The Colour of Evil: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery

by Toni Mount

  Then the truth occurred to me, like a candle kindled inside my head. Of course, it was low down that the old man might reach it. No clambering on stools for one of his age and uncertain balance, walking with a stick as he did.

  I traced the groove all around with my fingernail until it caught upon something just below the duck’s-head peg. I pulled at the brass peg, wiggled it, but to no avail. Then I tried twisting it. It turned with a most definite “click” and whatever mechanism had impeded my nail was withdrawn.

  ‘Bailiff Turner!’ I called out. ‘Thaddeus! See here. Bear witness, if you will.’

  Not only Thaddeus and the constables hastened to my summons but Phelps and other servants came running to see what was amiss. I opened back a square section of the panelling to reveal a sizable aumbry within the thickness of the wall. Then I lifted down small coin bags by the dozen, handing them to the bailiff.

  To judge by their expressions, the servants, including Phelps, had no knowledge of this hoard until now. Thomas’s jaw dropped lower with every bag removed and Angus’s eyes shone brighter. Then we examined the contents of each bag. The faces of the onlookers changed as we revealed that the miser’s treasure was not entirely of silver. For every bag of true sterling silver coins, there were at least three of counterfeit tin discs. Despite the warning of our coming, Mallard believed his secret to be so well hidden, there was no danger of us finding it – so he thought. By the time I had emptied the space, we had eleven bagfuls of silver and forty-one of tin-and-copper fakes in two separate heaps upon the floor.

  Weary but elated, I hitched my tabard into place again and grinned at Thaddeus.

  ‘I hope you be satisfied with our morning’s labours, Master Bailiff?’

  He returned my expression of triumph.

  ‘Aye. Not so bad on your part… for a lowly assistant.’ He clapped me upon the back hard enough that I had to steady myself against the panelling. I grabbed at the open door, catching something with the open armhole of my overlarge tabard. The door promptly folded back further, spilling me on the floor. I heard a collective gasp but I was not the cause of the assembly’s surprise. I was deluged with small stones pouring down upon me, or so I felt. No, not common pebbles. A small coffer had overturned, its contents falling out like spilt water. Gemstones, pearls, amber and jet rained down, followed by the box itself, which clouted my ear.

  ‘So we’ll get all this back to Guildhall and put in safe-keeping for the morrow,’ Thaddeus said, making no comment concerning my predicament but struggling not to laugh out loud as he hauled me to my feet. ‘Tom, Angus, go fetch the old devil from the storeroom. Let’s hear what he has to say about his secret cache of treasure.’

  As I stood and pulled my jerkin and tabard into place, more gemstones tinkled to the floor: a huge pearl, virgin-pale and larger than my thumbnail, bounced upon the tiles. A piece of polished sunset amber fell and a small, dark cabochon, likely a sapphire or emerald but I could not tell which without holding it to the light. I picked them up and put them with their fellows as Thaddeus collected the jewels back into the box.

  ‘Do you suppose he forges the coins himself?’ Thaddeus asked as I returned the tabard to him. ‘We found no smithy equipment there, did we? Oh, keep the tabard for the present. You may need it when we search Mallard’s warehouse down by Galley Quay.’

  ‘Smithy work takes a deal of strength. Mallard looks too fragile. Besides, I would not reckon him a man inclined to soil his hands, if he may avoid it.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who might suit the part?’

  ‘Nay. Do I look the sort to have dealings with smiths?’

  ‘I was thinking that Philip Hartnell, our dead cutler, might have had to do with blade smiths and the like. And even you might know of goldsmiths, having need of metallic leaf for your illumination work. You mentioned leaf of tin one time, did you not? Mayhap the coins are the work of a tinsmith. There can’t be so many of those about. What say you, Seb?’

  We were walking where Gracechurch Street becomes Fish Street, closer to London Bridge, afore turning left along Thames Street. At the farther end of Thames Street, close by the Tower of London, we came to Mallard’s wine warehouse opposite Galley Quay. The Custom House on the riverside was busy indeed, whether it was a holy day or not, with much coming and going as assessments were made, fees negotiated and paid. Whether upon incoming or outgoing goods, King Edward would have his due. The tide was, likewise, ignorant of feast days and brought trading ships upriver to London, whatever the calendar declared.

  A broad-beamed merchantman was being off-loaded of its cargo of Baltic timber with much sweating and cursing by all concerned. Mind, the scent of resinous wood made a pleasant change from the river’s usual odours of rotting fish, seaweed and foul mud.

  Soon, we were sweating also, if not cursing like the stevedores, though I suspected Angus’s Scottish mutterings were blasphemies in his own tongue. The warehouse was vast, the stale air so heavy with the fumes of wine and vinegar, it seemed we might become drunk upon it. Squeezing betwixt lines of barrels – my thin frame and narrow hips meant I was put to that task particularly – poking into cobwebbed corners and searching high and low produced naught but dusty tabards, grubby breeches and a deal of sneezing. In short, despite our efforts, we found naught here to implicate Clement Mallard in any crime greater than poor housekeeping. But the counterfeit coins had to be made somewhere and the vintner had possessed far too many to have come by them accidentally in doing everyday business.

  Needless to say, our triumphant humour of earlier was fled by the time we four sat in the Star Inn in Bridge Street, washing the dust from our throats with jugs of ale. Thomas took his first draught, rinsed it around his mouth and spat into the floor rushes.

  ‘A mouth full of bloody grit was all we got out of that,’ he complained. ‘And Meg’ll be berating me when she sees my breeches. I put on my best pair, seeing ’tis a holy day and now look at ’em – filthy. You want any other places searched, you can call someone else, Bailiff. I’m done with it.’

  ‘You’ll do as you’re told, Thomas Hardacre. That’s what you’re paid for,’ Thaddeus told him.

  ‘But ’tis a bloody holy day, after all.’

  ‘Cease your whining and drink up. We have a counting-house to deal with next.’

  ‘I’d rather quell a riot, any day.’

  ‘You may get your wish, later, when the apprentices’ unaccustomed bellies get a skin-full of strong drink. Come on.’ Thaddeus paid our reckoning and led us out of the inn. The sun was high, a disc of burning brass, scorching our faces.

  I said naught but felt as Thomas did: that I had done enough rummaging and sorting through other folks’ properties, to no avail. If he was being paid for his trouble, I was not.

  Mallard’s counting-house was a few doors away from the Star Inn. It was a small, two-roomed place betwixt St Magnus Church and Bennett Hepton’s fishmonger’s house and shop – he who had lately wed Emily’s friend and fellow silkwoman, Peronelle Wenham. The counting-house had a secure lock and a stout door but Thaddeus’ warrant had required the vintner to give him the keys. And much foul language and protest had ensued afore the bailiff wrested the keys from the old man’s belt.

  The rooms here were cleaner than the warehouse had been, mayhap, forwhy Mallard himself worked here, leaving those in his employ to do the heavy labour down by Galley Quay. The first room was furnished with a heavy desk with a writing slope, two carven chairs and a coffer that put St Michael’s parish chest to shame. The chest bore no fewer than three weighty iron locks and was bound to the floor with chains that appeared hardy enough to raise the Tower of London’s drawbridge. No man was going to run off with Clement Mallard’s strong-box, that was certain.

  After a deal of fiddling with keys to find which one fitted which lock, Thaddeus lifted back the lid and we all leant in to observe the contents. If we had hoped to see heaps of
gold and assorted valuables, we were sorely disappointed. The coffer held five huge ledgers and a very small bag of perfectly genuine coins.

  ‘What a bloody waste of time,’ Thomas yelled, kicking the desk hard, then wincing. It was a stout piece of furniture indeed. ‘That’s it, Master Turner, I’m ending my work here, whether you agree or not.’

  This time, Thaddeus merely nodded. He, too, was disappointed by our findings. But Angus went through to the back room, yet hoping to discover some incriminating evidence. He returned, laden with a second chest, a far smaller casket, and put it on the desk.

  ‘You got a key for this, Bailiff?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I have but four: one for the door lock, three for the coffer. All too large to fit this.’

  ‘I could break it open,’ Thomas offered. No doubt he could but Thaddeus shook his head.

  ‘I told you we would make diligent search, not destructive. Leave it there. We’ll take it with us; open it later.’

  Meanwhile, I was looking through Mallard’s hefty ledgers. The accounts in the earliest book went back nigh unto four decades. I be no expert in such matters but they appeared much like my own accounts, except that the amounts recorded were, for the most part, significantly larger. Nevertheless, they seemed innocent enough for one involved in the lucrative wine trade. The two consecutive ledgers were much the same and dated up until Lady Day of 1471. The next, a thinner volume tied closed with laces, began at Lady Day 1478 – last year. Clearly, I had them wrongly ordered and was about to look at the only remaining ledger when something caught my eye, a name: Philip Hartnell. So I read the entry more closely. No mention was made of barrels or pipes of wine. This was a monetary transaction only.

  Being unfamiliar with the unChristian practice of usury, I was unsure how such illicit acts might be recorded but it appeared to me that I had found a connection betwixt the murdered cutler and Clement Mallard. I turned the page, running my finger down the columns, and there was Hartnell’s name, again and again, each time with an amount of a few marks noted beside. And then I found another: Guy Linton and the borrowed amount recorded would make a wealthy duke blanch.

  ‘Look here, Thaddeus,’ I said, forgetting to address him formally. ‘I believe I may have found what we require. ’Tis something most incriminating, unless I be greatly mistaken.’ As we looked through this particular book, we realised it had naught to do with wine trading and all to do with money lending. ‘Clement Mallard be a usurer, by the look of this.’ I tapped the entry with my finger. ‘What think you of the possibility that the coin he lends be not all of them of honest sterling? In that way, he will only be giving out a portion of the amount he claims and when the debtors repay the sum, no doubt he will make certain all the coin be genuine. Thus, he makes considerable profit, exchanging counterfeit for genuine.’

  ‘It makes a reasonable explanation,’ Thaddeus said, staring down at the numbers, pulling at his earlobe as he considered. ‘But why then would Mallard murder those who owe him? A dead man can only repay so much from his estate and, since both Hartnell and Linton needed money, likely their businesses were not overly prosperous. Why kill them when, if they were yet working, more of their debts could be repaid?’

  ‘I cannot hazard a guess at that… not without a deal more thought upon the matter, at least. You be correct: slaying your debtors makes little sense. Moreover, I cannot imagine the old man could kill two fit and able younger men. We know at least a pair of felons were involved, one to hold the victim still as he was tortured by the other. If Mallard hired men to do his dirty work, that would cost him. Such as they be unlikely to do the deed without payment. Mallard would lose rather than make money. I remain unconvinced that he be involved in the murders. Besides, he had just commissioned Guy Linton to paint another portrait of his son’s family. Why would he do that, if he planned to have him killed?’

  ‘To allay suspicion, mayhap?’ Thaddeus’ earlobe was turning crimson betwixt his fingertips – so much thought was doing the appendage no good at all. ‘You’re the clever one here, Seb. You’ll have to solve this puzzle also, as you did the mystery of the pigments. I’m relying on you.’

  ‘You put much upon me, then. I can make no promise not to disappoint you. I have not the knack of knowing other men’s minds. However, I believe there be another path yet to be explored.’

  ‘Oh. And what is that?’

  ‘Rest assured, my friend, I shall inform you as soon as I know myself.’

  In truth, I did have the seed of an idea but it was by no means ready to be shared and, unfortunately, its further growth might require that I spoke with my brother, Jude, if I could determine his whereabouts.

  The Foxley House

  Back at Paternoster Row, the dinner hour was long gone but dearest Rose had kept a platter aside for me upon a shelf in the larder, where the dog and cat could not help themselves. Afore I should eat, being so hot and dusty, I unlaced my jerkin to give it a good shaking, out in the yard. As I shook it, something flew out, catching the light, then pattered on the cobbles. I searched and found it, washing it in the water trough. Of all things, it was a fine, polished emerald stone, much the size of my smallest fingernail. It must have lodged in my clothing when Mallard’s treasure chest fell upon my head. Such a thing of exquisite beauty, I would show it to the others afore I returned it to Thaddeus.

  Whilst I ate, the workshop being closed for the holy day and kitchen labours abandoned for now, Rose, Adam, Kate, Ralf and Nessie sat at the board with me, to harken to my tale of that morn’s affairs. Much laughter ensued when I told of the little box of jewels falling on me but all fell silent, gazing upon the emerald. It winked, green as a cat’s eye, in the palm of my hand.

  ‘Are you going to keep it?’ Adam asked, turning it in his fingers so the light shone through it. ‘Is this payment for your time and trouble, assisting Thaddeus? I reckon you deserve it.’

  ‘Deserve? Mayhap, I have earned some recompense but hardly this. It must be worth… I know not how much but a thousand times more than the few groats I have earned this day. Besides, it belongs, by rights, to Clement Mallard.’

  ‘And did he ever come by it rightly? I doubt the devil did. Why should he have it and not you? And you say there were plenty more in the box. He won’t miss just one. Anyhow, when he’s hanged as a usurer, he isn’t going to know nor have any use for it, is he?’

  ‘Adam, do not tempt me. Such beauty of colour does hold much appeal for me, I admit, but what would I do with it? I should likely donate it to a godly cause, but it be not mine to give. I shall return it to Thaddeus in all honesty, as I said.’ I folded the stone within a clean napkin and put it in the midst of the board whilst I finished my platter of bacon dumplings and green peas, fresh from the pod.

  The others departed to their chosen pursuits for the afternoon. Adam set off for Smithfield, to the archery contest, taking Kate along to watch the horse racing. I noted that she took her drawing stuff too – a conscientious lass, indeed. Ralf said he would likely join them later, in company with Joanie Alder. Rose and Nessie left with Dickon, intent upon joining Mercy Hutchinson and taking all the children to the horse fair.

  I sat, finishing my ale, enjoying the quietude of an empty house, yet my hand kept straying to the napkin, opening it to reveal the gem, then coving it again. It was, indeed, a fascinating colour that called to my artist’s nature. I determined I must put it out of sight – aye, and temptation’s way – within the aumbry in my bedchamber, to keep it safely until it could be returned to the bailiff.

  In the chamber I used to share with my beloved, I opened back the heavy-framed image of the Virgin that served to conceal our secret place, intending to add the emerald to the valuables within. I would not carry it about my person, fearing to lose it. Here I kept Em’s sapphire wedding ring, the pearl brooch I had purchased, intending to give it to her in celebration of the birth of our second child. Of course, she had ne�
��er received it. Our supply of gold and silver leaf, as well as monies saved from my commissions and the surplus coin which, last week, could not fit into the bag in the parlour chimney – all were stored here.

  Except that they were not. The aumbry was empty but for a single scrap of silver leaf which floated out upon a draught as I opened the little door.

  What a fool was I to expect otherwise!

  Years since, Jude had been the one who discovered our miserly old master’s hiding place. As my brother knew the secret and had slept in my bed these nights past, why would he not take all it contained when I told him to go? He had already taken every penny from the parlour chimney. Why did I dare hope he might refrain from taking all the rest? Did he realise his thievery left us penniless? Could he be so heartless as that?

  I sat upon my neatly-made bed, yet clutching the emerald in the napkin. What was I to do? I confess I did no better than succumb to despair, weeping bitter, angry tears.

  Chapter 16

  Thursday afternoon

  Around the City

  That afternoon, with Gawain by my side, I visited all my brother’s favoured haunts of old, in search of him or tidings of some kind as to where he and Chesca might have found lodgings. At first, I was so angered, I could hardly think what I would do, if I discovered him, other than have it out with him, fists and cudgels, or whatever came to hand in that moment. Such a foolish notion. As my anger began to cool and ebb away, I realised how absurd that would be. Jude would have me at his mercy afore I could recite a single Ave Maria and I should have naught but bruises to show for my misguided challenge. I might have more success, if I went to him, holding out my begging bowl, in hope of some morsel of charity. Not that that was likely to prove worthwhile either. Jude was ne’er the giving kind, not of his coin, leastwise.