled, and shared it with me forwhy, so he said, I had shouted by far the loudest in urging him on at the butts. That had been a merry interlude and I smiled at the thought of it.

  This St John’s Day seemed like to be somewhat different, beginning with the serving of the city bailiff’s warrant. But later, both Adam and Jack were hoping to outmatch each other at the archery over by Smithfield. And Kate wanted to watch the horse racing there on this last day of the horse fair, when the finest of the beasts would be put through their paces, shown at their best to fetch the highest price. Noblemen and wealthy merchants would rub shoulders with humble tradesmen and apprentices, all sizing up the horseflesh afore placing their wagers.

  Thaddeus had said, in passing, that he intended to be there also – in part, out of duty to ensure fair dealing and in part to enjoy the spectacle – so I doubted the execution of this warrant would take too long. I suppose it depended upon how many premises Clement Mallard owned and to what degree his warehouses were full of stuff to require searching through. But the day promised to be a hot one and how much time would the constables want to spend in a dry and dusty warehouse, sweating their way amongst barrels of wine with not one cup of it to drink when idle pleasures were to be had elsewhere in the city?

  I awaited the bailiff outside Leadenhall, as arranged. Most of the traders had closed up their shops for the holy day but, as I stood upon the corner, I was approached by a woman vending hot peas-cods from her tray. A lean fellow with a donkey – both man and beast wearing woven hats to shield against the sun, the latter with holes cut out for its ears – had fresh-gathered strawberries from Kent, still with the morning dew upon them. They were as rubies in his baskets but I had eaten too many of late from our own plot.

  Another huckster tried to sell me a cup of clover-mead by which I was tempted. But mead be strong stuff and the hour too early, a little after Prime, and I had to keep a clear head. Thaddeus wanted the use of my sharp wits and keen eye: befuddled with mead, I would be of little worth to him.

  A pedlar would have me purchase a tin trinket or a ribbon for my sweetheart, encouraging me with a knowing wink. A pie-man cried his wares of mutton in gravy or beef with mustard and the scents wafting from his tray were enticing. I was offered fresh nutmegs or cloves from the Indies; flavoured sugars, apricocks or stuffed dates from the Levant. It seemed I might buy anything in the world, if I waited there much longer.

  Thaddeus arrived tardily but soon enough to spare my nigh-empty purse greater temptation. He was in company with two constables. I had expected more for the searches to be made.

  ‘The others are keeping watch for trouble,’ he explained when I asked. ‘So many apprentices idle, so much strong drink on sale…’

  ‘Indeed. I have already been offered mead at this hour. By midday, half the city could be staggering drunk and looking for a fight. So how thoroughly do you intend to search?’

  The bailiff shrugged.

  ‘We’ll see. The warrant is valid for a sennight, so if we don’t have time this day, we can continue tomorrow. By the by, this is Thomas Hardacre.’ He nodded to a young fellow the size of a barn door who grinned beneath a tangled thatch of fair hair. ‘This is Master Foxley. He’s assisting us this morn.’

  ‘I know you,’ Thomas said, his grin widening. ‘I arrested you at Eastertide last.’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s in the past,’ Thaddeus reproved him. ‘Master Foxley’s on the side of the angels now. Our side. So mark him well. And this is Angus.’ He indicated the second man. ‘A Scotchman, poor devil, but he knows his business as constable, so we overlook his grave fault,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Pleased to meet ye, laddie.’ The Scot was grey-haired, wiry, his complexion that of man who was out in all weathers – a one-time mariner, or the like.

  ‘God give you both good day,’ I said. ‘I hope I may be of use to you in this search but any arrests, assaults or confrontations, I leave to you entirely. I would have you understand that.’

  The constables eyed me, up and down.

  ‘Lamb to the slaughter, elsewise, a skinny mouse like you,’ Thomas commented. Angus, the Scot, just nodded.

  ‘Right. First, you’d best put this on, Seb. You’re officially my assistant for the day.’

  Thaddeus gave me a tabard to pull over my head and fasten with ties at each hip. I think the ties were intended to be at the waist but most constables were far larger men than me. Little wonder then that it was too wide also. I straightened the garment to ensure the city’s coat-of-arms on the front was prominently displayed but, straightway, it was obvious that it would keep slipping off one shoulder or the other.

  ‘Now to Mallard Court to serve our warrant,’ the bailiff continued. ‘I can’t wait to see the vintner’s face.’ With that, he crossed the way into Gracechurch Street, leading us through the gates of the grand house.

  Mallard Court and other Mallard Premises

  ‘The old bugger must be rich,’ Thomas muttered as we stood at the great door. ‘I’m going to enjoy turning this place inside out, rummaging through his damned finery.’

  ‘No. You will have a care, young Tom,’ the bailiff said. ‘Master Foxley needs to see things as they stand or lie, not overturned and strewn all about. This will be a diligent search, not a destructive one. Leastwise, not until after Master Foxley has done his observing,’ he added with a gleam in his eye that boded ill for the vintner’s luxurious possessions. My friend had not forgiven the insults suffered at Mallard’s hands previously.

  As it came to pass, at first, it seemed we could as well have spent the morn quaffing ale in the tavern. We found naught of interest though we searched the great hall and parlour, the kitchen, all three bedchambers, the buttery and pantry and various storerooms. Coffers and chests had been emptied and beds dismantled. All the while, Mallard stood at each door in turn, waving his stick, cursing us, until in one of the storerooms, the bailiff told him to be silent afore barring him within. We could hear him hammering at the door and yelling as the constables poked through a barrel of salt fish and sloshed wine casks about – aye, and sampled the contents – to be certain that was all they contained. But we found no counterfeit coins nor smithy equipment for making them. I do swear that Thaddeus and his constables enjoyed themselves. I felt naught but frustration at the waste of time and effort.

  ‘Mallard be a man of business, Thaddeus,’ I said, watching as he savoured a cup of filched wine and the others raked through piles of neatly folded linen, tossing clean sheets upon the floor. ‘Yet we have failed to find any coin whatsoever. No doubt his servant forewarned him to remove his monies. He must have an accounting house elsewhere, somewhere to keep his books, ledgers and tallies and cash at hand.’

  ‘Where do you keep your accounts, Seb?’

  ‘The accounts ledger and order books are kept in the storeroom in the workshop. The money I keep… Wait. Thomas, Angus… leave the linen. Return to the bedchamber and the parlour. Look behind the hangings there.’

  ‘We did that already,’ Thomas said.

  ‘So you did but tap the panelling all along. If it rings hollow at any point… And then we must lift down the new portrait of Mallard in the parlour. I recall that it replaced a small tapestry there. Look out for misaligned stones in the chimneypiece. And whilst you be about it, notice any loose flagstones underfoot or creaking boards upon the floor.’
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br />   ‘Floors always creak, laddie,’ Angus said, admiring a silver ale cup he had found in the buttery, polishing it on his sleeve.

  ‘But this house be newly built. Creaking boards may be worth a second look.’

  ‘Put the cup back, Scotchman,’ Thaddeus warned mildly. ‘We’re here to investigate, not help ourselves. You’ve had your free wine, now do as Master Foxley says. ’Tis a fair possibility the old devil hides his money somewhere conveniently close at hand.’

  For some reason I could not explain – a pricking of thumbs but no more than that – I felt drawn to the portrait in the parlour. It was odd to look upon my work, knowing it was credited to another. Adjusting my borrowed tabard so it did not hinder me, I lifted the portrait down from its peg on the wall and set it on the floor to lean without damage. The peg was of brass, not wood, and shaped, most fittingly, as a duck’s head. Mallard must be proud of his likeness, mostly counterfeit though it was. Perhaps it was the true image he imagined of himself.

  The oak panelling was of the highest quality timber and craftsmanship, as I had noted upon my first visit with Guy Linton. I ran my fingertips over the smoothness of the surface and particularly along the nigh-invisible joints betwixt the panels, alternately painted in golden yellow – a beautiful ochre, I thought, to match the hangings – and malachite green. I fancied I found a groove where the yellow met the green but it could have been the panels’ natural joint. My fingernail definitely fitted in the gap. I tapped at the wood, here and there, but could detect no change in the sound. Each piece was as solid, or as hollow, as the next.

  I stood back to observe the panelling as a whole. I could just make out, as the light caught it, the rectangle of brighter paint where, until recently, the tapestry had hung, protecting the pigments. It was obvious that the new portrait was differently shaped, taller and narrower. In truth, it was poorly placed. The ceiling was high and the image could have been viewed to better advantage if it was hung higher. In which case, I should have required a stool to climb upon to lift it down. I was glad not to have been forced to do so: I was ne’er one for climbing and disobliging my hip.