Butchery: A Mystery of Tudor London Read online

  Part 2: Shank and shin

  “Whoe’er has gone thro’ London Street,

  Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat,

  And how he keeps

  Gloating upon a sheep’s

  Or bullock’s personals, as if his own;

  How he admires his halves

  And quarters—and his calves,

  As if in truth upon his own legs grown;—

  His fat! his suet!

  His kidneys peeping elegantly thro’ it!

  His thick flank!

  And his thin!

  His shank!

  His shin!

  Skin of his skin, and bone too of his bone!”

  -- Thomas Hood, A butcher

  Saturday morning, May 19, 1550

  George Harwood and his staff were hard at work in the shop by eight o'clock. Saturday morning was the busiest time of the week, but George normally tried to get the shop closed by midday if he could. This Saturday he had promised to have boots ready for a number of prominent customers, so George was not pleased when a liveried coachman burst into the shop out of the rain and disturbed everybody.

  Despite the drama of his entrance, the man seemed unsure what to say. “I'm sorry, Master Cordwainer,” he whined, playing with the sleeves of his jacket and looking at his feet. “Sir John wishes to see you immediately. He told me to tell you that the security of the City was at stake.” He paused, as George raised an eyebrow. “Honestly. He really did say that.”

  George looked the young man up and down. “And what have I, a humble boot-maker, to do with the security of the City?” He asked, although he knew perfectly well what the visit was about.

  “I couldn't say, to be sure.” The man tried to straighten himself up. “All I know is that Sir John said that you should attend him at your earliest convenience.”

  “Oh?” Asked George. “Those were his exact words, were they?”

  “Well...” the coachman fiddled with his jacket again. “What he actually said was: get that tight-arsed constable here right away, using your whip if you have to.”

  George grinned. “I commend your frankness, good fellow. Tell Sir John I'll be with him directly.”

  “With respect, Master, he said to bring you in the coach.”

  There was a chuckle from behind him the shop. “Going up in the world, Master Jack,” one of the older youths remarked.

  George sighed. “Oh, very well.” To the men in the shop he said: “Carry on. I'll be no more than an hour.” He nodded to the groom and they left the shop grumpily.

  Sheriff John York's coach was standing in Gracechurch street, a short walk from George's shop. Coaches were still a novelty in London; most people who could afford a horse rode on horseback or sat on a cart. Coaches were regarded as a French affectation, and George shook his head disapprovingly at it. People walking passed looked it over with either frank interest or disdain. The groom politely opened the door, helped George into the dim interior, then took his seat at the front of the coach, outside in the driver's position. As he pulled the door shut behind him, George was mildly surprised to see Sir John himself sitting in the darkness. He had both his hands atop an ornately carved walking stick, and was resting head on his hands as if half asleep. He was a thin, almost gaunt man, and rather lost in his expensive, fur-lined gown. As George sat down opposite him, Sir John raised his head, gave him a thin smile, and said: “I know you're a busy man Master Harwood, and I hope you'll appreciate that I've come to see you in person, rather than dragging you off to Walbrook and away from your home and hearth.”

  George raised an eyebrow and said nothing. He noted that, despite his show of consideration, Sir John had decided to stay in his coach rather than braving the ankle-deep horse dung in Gracechurch Street. Sir John sighed, and continued: “Master Harwood, do you know the difference between a gang of angry butcher's apprentices, and a rebellious militia?”

  George thought for a moment. “Not very much?” he hazarded.

  “Not very much, indeed. Big, strong bastards with their own weapons -- weapons they practice with every day at work. And do you know how many butchers and, more importantly, butchers' men and apprentices, are currently employed in this putrid flea-pit of a city?”

  “I don't have the first idea, Sir John.” George replied. “Quite a few, I would imagine.”

  Sir John smiled. “A man of understatement, as always. By the Rood, aye, a great many. London consumes a vast amount of meat. It is, in many ways, a great mechanism for turning animals into food. Butchery is essential to the smooth running of the city, so we have another reason not to want to antagonize the damned cleaver men. The idea of Londoners without at least two meat meals a day hardly bears thinking about.”

  George stared out of the coach window, as if unconcerned. Without looking at the Sheriff he said: “My wife thinks that too much meat disturbs the humours of the bowels. We live on bread and nuts. I only get meat at coronations.”

  “Well, Master Harwood,” replied York drily, “it's my job to ensure that you don't get flesh on your dinner table any time soon. I hope you take my meaning.” The men stared at each other. George looked away first.

  “I'm not entirely sure where I come into this, Master Sheriff.”

  “Oh, I think you know well enough. There was a...” York considered his words. “A disturbance last night. Did you know?”

  “There are disturbances most nights, I believe. A worse disturbance than usual, you mean?”

  “Well, nobody wants to use the word 'riot'. His grace the Young King does not like riots. The incident we won't call a riot started somewhere around the Newgate meat market. Nobody is sure quite why yet. Dozens of men were involved, perhaps hundreds.”

  George scowled. “Surely you aren't asking me to impose myself on another parish? I'm spread pretty thinly with your extra commissions already. I do have a business to run, you know.”

  “Nay, not this time. Thankfully all the ringleaders are in custody, apart from the ones who are in the crypt.”

  “Dead?”

  “Is there a better reason for being in a crypt? One man died of stab wounds. Another was crushed when a cart fell on him. Quite a few other men were injured, and there was considerable property damage. At one point the fighting spread to Milk Street. As you know, that's within shrieking distance of the Guildhall.”

  “I'll bet their worships weren't very happy about that.”

  “Quite so. Anyway, it turns out that most of the casualties were butchers. They were set upon outside an alehouse by a large gang of men of no particular guild -- we don't really know why. We do know that tempers are particularly short at the moment, and that the wretched butchers seem to be both the instigators, and the victims, of more violent attacks than usual. And that brings me to your mystery corpse.”

  “I thought it might.” George nodded glumly.

  “As you know, the Corporation does not concern itself with isolated crimes, even murders. We rely on the parishes to police themselves, and bring offenders before the courts, when they can be found.”

  “And if they can't be found, you take it out on the poor constables.”

  The Sheriff shrugged. “For better or worse, that's the way England has always worked. This present case is different, however. A rumour is spreading that a butcher brutally killed the man whose body was found in Eastcheap, and somebody should be bringing him to justice, but nobody is.”

  George started to speak, but York raised his hand. “I know, you've already told me that there's no compelling reason to think that a butcher is responsible, but the nature of the wounds does rather fire people's imaginations. Most people are blaming the butchers, understandably enough. The butchers are blaming incomers, although I'm not sure why. Some people are saying the man was murdered by a fiend from an inner circle of Hell.”

  George scowled. “God's nails! People blamed devilry when Giles the mason was crushed under a wall he was building last year. It turned out that there was too much sa
nd in the mortar. Some folk are still gossiping as if it were suspicious, even though half the bloody building has since fallen down. The Lord alone knows why. We've got enough human villainy without blaming diabolical influences.”

  “Maybe so. I'm not sure why this particular murder has roused people the way it has -- brutal crimes are hardly rare in the City. Perhaps it's the ferocity of the attack, or perhaps it was just the wrong time? In any case, we need to hang some bastard for it, and the sooner we do it, the better.”

  “I take it you'd prefer to hang somebody who's actually guilty?”

  York narrowed his eyes. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that. The Corporation isn't entirely without ethics you know. I must admit, there are plenty of petty villains in the City's compters who could usefully have their necks stretched, and it's certainly tempting to dispose of a couple.” Seeing George's sour look, Sir John smiled. “Don't worry Master Harwood -- I value my immortal soul. In any case, in this matter justice has to be seen to be done. Have you and Master Whyte made any progress?”

  Briefly, George described what they had discovered so far, such as it was.

  “So you still have no idea who the dead man was?” York asked when George had finished.

  “Nay. So far nobody has claimed him. His appearance -- what was left of it -- was not distinctive, nor were his clothes. I imagine that's why people have got the idea that he's a vagrant, newly-arrived. Anybody else would be missed, at least by one or two people.”

  “Even vagrants don't normally arrive alone, do they?”

  George scowled -- the sheriff was quite right. But he said: “They might, if they're on the run from somebody.”

  “Could it be that the only people who would notice him missing were the ones who killed him?”

  “That's always a possibility.”

  “So what do you propose to do?” Asked York.

  “To be honest, Sir John, I propose to leave it to Tom Whyte. He's got a nose for this sort of thing. I'm better at the kind of policing where the culprit is found standing over the victim with a bloody knife.”

  “Well, tell him that if he needs any help, he only has to ask me. There's a bunch of idle fellows sitting around at the Guildhall with nothing to do. A few days of house-to-house enquiries might keep them out of mischief.”

  “Well, Master Sheriff, if you're offering manpower, it would leave me more time for this case if you men could help out with one of my others.”

  Briefly George explained the murder of Jane Allard and the unsuccessful search for her missing husband. The sheriff nodded, and said: “I'll get some men to ask around the district this afternoon. I'll have someone report to your house if they come up with anything.”

  York paused, and then looked slightly uncomfortable. He fiddled with the top of his walking stick. “In the meantime, Master Harwood, there's the business of Richard Long's son. I don't need to tell you how little the family like me meddling in what they see as nobody's business but their own.”

  George sighed. “Tom thinks Peter Long was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” York leaned back on his seat. “So Doctor Meredith was right to be suspicious?” He sucked in a breath and looked at the coach roof. Finally, he continued: “Can you investigate without irritating the family too much?”

  George scowled. “I can't think of many things more likely to irritate Sir Richard than asking him if he knows who might have poisoned his son.”

  “Just don't antagonize him unnecessarily, that's all.”

  George thought about his plan to tackle Sir Richard at his son's wake, and grinned slightly to himself.

  Saturday afternoon, May 19, 1550

  Walbrook, which ran from Poultry at its northern end to Candlewick Street at its southern, was an affluent street, home to some of the City's wealthiest families. The thoroughfare itself was broad and cobbled, with room for two large carts to pass side-by-side -- which they frequently did, horses' hooves kicking up wet dung as they passed. Many of the properties, including the one occupied by Sheriff York, were walled -- in a city where bread shops and brothels stood side-by-side with the homes of Privy Councillors, those who could afford it guarded what little privacy was available.

  Thomas stood outside St Stephen's church with his cloak pulled over his hat to keep out the drizzle, until he saw George Harwood walking towards him. The two men nodded to one another and started walking south along Walbrook to the Long house. As they walked, George told Thomas about his meeting with the sheriff that morning.

  Long was a wealthy, influential man, and his three-story house was unusual, being built of brick, rather than stone. A further brick wall surrounded the courtyard, in which horses were being tended by rain-soaked, dishevelled grooms. Two carts and a number of other horses were standing in the street outside the house.

  “At least the weather's in keeping with the occasion,” grumbled George. He looked around the courtyard. “Not much of a turn-out, though.”

  Thomas and George picked their way between the horses and banged on the heavy oak door. They were admitted into the entrance hall by a sour-faced, young groom wearing a black mourning gown over his livery. He took their cloaks without speaking, and led them into a large, oak-panelled dining hall, where mourners were talking gloomily and nibbling cold meats. The walls were hung with tapestries, and a rich, dark green carpet ran down the middle of the hall from one end to another. From the ceiling, huge iron chandeliers hung by chains, each loaded with hundreds of beeswax candles. In the middle of one of the longer walls was a brick fireplace in which a family could have lived, but which was presently occupied only by a small fire that burned cheerlessly.

  Neither George nor Thomas recognized any of the people present, but George knew Sir Richard by sight and didn't see even him. He stopped the groom as he was about to walk away, and said: “Is Sir Richard here?”

  “I'm sorry, Masters,” the groom replied, “he said he didn't want to be disturbed. He's very upset, as you can imagine.”

  “Yes, I can understand that.” George was insistent. “But we've been sent by Sheriff York. It's very important that we see Sir Richard right away.” He declined to mention the Sheriff's instruction to avoid harassing the family unnecessarily.

  The young man looked surprised, but said nothing. For a moment he looked as if he was about to speak, but then he nodded and said brusquely: “This way, then.” He turned and walked towards the far end of the hall. Thomas and George exchanged glances, the followed the groom. He led them to the other end of the hall. There he knocked on the door of a small parlour, and opened it carefully. In the room two men sat in chairs by a low table, talking in low voices. Thomas was disagreeably surprised to find that one was Stephen Caldwell. The other, a sturdy, ashen-faced man, he assumed was Sir Richard.

  As George and Thomas entered the parlour, before the groom could even explain their presence, Caldwell leaped to his feet, knocking the table with his knees.

  “You've got a bloody nerve, Harwood,” he snarled. “This is a wake, man!”

  George ignored him, and addressed the seated man. “Sir Richard, I'm very sorry about your son. I won't intrude any more than I have to but the Sheriff...”

  “The Sheriff be damned!” interrupted Caldwell. “Even York wouldn't be so impertinent.” He stood with his fists on his hips, red face jutting forward.

  Sir Richard looked up at the arguing men without much interest and sighed deeply.

  “It's all right, Stephen,” he said, shaking his head slowly. He looked at George. “Let's get it over with. York isn't going to leave me alone until he thinks I've been hounded enough.”

  Caldwell glowered, but sat down, still glaring.

  George turned back to Sir Richard. “Sir, the Sheriff asked me to look into the circumstances of your son's death. He would have preferred a coroner's inquiry, but I understand you were against that?”

  Long turned his red-rimmed eyes towards George; his grief was very apparent in his face. “I was aga
inst it, aye,” he replied. Declining to explain why, he continued: “From what Stephen tells me, I gather you're a constable in St Margaret's. Who is your associate?” He nodded his head at Thomas.

  George introduced Thomas, and added: “Master Whyte is an ex-constable and a confidante of Sheriff York.”

  Long scrutinized Thomas carefully for a while, then sighed. “I just wanted to get my poor boy buried. Surely you can understand that?” He rubbed his eyes, then rested his face on his hands. Thomas and George exchanged glances.

  “I understand he suffered from a heart problem?” Thomas prompted Long gently. Long nodded, but did not look up. Thomas continued: “Master Meredith told me he did not think it was serious.”

  “Oh, what does he know?” Long exclaimed, looking up suddenly. “He's not a physician. Our doctors told me that Peter would always be at risk, and could die unexpectedly at any time. We dreaded this day, but it was hardly unexpected.”

  “And was he unwell just before he died?” Thomas asked.

  “Somewhat,” replied Long, guardedly. “He complained to me of pains in his chest a few days before. He was often troubled in that way.”

  “Was it you who found his body?” asked Thomas.

  “Nay, one of my men found him -- William. William Holt, that is. He was taking Peter his breakfast, and found him dead in his bed.”

  “May we speak to this man?” asked George.

  “Whatever for?” interjected Caldwell, sneering at George. “Isn't Sir Richard's word good enough for you?”

  “Aye, Constable,” said Long, looking from Caldwell to George. “What would be gained by that? William ran directly to fetch me. He didn't see anything I didn't see.”

  “Sometimes fellows see things, and don't realize what they've seen until they're asked,” replied George doggedly.

  “Constable, there are no suspicious circumstances here!” Long almost wailed. “My poor son simply died of his illness, whatever the sheriff thinks. Peter was always somewhat frail, as I said. I don't want you disturbing my family with your questions. And, in any case, William is no longer in my household.”

  George and Thomas looked at Long in surprise -- recalcitrant servants were often disciplined, sometimes harshly, but putting a man out of his home was unusual.

  Seeing their expressions, Long continued: “I've found him a place on one of my ships. He has enough money for his lodging until she sails.”

  “Might I ask why, Sir?” asked Thomas.

  “He had forgotten his place, not that this is any of your business, either. I've had reason to reprimand him in the past, but this time he was insolent to my wife as well as myself. ”

  “How is your wife taking Peter's death, Sir?” asked Thomas.

  “Bloody hard, of course!” shouted Long. “How do you think? She's scarcely roused herself from her bed since Peter died. So if you're wondering whether you can speak to her, the answer is 'no'. Not while there's breath in my body.” Long paused, and continued more quietly: “I doubt you'd get any sense from her anyway.”

  “Was Peter involved in your business ventures, Sir?” asked George.

  Long shook his head, sadly. “Nay, he had no head for trade. These days Edmund and Ralph run the business.”

  “Your other sons?”

  “Aye. Good, solid lads, both of them. They'll do very well for themselves.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. Long caught the implication of the gesture, and said, hastily: “Peter was a good lad, too -- he just thought business dull. I was the same at his age.”

  “If he wasn't involved in your business, Sir Richard,” asked Thomas carefully, “what did he do all day?”

  Long sighed, and smiled ruefully. “The same kind of thing that other young men do when they don't have to make their own living -- loiter in taverns with their friends; gamble at cards and dice; other less salubrious activities that we didn't talk about.”

  “Did he have any enemies?” asked George.

  Long looked at him sharply. “Certainly not!”

  “You seem very sure,” said Thomas.

  Long hesitated. “I can't think of anybody who would want to kill him, if that's what you're getting at. He might have owed some money -- but I hardly think his gambling cronies would risk coming into my house and murder him, if that's what you're suggesting.”

  “Indeed not,” agreed George. “They'd pay one of your staff to do it. That's the good old London way.”

  Caldwell jumped up again, his face turning red. “This is outrageous!”

  George nodded, unhappily. “I'm sorry, Sir Richard. I'm just doing my job.”

  “It isn't your job, Harwood,” Caldwell persisted. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

  “But I do,” Thomas interrupted gently, “on commission from the Sheriff.”

  Long stood up, and began walking to the door. “So I understand. But I've told you all I can. I'd like you to leave, now.”

  “Just one more thing, Sir Richard, if I may,” said Thomas. “Do you keep any opium in the house?”

  Long did not seem unduly surprised by the question. He answered immediately: “Nay, I don't. I can't be certain that one of the servants doesn't have some, but nobody in my family uses it. Now, if that's all, good day to you. Stephen -- would you please see the Constable and his colleague out?”

  “My pleasure,” Caldwell answered nastily. He stood up and strutted to the door which he held open. As soon as George and Thomas were outside the parlour, he said: “I'm sure you can find your own way out of the house.” Then he slammed the door on them.

  As they walked back along the green carpet, Thomas whispered to George: “The rector, Doctor Meredith, said that the house had an oppressive atmosphere. He tried to sound me out about what I thought of witchcraft as an explanation.”

  “He wasn't seriously suggesting...”

  “Nay, Jack. I suppose he was just worried that an impressionable person might be drawn to think along those lines.”

  George looked around. “I guess you don't see a household at its best after a funeral. But I would guess that this is never a jolly house. I wonder why?”

  George and Thomas found the groom who had let them in, and introduced themselves as he led them to the small room where he had hung their cloaks. The servant gave his name as Robert Greville. He retrieved the cloaks but seemed rather hesitant to led them go.

  “Is there something you want to tell us, Robert?” asked Thomas quietly. “Earlier you looked as if you had something on your mind.” Thomas looked around, but nobody else seemed to be nearby.

  “Nay, Masters. It's just...” His lined, dour face looked even sadder than before. He sighed. “Peter was my friend.” He looked for a reaction from the older men, but both continued to look at him impassively. Robert Greville continued: “I know, I know; I'm just a servant. But I was born in this house, just a year after Peter. My father was Sir Richard's valet until he died last year. We were tutored together, Peter and I. I'm loyal to Sir Richard, of course, but...”

  “But something about Peter's death bothers you?” asked Thomas.

  The groom looked around nervously.

  “It's all right,” Thomas reassured him. “We won't tell anybody you told us.”

  Robert bit his lip, and nodded slightly. “We've been told that we knew he was ill, if you know what I mean. Sir Richard was most insistent that we knew he was ill.”

  “Well, the rector, Doctor Meredith, confirmed that Peter had a heart condition.”

  “He sometimes had chest pains and got short of breath; it started after a fever when he was a child. It was worse in winter, when the weather was cold and damp. It never troubled him very much these days, and never in summer.”

  “Nevertheless, people do sometimes succumb suddenly to illness,” Thomas suggested. “My father died from the sweating sickness -- he was well at dinner time, and dead before
supper. It happens.”

  “I know. But Sir Richard has been acting very strangely. I'm sure he knows who killed Peter, but wants to keep it quiet.”

  “I examined Peter's body,” said Thomas, “I don't think he met his end violently. He was unmarked.”

  Robert shrugged. “I understand that there are other ways to kill a man; ways that don't leave a mark?”

  “You're suggesting that somebody suffocated him?” Thomas asked. The groom shrugged.

  “It's hard to smother a healthy man, Robert; not without signs of a struggle. And, even if you could, there would be signs -- blood in the mouth, that kind of thing. I didn't see anything like that.”

  “That isn't what I meant,” the groom said. Neither Thomas nor George replied. Robert continued doggedly: “There's talk of witchcraft.”

  “God's teeth!” George hissed. “Do you know anybody who would use witchcraft against Peter? Or had any reason to?”

  The groom looked at his feet wretchedly.

  “What can you tell me about Peter? Did you see much of him after childhood?” Thomas asked.

  Robert nodded. “He was always good company; liked sports and games. Of course, he was discouraged from associating with me, or with the other grooms. Sir Richard is a good master, but very conscious of his position.”

  “Did Peter gamble?”

  “Aye, often; not large sums, I think.”

  “Women?”

  Robert looked at Thomas nervously.

  “Don't worry -- I wasn't born yesterday,” said Thomas. “Sir Richard made it quite clear that Peter didn't wile away his evenings reading the Gospels.”

  Robert shrugged. “All young men of his station visit whores. You know that.”

  This was true. Prostitution was a thriving business in the City, despite the Corporation's efforts to suppress it. Repeated action against the stews of Southwark had only led to the working girls and their managers setting up business inside the walls instead. High-ranking parents often encouraged their unmarried sons to visit prostitutes, if the alternative was likely to be a hurried marriage to a milkmaid.

  “Any woman in particular?” Thomas asked.

  “Not that I know of.” He paused. “There have been rumours of Sir Richard arranging to marry him off to some young woman whose family has a title but no money. It's not something he would have discussed with me. Not these days, anyway.”

  “These days?”

  The groom looked uneasy. “He changed over the last year or so -- more surly, often rude to the servants and his family. It could be quite upsetting for those of us who had known him since we were all young.”

  Thomas thought about this. “What was he like, the few days before he died?”

  “Very short-tempered when we saw him -- but mostly we didn't see him. He just kept in his bedchamber.”

  “Not evidently unwell?”

  “Not that I noticed. And don't you think it's odd that Bill -- the man who found Peter dead -- has been sent away?”

  “It does indeed look peculiar,” admitted Thomas. “I'd really like to talk to this William Holt if I could. Do you know where he's gone?”

  “Nay,” sighed Robert, but he did not look Thomas in the eye when he spoke. “He was in a rage when he left. He didn't want to go to sea, but what choice did he have? What choice would any of us have if we were turned out?” He thought for a moment. “I suppose he'll stay in a tavern around here until his ship sails on Monday, or whenever the wind is favourable. He's pretty easy to spot -- short stocky man in his mid-twenties; clean-shaven.”

  “He doesn't sound very recognisable so far.”

  “Nay, but he's got a scar on his neck.” Robert pointed to his own neck, just below the left ear.

  “Where is the ship bound?”

  “Amsterdam, I believe.”

  “Then he'll likely be away for several months, at the least. We really need to find him before he sails.”

  The groom nodded. “If I see him, I'll tell him. But in truth I don't really expect to.”

  On a whim, Thomas asked: “Did you attend the funeral?”

  “Aye -- all the servants did.”

  Thomas caught a slightly odd tone. “All the servants? Not all the household?”

  “Mistress Long was unwell.”

  “And Sir Richard, and the brothers?”

  The groom shrugged uneasily. “I don't like to say.”

  Thomas stared at him, and then said: “I understand.” George looked at him quizzically, but Thomas shook his head slightly. George pulled a face at him, but kept his peace.

  At that moment, they heard a commotion in the grand hall, and looked around to see Beadle Caldwell tramping towards them at the head of a gaggle of rough-looking servants. “I thought you were told to leave?” he grunted. A large man, he easily took hold of George by his doublet and propelled him backwards towards the outer door. The other men surrounded Thomas and ushered him brusquely in the same direction.

  At the doorway, Thomas brushed himself down and scowled at Caldwell. “The Sheriff has charged me to investigate Peter's death.” George looked as if he was going to launch himself at Caldwell, but Thomas gently put a restraining hand in front of him. “With or without Sir Richard's agreement.”

  Caldwell sneered. “I'd advise you not to cross Sir Richard. Whatever York is paying you, it won't be enough.” With that, he pushed Thomas and George roughly out of the door and slammed it in their faces. The door opened again briefly for their cloaks to be thrown in their faces.

  When he had recovered his composure, George asked Thomas: “What was all that about the funeral? You know, the meaningful glances between you and young Robert there?”

  “Oh, it's just something that Master Meredith told me. The Long family are not big churchgoers -- hardly enough to avoid fines.”

  They walked towards the street. Quietly George asked: “Are you saying they're secret Romanists?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Missing Sunday service is one thing -- I don't have a perfect record myself. I bet you don't either.”

  George spoke indignantly: “Speak for yourself, Tom! I value my soul, and you should, too.”

  Thomas looked at George, surprised as always at this aspect of his friend's character.

  “Maybe so. But missing your own brother's funeral? You'd have to have a very deep objection to the New Religion for that.”

  “Do you think the family's religion is connected with Peter's death?” asked George.

  Thomas considered this as they walked along Walbrook towards Poultry. Finally he said: “I really don't know. I think we need to speak to this William Holt, although I don't have a clue where to start looking for him. I suspect that Robert Greville does know where he is, despite what he said.”

  George replied: “The sheriff did say he had men who could help, if it's just a case of searching the alehouses.”

  “I'm not sure that the sheriff's thugs are what we need here, and...” he nodded to his left, where a short, stout figure was approaching them briskly from a lane between two houses. “It appears we might have been spared the job of looking for him anyway.”

  As the man approached, they could see that he did indeed match the description given them by Robert Greville. When Holt was close enough for Thomas to see the scar on his neck, he growled a short message:

  “St Margaret's, nine o'clock, Sunday night.”

  Holt hurried on. “Wait!” Thomas called after him, but he disappeared into an alley. Thomas and George chased after him a short way, but it was soon clear that neither man was his match in a running race.

  “Well, what an intriguing coincidence,” panted Thomas, as he struggled to catch his breath. “It appears that our Goodman Holt has shopped his master. I wonder if Robert put him up to it?”

  Sunday morning, May 20, 1550

  Walter 'Gaffer' Shawe whistled tunelessly to himself as he roped a nearly-full barrel of everyday ale soundly onto the back of the cart. He looked at his handiwork with appr
oval, nodded, then removed the wooden ramps from the cart. Even at eight o'clock in the morning it was hot; Gaffer mopped his brown, leathery face; Harry swished his tail listlessly between the shafts, head down. Still, hot weather meant thirsty men, which meant more ale sold, which meant a bigger share of the proceeds for Gaffer Shawe. Selling ale at the archery butts on a Sunday morning was a tradition of the Whyte Hart, but one which Thomas and Katherine considered to be above the call of duty. The custom had therefore arisen that the staff who took part would split any profits with the inn. On a good day each person's share could amount to a week's pay, so there was never a shortage of volunteers when it was sunny.

  Since the job involved handling ale barrels, Gaffer had managed to appoint himself de facto manager of the enterprise. In deference to his age, he also had the privilege of riding in the cart with the barrel, while Thomas drove and anybody else who wanted to take part walked alongside. Today Thomas and Gaffer were accompanied by the maid, Mary Strope, who was small enough to have squeezed into the cart alongside Gaffer, had she wanted to. For various reasons, Mary preferred not to. In any case, riding a horse-drawn cart along the City's rutted streets was only slightly more comfortable than walking on them. Thomas, of course, had to show his face at the butts because archery practice was still, in principle, compulsory for all able-bodied men of military age. An increasing number of gentlemen were shirking this duty -- the new king was not as enthusiastic as the old one had been -- and Thomas thought that in a few years the practice of archery would have become a quaint historical tradition. Thomas would not have missed it -- he was no better an archer than he was a swordsman -- but the possibility of profit tempted Thomas to the butts in Moor Field even if the remote possibility of beating George Harwood -- a born archer -- at archery did not.

  As Thomas was climbing up onto the front seat of the cart, daydreaming happily about the demise of compulsory archery practice, Katherine strode into the courtyard. “You haven't forgotten I'm having dinner with Goodman Sumner this afternoon, have you?”

  “Not at all,” Thomas lied smoothly. “We'll manage without you until supper time, I'm sure.”

  “Well, see you in church, then,” she said, and added: “Don't shoot yourself in the foot” She turned back to the kitchen, then called over her shoulder: “Again.”

  “I didn't shoot myself,” Thomas retorted defensively. “I trod on an arrow -- anybody could have done it.”

  “Aye, but t'was you who did,” Katherine laughed, and sauntered back into the kitchen.

  Thomas clucked and gave the reins a brief flick, but Harry only turned his head and stared at him balefully. “Come on, old man,” Thomas cajoled. “There'll be a carrot in it for you.” Eventually the old horse condescended to walk on, but only with Mary sauntering in front holding an apple. Gaffer lay back in the cart and turned his face up to the welcome morning sunshine as they proceeded in a stately fashion along Bishopsgate Street.

  “Good job you didn't tell Mistress Katt where that arrow had been before it ended up in your foot, eh, Tom?” Gaffer called up from the cart.

  Thomas shuddered. English bowmen stuck their arrows points-down in the mud in preparation for shooting them. Not only did this keep them near at hand, it ensured that even a light scratch would likely prove fatal for an enemy, particularly if there was dung on the ground. The soil of Moor Field was only slightly more sanitary than most battlefields, as pigs and sheep grazed on it much of the time, and Thomas had been lucky to get away with nothing more than a mild fever. He replied: “It was my own bloody arrow I trod on, so Katt was almost right -- as near as makes no difference, I did shoot myself.” Gaffer only chuckled.

  When they got to the butts there were already a few dozen men in attendance, and a number of women selling bread and cheese and other refreshments. Shooting a heavy longbow was hungry work, and pacing up and down the hundred-yard range with no shelter from the sun encouraged thirst. A few of their regular customers were already making their way to the cart and, as soon as it had come to a stop, Mary waved and began getting the tankards ready. One of the men was George Harwood, who sauntered up, bow in hand, wiping his brow on his sleeve. A set of nicely made arrows rested in a white cloth bag tied around his waist; an immaculately-wound spiral of thread held the brown and white feathers of each arrow in perfect lines on the shafts. George made them himself, using the same tools and methods he used for his boot-making, and was inordinately proud of his skill.

  “Nice day for it,” he said, lifting his cap and handing over a coin to Mary. He took the tankard she gave him and drained it. “It's going to be a scorcher later. Well met, Tom, Gaffer.” Gaffer waved back at him and smiled. Thomas continued struggling to free his bow and its bag from where they were stuck in the cart, cursing under his breath.

  “Here, let me,” said Mary, leaning over the side of the cart and flipping the bow bag out with one hand. She gave him a withering look. “The tie was was stuck on a wood splinter, as you'd have noticed if you'd stopped trying to pull the cart over onto its side.” Thomas poked his tongue out at her and began unpacking his bow and arrows from their linen covering. Realising that he'd forgotten his arrow bag again, he stuffed six, somewhat crooked arrows into his belt as George looked on with a grin. The arrows were tipped with three-inch long bodkin spikes that could -- in expert hands -- penetrate steel armour. Thomas wondered idly what Katt would say if he bent down carelessly and one got stuck in his thigh.

  At the row of straw target butts nearest the cart, men were arguing good-naturedly about whose shot had been closest the mark, and hunting about in the grass and mud for the inevitable lost arrows. Tankards of ale were placed behind some of the butts to keep them out of arrow's reach, and men stopped bickering long enough to refresh themselves before preparing for the next round.

  Thomas and George took up their stations on the shooting line with a group of three other men they knew slightly. The crowdedness of the City meant that most parishes did not have their own archery butts -- there just wasn't enough green land within the walls that didn't have something growing or grazing on it. So men of all parishes and stations met every Sunday in fields just outside the City gates.

  The far row of butts -- the targets for this round -- looked a long way off to Thomas, but a competent archer was expected to be able to hit the butt with every arrow. Each butt was a tied bale of straw about six feet tall and two feet wide, with a crudely painted bulls-eye at chest height. Thomas's experience of battlefield archery had taught him that accuracy was not a prized skill: the bowman's task was to create what amounted to a rain of arrows in the direction of the enemy. Nevertheless, many men prided themselves on their prowess with the longbow, particularly if they had never pointed one at anything that was likely to fight back.

  Thomas strung his bow with some difficulty; like most longbows its draw weight was about a hundred pounds. Old King Harry had set the fashion for bows that could only be drawn by someone with shoulders like Hercules, and for arrows as thick as broomsticks. Worse, in his younger days he could actually shoot one, and as well as anybody in the Kingdom.

  The archers stuck their arrows point-first in the ground, some making a show of rolling the points into the mud. Each man put one arrow to the string and waiting for the shoot captain to give the instruction to fire. On the shout, Thomas drew his bow about half-way and, with a grunt of effort, released the string. There was an unexpected musical sound from the string, and the other men watched as Thomas's arrow clattered uselessly to the ground at his feet. He stared down at it. They looked at him speechlessly for a few seconds, then burst out laughing.

  Thomas gave them a haughty look. “Next one dead centre -- you'll see.”

  The next one landed about half way to the butt.

  Thomas's other four arrows ended up at least within arm's reach of a butt, but not necessarily the one he was aiming at.

  As the men strolled down the field to collect their arrows, Thomas asked George: “Did the sheriff's
men have any success finding the missing butcher? The one who killed his wife?”

  George bent down to retrieve Thomas's stray arrow and handed it to him. “No points for that one, I think.” He grinned, then continued: “Allard? No sign so far. But to be honest I wasn't really expecting him to be found. That reminds me -- one of us still has to talk to the Wilkes brothers in the compter.”

  Thomas slapped his forehead. “God's teeth! I meant to do that yesterday.” They reached the butts and begun hunting for Thomas's arrows. “I'll try to go tomorrow. Do you have the letter from the Alderman for me?” After a brief argument about whether an arrow still scored if it hit the centre of the wrong target -- apparently it did not -- they walked back to their own butt, where all six of George's arrows were neatly arranged in a tight circle.

  “Show-off!” said Thomas.

  George grinned. “I just imagine it's a customer who won't pay his bill. Sorry, I'll get Bob to bring the letter round later.”

  To increase the amount of time spent shooting, and reduce that spent walking, the butts were arranged in rows at both ends of the field. Once they had shot in one direction, the men would turn around and shoot back to the end of the field from which they had come. This had the disadvantage of allowing the spectators a disconcertingly clear view of whose arrows had ended up in the mud. After the next round, in which Thomas managed a marginally more adequate performance, he said: “Jack, what did the Allard girl's neighbours tell you about the night she was murdered?”

  “Probably murdered,” George reminded him dogmatically. “We're not entirely certain when it happened.”

  “Probably murdered, aye.” They walked to the other end of the field.

  “They said they heard a man's voice, or possibly voices, that's all.” George thought for a while. “Other than her husband, they had no idea why anybody would kill her. I got a vague impression that they knew more than they were prepared to tell me, but that's not unusual. Why do you ask?”

  The men hunted for arrows again but, happily, this time all Thomas's were nearer his own target than the neighbouring one.

  “I've got an idea where Allard is,” Thomas replied.

  “Oh, where?”

  “Nowhere we'll find him, Jack.”

  “Tom, stop pissing about! What are you thinking?”

  “I'll tell you if I'm right. If I'm wrong, it will be too embarrassing.”

  George scowled. “Have it your way, Tom, but don't forget you've got two cases to follow up already, and this one is supposed to be mine. Unless you think there's a connection to the dead man in Eastcheap?”

  “I'm sure there's some connection. But I really need to find out more about what happened the night Allard's wife died.”

  The next round was delayed while the archers waited for a man to retrieve a pig which had escaped from its pen and run onto the archery range. After the inevitable jokes about bacon for supper, the instruction to fire was given, and this time one of Thomas' arrows even hit the target. He gave a little whoop and punched the air, while George looked on tolerantly. As the archers made the long trek to the far butts, George said: “By all means speak to the Allards' neighbours again, if you think you'll get anything out of them.”

  “Maybe they'll speak to somebody who isn't official.”

  George nodded. “Maybe. Worth a try, anyway. Let me know if you find anything.” They strolled the rest of the way in silence, then George said: “Oh, I forget to tell you -- Peter Chilton...”

  “The young man the Wilkes brothers beat up?”

  “That's the one. I spoke to his father yesterday. It seems he's still barely conscious. The family won't let me see him.”

  “Will he live?” asked Thomas.

  “The doctor says he has a compression of the brain. Even if he lives, he'll never be the same man. I just thought you might like to break the good news to the Wilkes boys when you see them. Tell them I'm measuring the rope, whether the bastards can read or not.”

  After six rounds of arrows, in which Thomas managed to score a total of two hits, George packed away his arrows fastidiously and they strolled back to the cart. Gaffer was dozing with his head resting on the ale barrel -- he may have shot a few arrows with a borrowed bow, but probably not. Mary sat nearby on the grass talking, and occasionally giggling, with a group of other young women. As Thomas walked up she called out: “Nice shooting Master Tom! I'll bet the King sleeps better in his bed, knowing that you're on hand if the French invade.”

  “It's this old bow,” Thomas grumbled, waving it. “It pulls to the left.”

  “Pulls to the right as well, if you ask me,” Mary replied. “And up, and down.” She stood up and dusted down her kirtle. “Still, at least you're coming home in one piece this time. Mistress Katt will be pleased. Are we leaving?”

  Thomas replied: “In an few minutes. I've just got a few things to sort out with the constable.” He filled two tankards from the barrel, handed one to George, and led him away from the spectators. “We need to talk about tonight.”

  George sipped his ale whilst watching the archery with the interest of a man who had never had to shoot a bow whilst knee-deep in wet horse dung, and five hundred angry Frenchmen bearing down on him. “Young John Carter has good a good eye, hasn't he? I don't think he's missed a single shot all morning. Sorry, Tom, you were saying?” He nodded appreciatively.

  “The message we got from Sir Richard's disgruntled groom. Or sailor, as he now is, I suppose.”

  George watched the archery for a moment, then he frowned. “I suppose it's going to be some clandestine religious service, isn't it? Do we have to get involved?” He scowled. “I hate meddling in people's religious affairs, even Catholics.”

  Thomas nodded. “I'm not particularly bothered if Sir Richard kisses the Pope's arse.” Seeing George's look, he added hurriedly: “Not that I'd say that to anybody except you, of course. I'm just curious whether we'll find out something about Peter's death.”

  George turned his attention back to the archery. “I can't come Tom. You know why.”

  “I know,” Thomas replied. “St Margaret's is in your ward. If they're holding unlawful rites there, you'll have to take action.”

  George continued to watch the archery. “I've known Master Beresford for years. Despite his sour attitude, he's a decent priest and a good man. He's a vicar, not a rector, and you know what that means. He only gets a meagre part of the parish tithes, and with that he has to keep up the church and its environs, and pay the sexton, his curate, and a bunch of other officials. But I've seen him tending a house full of people dying of the sweats, when nobody else would even bring the poor devils a cup of ale. I know he wasn't keen on the reforms, and he was devastated when the church was stripped. He's not exactly circumspect about his feelings, but I don't want to find anything against him officially. If I find out, and don't take action, then I'll be at risk myself.”

  “It's fine Jack -- I don't mind going myself. I don't expect any danger. Do you want to know what I find out?”

  “Only if it concerns the Long boy's death. Otherwise, not really, to be honest.”

  “I understand,” Thomas said. He looked around. “We'd better get moving, anyway. Wouldn't want to be late for church.”

  The men sauntered back to the cart. Mary had roused Gaffer, who was knocking on the ale barrel proprietorially. “Are we going back to the inn, Master Tom, or straight to St Peter's?” asked Mary.

  “We'd better go to the inn first -- I got told off for leaving Harry and the cart outside the church last time.” He picked up the purse of money and shook it; it was satisfyingly weighty. “Besides, we need to get the takings locked up safely in the coffer.”

  “'Tis a shame you've finished shooting, then, Tom,” called Gaffer over his shoulder. “Safest place in town is in front of your target.” The others groaned -- they'd heard variants of this joke before, and Gaffer never wasted an opportunity to use it.

  As they packed up, Thomas overhead Mary chat
ting with another girl. “You'll never guess what he did last time, I was here, Liz.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Stubbed his foot on his own broken arrow. Point went in an inch. Didn't half howl when we pulled it out.”

  “Ouch!”

  “Aye. Mistress Katt gave him a right ballocks.” She lowered her voice. “You should've heard them Liz -- rowing like an old married couple they were.”

  The other girl chuckled. “It's odd, though, isn't it?”

  “What is?”

  “Your master and mistress not being husband and wife.”

  There was a pause while Mary thought about this. Eventually she replied: “We don't really think about it. They're like a married couple in all respects except the obvious one.”

  The girls giggled. Liz asked: “But do you think they've ever -- you know?”

  Mary blushed. “Fie! Liz, for shame, of course not!” She paused. “I can tell they both want to -- it's obvious --”

  At this point the girl put their heads together, whispering, and Thomas heard no more but for the occasional suppressed guffaw. Uncharacteristically, he found himself blushing, and hoped nobody else had overhead. He had never really examined his own feelings for Katherine, and he didn't intend to start doing so now -- this was altogether too dangerous ground. And he certainly didn't want other people to start doing it for him.

  Thomas walked in front of Mary and Liz just as Mary's voice rose. “-- when they're working in the kitchen or something, their hands are always brushing against each other, as if --”

  Thomas stopped short. That wasn't true, was it? He coughed, then shot Mary a dark look, and she said reddened. “Oops.”

  “What's that?” The other girl asked.

  “I'll tell you later, Liz.”

  “Not today you won't, girl,” interjected Thomas, pulling a face. “The bells are ringing. We've got to get this cart home.”

  Sunday evening, May 20, 1550

  It was a clear evening, and the warmth of the day had given way to a chilly night. At half past nine, Thomas stood huddled in his cloak by the walls of St Margaret's churchyard, breath frosting in the dying light. He had already seen a few hooded figures furtively enter the church, apparently unnoticed in the deserted streets. His presence was unofficial, and he did not want to be spotted by a watchman -- he could not explain his presence without casting suspicion on the priest and, indirectly, on George.

  Judging the the last person had entered the church, Thomas walked slowly up to the closed door and put his ear to it. He was not very surprised to hear the priest intoning in a low voice.

  “Quærens me, sedisti lassus:

  Redemisti Crucem passus:

  Tantus labor non sit cassus.

  Iuste iudex ultionis,

  Donum fac remissionis

  Ante diem rationis.”

  The dies irae, thought Thomas; day of wrath. Wrath there could well be -- not the wrath of God that the liturgy promises, but the wrath of Archbishop Cranmer if he finds out. Thomas listened quietly. Although he hadn't heard the Roman funeral mass said for years, he remembered the words. Thanks to his father's insistence on schooling, he even knew what some of them meant. Thomas stood quietly until he heard:

  “Anima eius et animae omnium fidelium defunctorum per Dei misericordiam requiescant in pace.”

  He expected the visitors to slip quietly away, but in fact they talked in low voices to the priest for a few minutes, while Thomas shivered gently outside the door. He could not make out what the voices were saying, but he decided it was time to get away from the doorway. By the time he heard the front door rattle, it was almost completely dark, and Thomas had to duck down behind a headstone as the visitors passed. He recognized Sir Richard Long in the dim light from the church doorway, and presumed that the pale, drawn woman walking unsteadily by his side was his wife. There were about a dozen other people whom he did not recognize. As the last of them passed his hiding place, he silently ran the few paces to the church door, and inserted his foot against the frame. The vicar started back abruptly when he found the door would not close, and Thomas slipped quietly inside, index finger pressed to his lips. The priest's mouth made a tight line, but he stepped back reluctantly, and put his head out of the door to look around. Satisfied he pulled the door closed and locked it.

  Inside the building another man was tidying up around the communion table, which Thomas supposed could now legitimately be described as an altar, despite being made of wood. It was covered with rich cloth, and decorated with silver artefacts. The man gave Thomas a baleful stare. Following Thomas' glance, the priest introduced him. “My sexton, Goodman Greene.”

  Thomas nodded genially at Greene, but the sexton's scowl did not relax. The priest crossed his arms defiantly, and glared at Thomas. “So, Master Whyte.”

  “So, Master Beresford,” Thomas replied. “Is Sir Richard a frequent visitor to your church after curfew? It's a long way for him to come in the dark.”

  The priest shrugged. “I try to do the right thing by the Church, despite the fads of our leaders. Sir Richard and his family feel the same way. I've known him a long time. It says a lot for his trust in me, and his commitment to the True Faith, that he's prepared to brave the dark and the watch to visit St Margaret's. His own parish priest is a fine, upstanding protestant.”

  “Master Meredith?”

  “The same.” He grinned slightly. “Indeed, with a Sheriff and half the King's right-hand men in his parish, he would hardly be anything else.” The priest sighed as he turned towards the chancel. “I, on the other hand, am a poor priest in a poor parish. No great men grace my pews for the prayerbook service. What's the worst that can happen to me?”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, aye, I could end up with my head on a spike.” Beresford wrinkled his mouth. “Having no great men in my parish works both ways.”

  “Sir Richard would speak up for you, wouldn't he?” asked Thomas, genuinely curious.

  “Sir Richard has sons,” the priest replied. “He would not jeopardize their future, and I would not expect him too.”

  As the men reached the chancel, the sexton nodded briefly to Beresford and left through a side door. Beresford watched him go. “We have few church staff,” he said. “Goodman Greene tolerates my oddities out of respect for me, I think, not for loyalty to the Old Religion. My curate, young

  Christopher Grey, turns a blind eye. To be honest, I hardly even know where his own sympathies lie. He's a good priest and minister, which is all I ask.” Abruptly he added: “Will you tell Master Harwood?”

  “'God's wounds, Vicar!” Thomas exclaimed. “Do you think that George is blind?” The priest recoiled slightly. “Why do you think I am here instead of him?” Thomas continued. “Your church is in his ward, not mine. George also tolerates your recalcitrance out of respect for you -- I've seen him thump a plaster saint's head off and kick it down the street. He's as staunch a Reformer as any who ever drew breath, but he knows a decent man, whatever he thinks of the Old Religion.”

  Beresford put his hands over his face, and exhaled deeply. “I had suspected as much.” He rubbed his eyes, and said sadly: “Another good man put in an untenable position by the King's posturing.”

  “I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Vicar.”

  “You'll do what you think best, I'm sure.” Beresford turned to the table and picked up a silver chalice, kissed it reverently, and muttered some words. He wiped the vessel with a cloth, removed his stole and laid it carefully on the table. “Has it ever occurred to you, or indeed to Master Harwood, that the next ruler of England could reverse the reforms with a stroke of a quill?”

  “Master Vicar, I'm an innkeeper. I do odd jobs for Sir John York from time to time because the inn barely feeds us. I'm not interested in high politics, and if it's the Lady Mary you're talking about, we'll have to cross that bridge when we're standing in front of it.”

  “Sir Richard tells me the Young King is ailing.
You'll know the terms of the Old King's will, of course?”

  Thomas nodded reluctantly. King Henry had written a will that disposed of the Kingdom as a lesser man might bequeath his bedroom curtains. Even after death, Henry's reputation was such that Parliament might agree to put Mary on the throne if Edward died, and against the wishes of Edward himself, and most of the Council.

  “Nevertheless, Master Beresford, I tend to my inn and let the King tend to his dominions. I'll worry about the royal succession when Young King Edward starts selling ale from my tap room.” Idly fingering a silver candlestick, Thomas said: “Look, Master Beresford, I'm only engaged to investigate the death of Peter Long, Sir Richard's son. I presume you were saying a mass for his soul?”

  “From what I understand, the boy will need more than one mass to ease his passage through purgatory.”

  “What do you understand?” asked Thomas.

  “From his father's description, he seems to have been a somewhat dissolute youth. Sir Richard has no illusions. I did not really know him myself, of course.”

  “Were you his confessor?”

  The priest looked at him sharply. “If I was, whatever he may have said is now between me and my maker.” He shuddered. “I suspect nobody's going to be saying masses for my soul when I'm gone.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. The Protestant church had dismantled the vast post-mortem prayer industry, teaching that such activities were unnecessary, if not heretical. Thomas had rarely thought about the implications of this aspect of the reforms; Meredith's comment made him suddenly aware that, if the reformers had made a mistake here, the current overcrowding in the City would be as nothing compared to the overcrowding in Purgatory.

  Hastily stifling this unprofitable line of thought, he asked: “Did Sir Richard say anything to you -- outside the seal of the confessional, of course -- about his son's death?”

  “Sir Richard made me aware that Peter had a great deal on his conscience before he died. He was most insistent that the proper rites be observed, and as quickly as possible. If he could have exhumed his son's body and buried it again, he would have.”

  “Why? Did young Peter have more than the usual indolent young man's burden of guilt?”

  The priest considered this, then said: “I don't know. I grew up in a humble household, and for most of my working life I have served a poor parish. So I'm largely ignorant of the ways of wealthy young men.” He walked over to the altar. “I rather hope to stay that way. My parishioners are mostly too busy scraping a living to have any time for luxury.” The priest took the lit candles from the silver candlesticks and inserted them carefully into wooden ones.

  Thomas nodded towards the table. “Nice silverware, by the way. Where do you keep it when you aren't conducting illegal services?”

  The priest scowled at Thomas, then sighed. “Under the churchyard turf, now you've seen it.”

  “Not on my account, Master Beresford. As I said, I'm looking the other way.”

  Beresford nodded slightly, and his face softened. “Then you can help me tidy up, young man. I could use another pair of hands.” He pushed into Thomas's arms the altar silverware, and balanced on top of it a Latin missal of dubious legality. Thomas followed the priest across the Chancel, then sighed when he realized their destination. “The crypt again. I might as well sleep down here.”

  Beresford grinned without much humour. “Oh, we all sleep in a crypt in the end, Master Whyte.”

  In the crypt, the priest made for a large wooden chest in an alcove at the end furthest from the stairs. Pulling it away from the wall with some effort, he revealed the small wooden door that Thomas had seen on his last visit. Beresford lifted the door and swung it bodily away from the wall. He explained: “Now there's a hinge missing, the lock no longer works. You can just lift the door away from the frame.”

  “Surely putting a chest against it doesn't provide much protection?” Thomas asked.

  “Indeed not. But I can hardly ask the parish blacksmith to pop down with a new hinge, can I? Goodman Greene will sort it out when he gets chance, I'm sure.”

  Behind the door was a pitch-dark tunnel just large enough to admit a small child, or a man on his knees. Thomas crouched down and held his candle to the opening; the tunnel was walled with rough stone, and looked extremely old. He whistled softly, as the candle flame danced in the breeze. “There's a draught. Where does this go?”

  “I don't know. My predecessor used to joke that it went to Hell. Unlikely, I would have thought -- it's too cold. There are tunnels all over the City, they tell me, perhaps going back to Roman times. My guess is that it goes to St Magnus.”

  Thomas looked up at him, with a slight expression of disbelief. Meredith grinned. “Would you like to find out? Nay? I thought not.”

  The priest crouched down beside Thomas. “Well, if I ever need a lesson in humility, here's where I get one.” He pulled up the hem of his vestments to reveal his bony knees, then crawled backwards into the tunnel, holding his clothing off the damp, sloping floor with one hand. “Well, pass me the forbidden, heretical objects, young man -- this place gives me the shudders.”

  Silently Thomas passed in the candlesticks and the chalice. The priest took cloths from alcoves in the tunnel walls, and carefully wrapped them, before stowing them away. “I should genuflect but...”

  Thomas nodded, then stood up. “I think you've already humbled yourself sufficiently, Vicar” Both men chuckled, but not for long.

  “Master Beresford, forgive my asking,” said Thomas when the priest was on his feet again. “But aren't you missing something?”

  The priest brushed himself down, seeming to ignore the question, and closed the door. Thomas helped him replace the chest. As they walked back to the steps, the priest replied: “The other items -- what I was able to preserve from the reformers' hammers and the King's thieves -- are further back. Goodman Greene and I managed to get some of the stained glass windows out just in time. We saved a few statues as well.”

  Back in the church, Thomas continued: “I don't mean those things. Something else.”

  The priest bit his lower lip with his teeth; the gesture was quite out of character with his usual sternness. Then he asked: “How did you know?”

  Thomas chuckled. “Just a lucky guess. The door was broken, and I presume you have a key, so you didn't need to kick it down. You have an injury on your head --” Thomas pointed to it. “-- Probably not caused by getting falling-down drunk on communion wine. There were things missing from the communion table -- altar -- that I expected to see. A cross, for example.”

  Meredith nodded reluctantly. “Aye. Not just any cross, mind you. That cross was a lovely piece of work. Fourteenth century, I'm told, and still looks like new. Damn them!”

  Thomas raised by eyes in surprise. “Who? The thieves?”

  “Fie! Your precious King Henry and your precious King Edward and that wretched man Cranmer and their vain so-called damnable reforms!” Then more quietly: “Whatever you may think of the Old Religion, many of the items that they destroyed or melted down were works of art! Not only that -- they were a living connection to the past.” The priest stopped walking and turned to Thomas. “Why do you think we perform the rites in Latin, Master Whyte?”

  Thomas grunted. “To maintain a social hierarchy with clerics at the top? Sorry -- was that the wrong answer?”

  Meredith shook his head irritably. “Because Latin was the language of Rome. Rome represented civilization!” The priest waved his arms in frustration. “Look: we, the Church, try to keep alive a memory of the golden age, in this world of decay and dissolution. We try to remind people that there was a better world; a nobler, less corrupt world. That's why we use a dead language, in huge, impractical buildings full of treasure -- so people can get a glimpse of that better world. It's not for our benefit, but for the Kingdom, and for the people who will come after us.” Beresford took a deep breath. “And now the barbarians are quite literally at the gates. O
ur cross was a work of exquisite craftsmanship, made by people who understood what civilization should aspire to. Now it's gone, no doubt to be squabbled over in a seedy market by people who wouldn't know beauty if it bit them on the arse!”

  Thomas grinned slightly. “Actually, I know where it is.”

  “You do?” The priest looked suddenly deflated. “In one piece?”

  “Aye. 'Tis a fine piece, as you say. Constable Harwood has it. His many admirable qualities do not include much appreciation of art; but I doubt he will melt it down for boot buckles.”

  “Thank the Lord!”

  “So -- prithee tell me how it was stolen.”

  The men continued their walk across the crypt. The priest thought for a while. “It was last Saturday, in the evening. I was sitting on the front pew, praying. I saw the door burst open, and two men ran in. They had their faces covered with some kind of cloth. They came right up to me without speaking, and I saw something coming towards my head -- I never even knew what it was.” He fingered the scar under his ear. “I felt a great pain, and I couldn't move. I saw them walking towards the crypt, but I couldn't do anything. Then I remember nothing until it was dark. When I woke, the church was empty -- they had raided the crypt and gone.”

  “How did they know where to look?”

  “I really don't know. But, as you say, my traditionalism is not entirely unknown in the City. Maybe one of Sir Richard's servants gave me away?”

  “Or his son?”

  The priest considered this. “I shall have to say another mass for him. Just in case.”

  “What else was stolen?”

  “Some silver plate, that's all.” The priest explained: “Most of our larger items are much further down the passage -- I doubt they'd have gone that far there unless they were certain what they'd find. In case you hadn't noticed, it's as creepy as Hades in there.”

  “Did you recognize the men who attacked you?” asked Thomas.

  “Nay, not so; but they covered their faces, as I said. Both were young -- under twenty-five summers, I would say. One was very tall and broad. The other, a slight man. I never even got a good look at their clothes, except that they were unremarkable.”

  Thomas nodded, and smiled. “Sounds like the men Constable Harwood has locked up in the compter.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Two wretched brothers named Wilkes. Rebels on the run from Kett's rout in Norwich.” He paused. “Apparently. On the run from a pregnant whore, more likely. They beat up the young man you were nursing here -- Peter Chilton.”

  “Ah.” Beresford looked completely lost for words.

  “Indeed. I'm going to talk to them tomorrow.” Thomas smiled broadly. “And the fact that they've robbed a church will be music to the Constable's ears.”

  “Incidentally, Master Whyte,” asked the priest, fiddling with this clothes. “Who gave me away? If Constable Harwood has known about my... activities all this time, why are you only here now?”

  “One of Sir Richard's grooms tipped us off. I think he was hoping to get Sir Richard into the dung, to pay him back for throwing him out of his cosy position in the household. But, to be honest, I only came here hoping to find out about Peter. The cross was an unexpected bonus, if you don't mind my calling it that.”

  The old priest clasped his shoulder. “Get our cross back, Master Whyte, and you may call it whatever you will.”

  They climbed the stairs and walked to the church door in silence. When they got their, the priest asked: “And did you find out about Peter?”

  “Yes, Master Beresford, I'm rather afraid I did.”

  Monday morning, May 21, 1550

  The morning dawned bright and warm, but Thomas had slept badly again, and was unusually taciturn as he and the girls tidied the dining hall after breakfast. Katherine caught his mood when she came in from the kitchen, noting his red eyes and puffy face.

  “What is it, Cousin Tom?” she asked when they were alone. She put down the pile of plates she was carrying, and touched him lightly on the arm, steering his to a bench.

  Thomas sat down heavily, with a sigh. “Oh...” he replied. “Just... everything.”

  Katherine sat next to him and frowned. “Master Harwood hasn't dragged you into more killings, has he? I thought you were gloomy at dinner yesterday.”

  “Not his fault.” Thomas felt an inexplicable need to defend his friend's actions. “It was the Sheriff's idea.” He sighed again. “But, yes. I examined three corpses last week, and no proper explanation for any one of them. I'm not surprised people are muttering about witches and demons. Perhaps Master Beresford is right. Perhaps these are the End Times, after all.” Thomas put his head in his hands.”

  Katherine looked down at Thomas, but could not catch his eye. “Who is Master Beresford?”

  “He's the vicar of St Margaret's --George Harwood's parish,” Thomas said, without looking up. “He said there were more funerals than baptisms in the City now, as if we were living in the Last Days.”

  Katherine shuddered, then prodded him painfully in the shoulder. “Get a grip, Tom. It will be the inn's last days if we don't get things in order.”

  Thomas sat up glumly. Katherine continued: “We have the entertainment to organize for Wednesday, which means finding places for the layabout mummers to sleep, and getting the food arranged. We need seating of some kind, and we need to hire girls, if we can find any who are likely to be reliable, and we -- and that means you...” She prodded him again, and Thomas scowled. “You need to sweet-talk the Sheriff. Offer him a free seat on the balcony or something.”

  Thomas nodded, making an effort to turn his attention to mundane matters. “We do need him on our side over this. We can make seating from the puddle planks, if we wash them down.” All substantial buildings kept a supply of stout wooden planks to put over puddles in the roadway and courtyard when it rained. “We can borrow some more from other places that owe us favours.” I'm sure Beauchamp's gang won't mind all squeezing into one of the guest bedrooms, if we put some more pallets in. We'll need to get in some more ale as well.”

  Thomas looked at his feet, and shuffled slightly. “All this work to do, and I've got to go to prison this morning.”

  “Why? Stolen the Lord Mayor's chain again?” Katherine laughed, but Thomas did not respond.

  “It's not really funny, Katt. The Poultry Compter isn't as bad as Newgate, in truth, but it's still a little piece of Hades. I've got to see two worthless wretches who not only beat a priest senseless and stole from his church, they thrashed a young man within an inch of his life, and might have killed a young married woman as well.”

  Katherine sighed. “Stay there, Tom, and I'll fetch you something restorative. You can tell me all about it.”

  Thomas slumped forward on his seat, staring morosely at the floor. Katherine stood up, and shook her head as she looked at him. “You look as miserable as I've ever seen you”.

  “It's all right, I'm fine,” Thomas replied, without much conviction, but Katherine had already gone. She returned a couple of minutes later with an evil-looking black bottle and a small wooden cup. Thomas eyed the bottle suspiciously.

  “Agnes Shawe's special tonic.” Katherine explained. “She says to use wooden cups because it dissolves pewter.”

  Thomas took the bottle from her and uncorked it. He sniffed it carefully. “Good Lord! Dare I ask what's in it?”

  “Herbs,” She replied firmly. She gave the bottle a shake. “Best not to ask, really.”

  “Really?” Thomas took the bottle from her and held it up to the light, peering at it suspiciously. “Is it safe, do you think?”

  Katherine tutted irritably. “Of course it's safe. Don't be such a baby. Agnes gives it to the girls when they get... moody. You know what I mean.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. “You're saying it's my time of the month?”

  Katherine grinned. “Maybe so. Anyway, they were all still alive last time I checked.” She turned to the door and, raisin
g her voice, called: “Although you wouldn't think so when there are plates to wash!” Turning back to Thomas she continued: “Now, don't ask difficult questions -- just get it down you.” She took the bottle and poured a small measure into the cup, and held it up to Thomas' mouth.

  “All right, I can drink it myself,” Thomas grumbled. He did so, ending with a strangled choking sound.

  “Good?” Katherine asked.

  Thomas was about to make a sarcastic response, when he realized with some surprise that he did feel better. In reply, he sat up and stretched, smiling weakly.

  Katherine smiled back, and patted his leg. “Well, go on, Tom. What news?”

  Thomas inspected the bottom of the empty cup carefully. “Actually, there's really not much to tell. It's not really my case anyway -- I just can't get past the feeling that there's a connection between the two villains in the Compter, and the dead mystery man -- but I can't put my finger on it. He was killed over a week ago, and I haven't really started looking into it properly. I have an idea who he is but, to be honest, I've been side-tracked by other things. That reminds me -- did anybody bring a letter for me yesterday? From Master Judde?” He tipped his empty cup upside down in a meaningful way.

  Katherine reached over and took the cup away. “No more of this. We don't want you floating out of here.” She picked up one of the pewter plates from the pile on the table in front of Thomas, and inspected it with a critical eye. Putting it back down, she said: “You'll figure it out. You're a better investigator than you are a dish washer. And, yes, young Bob brought something yesterday evening. It's in your workroom. Impressive looking seal on it.” She picked up a cloth from the table, and rubbed at the plate on top of Thomas's pile. Then she said: “Isn't it odd for someone to be dead for a week, and nobody to notice?”

  “Hah! In London? Anyway, it's not that odd if the only person who probably gives a toss is already dead.”

  “His wife? Children?”

  “His wife; he had no children. A young woman called Joan Allard is dead -- beaten to death, it seems -- and her husband is missing. George thinks that the husband killed her during a row and ran off.”

  “And you don't?”

  “Oh, it's entirely possible he killed her -- it seems the kind of thing he might do, from what George tells me. Apparently his friends call him 'Black Roger', so you can imagine the kind of fellow he is. And I'm using the word 'friends' generously, in the sense of 'people he hasn't beaten up yet.' But it would be neat if Allard turned out to be the mystery corpse. They're the same height and build, both working men. Beyond that it's difficult to say. I don't know what Allard looks like, or looked like, perhaps I should say; and the dead man was completely unrecognisable beyond height and build anyway.” He paused. “I haven't mentioned this hunch to George, yet. I'd rather check it out myself first. But it makes sense -- I'm surprised I didn't think of it before.”

  Thomas looked hopefully at the black bottle, but Katherine shook her head. He continued: “It would be ironic: we were talking about Black Roger while we were examining his dead wife's body. It would be ironic if he had been lying right next to her in the crypt.”

  Katherine nodded sightly, then said: “But that doesn't mean he didn't kill his wife.”

  “Indeed it doesn't. The mystery man was probably killed the Friday or Saturday before last. Goodwife Allard could have been killed as long ago as a week before that. If her wretched husband didn't kill her, the Wilkes brothers -- the men in the Compter -- look suspicious. Two men vaguely fitting their description were seen near the Allard house about the time she was killed. If Allard is the mystery corpse, then we've still got the problem of explaining who killed him, whether he killed his wife or not.”

  “Anyone likely?”

  “Most of London, it seems. He wasn't a popular fellow at all.” Thomas frowned and stretched his arms in front of him. “I don't have time to question the entire City.”

  Katherine noticed Thomas's mood, which seemed to be lifting, sink again. She patted Thomas on the shoulder in a motherly way. “Poor Tom. Is that what's getting you down?”

  “Nay; I'm used to having cases to investigate, and nothing to go on. What's bothering me is how cheap life seems to be these days. Life in the City provides any number of ways to cut us down before reaching our three score years and ten -- fevers, poverty, unsafe buildings, foul air -- and yet people still seems to do each other in for no good reason. You'd think that, given how precarious life is, we'd be more respectful of it.”

  Thomas fiddled with a spoon on the table. “It's not just the criminals I worry about. I lost count of the number of people I sent to Tyburn when I was a constable. God's teeth, it's like a bloody feast day every time somebody hangs. And we hang people for the slightest excuse these days.” Thomas folded his arms on the table and put his head on them.

  “My, you are in a gloom today.” Katherine shook him gently. “Perhaps you could stand another drop of Agnes's tonic after all” He sat up. Katherine poured another tiny cup, and continued: “You might as well tell me about the others. There are others, aren't there?”

  Thomas sighed, and gulped the drink. “There's Richard Long's son, Peter”

  “Richard Long the merchant?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him. Everybody does. He's one of the richest men in the City; has a fleet of ships, I hear.”

  “Nice house, at least,” Thomas confirmed. “Like a castle, if castles were made of brick. And colder, and more gloomy.”

  “So what happened to his son?”

  “I suspect he was poisoned. You'll not have heard about it because the family are keen to keep it quiet. They live in Walbrook, but you probably know that. I'm only involved because the Sheriff doesn't trust the ward constables, and he thinks there might be a political element.”

  “And is there?”

  “By the Cross, I hope not -- he's not paying me enough to poke my nose into that kind of nonsense. But Sir Richard is a secret Catholic, and that's a dangerous thing for a man in his position.” Forcing a smile he continued: “But enough of my grumbles. Did you have a nice time with Goodman Sumner?”

  Katherine narrowed her eyes. “Is that what's worrying you? I might have guessed it wouldn't just be a few murders.”

  Thomas shrugged. “I meant to ask you last night, but I was too busy hearing an illicit mass.”

  Katherine stood up and smoothed down her clothes. She gathered up the plates, walked over to a chest and began putting them away. Still with her back to Thomas, she said: “I had a pleasant enough afternoon, thank you. I had dinner with Geoffrey -- and his sister, for decency's sake. We had some very nice wine; very expensive, if I'm any judge. After dinner we talked and played cards.” She turned around, smiling. “I won.”

  “Must be Agnes's bad influence on you,” replied Thomas. “And when you say 'we talked,' I take it you mean that you talked and he listened?”

  Katherine strolled back to the bench, and cuffed him around the head gently, smiling. “I can't imagine what you mean.” She down next to him.

  “Sorry,” Thomas replied. “It's just that Geoffrey, for all his admirable features, is not a sparkling conversationalist. At least, he hasn't been when I've been with him.”

  “Actually, he was quite animated, when he talked about politics, which he did a lot. His sister had to keep reminding him that gossip about the Dudley family wasn't a suitable subject for conversion with young women.”

  “Ouch!” Thomas winced.

  “Indeed. But there's only so long you can make small talk about the weather, and I think Geoffrey was glad to have somebody to talk to. I confess that I didn't really understand everything he said, or agreed with everything I did understand -- but he certainly got animated.”

  Thomas frowned, not knowing how to interpret this unexpected information about a man he thought completely predictable. “Apart from talking about inappropriate subjects, what did you think of him?”

  �
�He's...” Katherine thought for a moment. “Polite.”

  “Polite?”

  “I can't really describe him better than that. Polite and very serious. I can't imagine him kicking over a lamp and setting the stable on fire.” Katherine looked away. “In fact, I can't imagine him being in a stable in the first place. Or any place where he might have to roll his sleeves up.”

  Thomas sighed. “Should I expect a visit from him with a view to discussing marriage? I can tell you're not brimming over with enthusiasm.”

  Katherine shrugged, and carried on tidying. Eventually she sat back down on the bench, and replied: “He seemed interested, I suppose.”

  “Well, we'll see. Let's worry about that when the occasion arises, if it does. Sufficient unto the day the evil thereof, and so forth.”

  “Oh, Geoffrey is hardly an evil,” Katherine replied. “He's a decent, kind, rather fussy man who just happens to have no sense of humour.”

  Thomas nodded. “Well, I suppose the events of his life haven't predisposed him to a sunny disposition. Losing his wife the way he did.”

  “Other people manage to find some humour in life, despite their bad experiences. You, for one.”

  “Me?” Thomas screwed up his face.

  “Aye, you. I know you saw terrible things in the wars, even though you don't talk about them.”

  “I was hardly 'in the wars', Katt,” Thomas protested. “We spent most of our time running away from the French, when we weren't running away from each other. I was only over there for three years.”

  “All the same, you don't act as if you've had all the stuffing knocked out of you.” She leaned over and looked at his midriff critically. “In fact, it looks like you've had some stuffing added.” Thomas cross his hands over his belly defensively, and grinned. Katherine continued. “But that's Geoffrey's problem -- he speaks as if life is just a painful trial, when actually he lives very well.”

  Thomas winked at her. “Perhaps he just needs a good woman?”

  Katherine scowled. “I think he just needs a good kick up the arse!”

  Thomas could not help grinning at the thought of the serious, placid Master Sumner being abused in this way, but his face soon became glum again. “Well, thanks for listening, Katt, but I'd better get going.”

  Katherine stood up. “Will you be back for dinner? We're not all that busy, but you never know.”

  “I'm not really sure. I was hoping to get over to Philpot Lane and talk to Joan Allard's neighbours. I'd like to speak to the women while their husbands aren't around.”

  Katherine grinned. “You ought to be careful who you say things like that to.”

  “Well, I suspect that the women might talk more freely if they aren't looking over their shoulders at their husbands all the time.” Thomas paused for thought. “But whether they'll talk to me at all, I don't know. They didn't seem to want to talk to George.”

  “Well, I can see a possible solution,” Katherine said, fidgeting with a cloth from the table. “But I don't suppose you'll agree.”

  “Oh?”

  “Let me talk to them.”

  “Nay, Katt, absolutely not. I don't want to involve you in this unhallowed mess.”

  She folded her arms and scowled at him abruptly. There was an uncomfortable pause, and she continued in a small voice: “Do you think I'm not involved already? My only living relative -- who happens to be my best friend -- is poking around in criminal plots all day, in parts of the City where people get stabbed to death over the price of an eel pie, and you say I'm not involved?” She turned and stood in front of Thomas, hands on her hips, jaw thrust forward. “How can I not be involved?”

  Thomas looked momentarily stunned at this outburst -- his jaw dropped, and he leaned back on his seat. “Oh, Walbrook isn't that bad a neighbourhood,” he joked, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but Katherine didn't respond.

  “You know what I mean. If you're going to be putting yourself in danger, you need somebody to look out for you. You can't even tie your bootstraps without banging your head on your knee.”

  Thomas hesitated. While he didn't want Katherine exposed to risk, there was no question that a woman was more likely to be able to get information from Joan Allard's female neighbours than he was. She pressed her advantage. “You can tell people I'm your secretary, or something”

  “Well...”

  “I'll even remember to bring some paper to take notes. I bet you never do.”

  “Well...”

  “We can walk over there after dinner. We're most likely to find the women alone in the mid-afternoon.”

  “Well...”

  “So that's settled then.” Katherine gave him an arch grin and turned away to the kitchen, carrying the black bottle, which she would hide. Such powerful medicine should not be distributed carelessly, although she knew that, in reality, Agnes's special tonic consisted of nothing more than liquorice and hot pepper in brandy.

  In keeping with Thomas' mood, the weather turned grey as he walked the short distance from the Whyte Hart, along Cornhill, to Poultry. The street of Poultry was named with admirable simplicity for its main feature -- chickens. The street was thick with them -- alive and dead. There were cages piled eight feet high or more, each containing up to a dozen raucous hens. Flustered, stray birds flapped and squawked between the legs of people who thronged the shops and stalls. Rows and rows of dead chickens hung by their legs from ropes strung this way and that across the street. Thomas carefully picked his way around the cages, looking for a route where the cobbles were not half an inch deep in chicken guano.

  The Sheriff's Compter was at the end of an alleyway, set back away from the main thoroughfare, but the noise of the birds and the smell of guano was still impressive. The Compter itself was a square, grey stone box of a building on two floors, with two barred windows on the front face of the top floor, and no windows at all on the ground floor. Instead, the ground floor frontage was dominated by a central iron portcullis gate; this, together with the two windows above, gave the building the look of a sinister human face. The portcullis was open, as it always was, but behind it was a heavy oak door hung on blackened iron hinges.

  Thomas banged heavily on the door with his fist until a squat, solid-looked warder opened it and leered out at him. The warder wore ragged, stained hose, with the unfashionably prominent codpiece clumsily tied. A darkly-stained leather tabard covered covered an even darker, woollen doublet. On the warder's head -- which seemed joined directly to his shoulders without the benefit of a neck -- sat a greasy woollen cap, innocuously decorated by a bright green peacock feather. The warder's expression changed from dogged hostility to a broad, mostly toothless grin as he recognized Thomas. “Master Whyte, I do declare! We 'aven't seen you for months.” He leaned back inside. “S'all right Hal -- it's only Constable Tom.”

  Thomas was not, he would have to confess, a friend of Warden Cotton. He did not know him all that well, and what he did know, he did not like. Like most of the City's gaolers, Cotton was brutal and corrupt, and supplemented his meagre warden's wage by extorting money from the prisoners. Nevertheless, he felt it politic to be as civil to the man as his conscience would allow.

  “Not a constable any more, Goodman Cotton,” he replied politely. Thomas took the Alderman's letter from his doublet. “But I've got a letter from Alderman Judde saying...”

  “Don't you worry about that, Master Tom,” he chuckled, waving the letter away. “Neither me nor Hal can read anyways.” The Warden stood aside and ushered Thomas into the dark hallway, then barred the door behind them. With the door shut it was almost completely dark.

  “So what happened, Master Tom? Vestry fire you for not taking bribes in the end? I always said that sort of thing got parish constables a bad name.” The warden laughed with a rasping sound and then coughed and spat on the ground. “Sorry about that, Master Tom; chest playing up.” He smacked his open palm on his leather-clad chest, and coughed heavily again.

  They walked
out of the hall through another heavy wooden door into a narrow passage. Even in bright sunlight the interior of the Compter was dark and damp, and the only light in the passage came from a small, slit-like window high up. The floor was slippery -- with water, Thomas hoped. Along the passage were barred entrances to a large, earth-floored enclosure, in which men sat or wandered listlessly. This was the common prisoner's enclosure; gentlemen would be housed upstairs in better, more private quarters, for which they paid rent to the warden. Here, many of the prisoners were manacled -- the practice of gaolers charging money to remove a prisoner's manacles was frowned on the City authorities, but nevertheless tolerated. These prisoners invariably had no money. Some looked with curiosity at the visitor; most did not. A few called out, sometimes curses, sometimes entreaties. The warder ignored most of them, but occasionally banged on the bars and shouted “Shut it!” half-heartedly. At the end of the passage Thomas and the warder came to a door, which led to a small stone-walled room containing a coarse wooden table and two benches. A single small window high in the wall let in a cold, grey light. Green moss grey in the mortar between the stones and on the damp floor. In the room another heavily-built man was sitting on one of the benches with his feet on the table. The warden knocked his feet off, and said gruffly: “Prithee fetch the constable a drink, Hal, you lazy old sot!” The man grinned and sauntered slowly away down the passage, whistling tunelessly. “So if you're not a constable any more, Master Tom, what can we do for you?” asked the warder.

  Thomas sat on the end of the bench, and said: “I need to talk to the Wilkes brothers. Do you know the men I mean?”

  The warder scowled. “By my troth, yes. Bastards disturb our pleasant little household, that they do.” He spat. “The sooner you drag them off to Newgate, the better.”

  “Why, what have they done?”

  The warder grimaced and scratched under his tabard. “Oh, fighting, swearing, stealing food. A right naughty pair.”

  Thomas nodded. Fighting was not unusual in the common enclosure, even among men who were normally placid. The prison supplied the bare minimum of food, so prisoners were perpetually half-starved. Thomas was not altogether surprised that the Wilkes brothers had not used any of their stolen money to buy themselves better conditions -- they had no-one to bring the money to them, and if they had tipped off their gaolers about the money, they would most likely simply have stolen it themselves.

  Thomas said: “I imagine that Constable Harwood wants them kept here for questioning. Once men get to Newgate, they have a tendency to disappear without trace.”

  The warder grinned nastily. “And good bloody riddance to them, if you ask me.” He walked to the wall where a heavy club was hanging by a leather strap. Taking the club, he asked: “Do you want them roughed up first? Just say the word.”

  Thomas shook his head uneasily. “Nay, but thanks. I'd rather have them with what little brains they've got still in their heads. I need them to remember things.”

  “As you will. I'll get the lads together and we'll bring them in as gentle as lambs.”

  Some time later, after a period of banging and clattering interspersed with curses, two men were prodded into the room, both in handcuffs and leg irons. Even the leg-irons could not disguise the fact that the larger man -- Robert, Thomas presumed -- was limping badly. The warder said: “Here you are Master Thomas: m'lords Robert and Stephen Wilkes, and never a finer-looking pair of scoundrels could you hope to find.” He sneered and prodded the two men viciously onto a bench with his club. “Do you want any of us to stay in with you? They're a nasty pair. Otherwise we'll have to lock the door. Can't give bastards like them the run of the place.” Robert Wilkes, a thick-set, heavy-browed man, glared at Thomas with unmasked hostility. Stephen, who was sightly built -- in fact, almost the opposite of his brother in appearance -- just looked around, faintly amused.

  Thomas looked at the Wilkes brothers with what he hoped looked like confident disdain, and replied: “Nay, thank you, Goodman Cotton. I'll be fine. I'll shout if I want anything.”

  “Have it your way,” grumbled the warder. “Here, I'll leave you my peacemaker.” He pushed the club over the table to Thomas. “A rap over the knuckles usually calms things down.” When the warder had shuffled out of the room, Thomas picked it up as if it were red hot, and leaned it carefully against the wall out of the way. Then he smiled in the best approximation to friendliness he could manage, and said: “That's a nasty limp you've got there Robert.”

  The man said nothing, but continued to glare. Thomas continued: “I'm making enquiries on behalf of the Sheriff. A young woman was beaten to death some time the week before last. On the night she was most likely killed, two men were seen near her house at around midnight. One had a limp.”

  The two men looked at one another, in what Thomas thought looked like genuine surprise. Stephen Wilkes sneered: “You should have a word with your friend Nasty Nick there.” He nodded in the direction the warder had left. “He doesn't carry that club for nothing, the bastard.”

  “You're saying the warder did this?”

  “That's right.” Stephen smirked sarcastically. “Why don't you arrest him?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I'll check it out.”

  “You do that.”

  “So you don't know anything about the dead woman?”

  “Maybe we do, maybe we don't. How is young Master Chilton, by the way?” Stephen smiled pleasantly, as if asking after a friend, but with a hint of mockery.

  “Alive, no thanks to you. So you weren't lurking around Philpot Lane late after curfew, a week ago last Saturday?”

  “We don't go out at night. Only bad fellows do that, Constable. We're tucked up in bed, reading our Bibles by candlelight.”

  Thomas looked both the men over. Robert was a fleshy man, round in the belly and in the face. Not particularly muscular, Thomas guessed, but probably strong enough, and quite capable of intimidating people. His face bore a number of scars, of the kind more often caused by careful use of daggers than careless use of farming implements. Peter was a scrawny man, with a narrow, rat-like face. Both men were bare-headed, with thick, dark hair that had been inexpertly trimmed. Both had the beginnings of a beard -- just at the itchy, irritating stage, Thomas hoped.

  “Since you've brought up the subject, I don't suppose you want to tell me why you beat Peter Chilton half to death, do you?”

  Thomas was looking at Stephen, but Robert answered. “We didn't like the colour of his jerkin.”

  Thomas sighed. He wondered if a sudden change of subject would catch the men off-guard. “Do you know Big Tom Francis?”

  Robert looked at Stephen, then shrugged. “Met him. We probably won't be sending him presents on his birthday.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  “We don't know when his birthday is, for a start.” Both men chuckled, Robert with a sort of wheezing rasp.

  Thomas scowled at Robert. “You know what I mean, smart-arse.”

  Stephen gave him a long stare. “Well, now, Master Constable,” he drawled. “Maybe we do, maybe we don't.”

  “I understand that you had a disagreement with him, in an alehouse called the Mermaid. Last week.”

  “We don't remember that far back.”

  “The night you were arrested.”

  Robert Wilkes interrupted, with a scowl, by slapping the bench with a meaty forearm. “Oh, by the Cross! Tell him, Stephen. He's getting on my nerves, sitting their looking at me like that.” He continued to glare.

  Stephen shrugged slightly, and said: “It makes no difference to us, anyway. Yes, we had a row with him. Typical thick townie -- no idea what conditions the rest of the country are living in. He looks down on us -- most of you Londoners do -- even though he's never been anywhere or done anything in his worthless life. We put him right on a few things, but we didn't kill him, if he's turned up dead somewhere and you're looking for someone to blame.”

  “Why would you think he was dead?” Asked Thomas. “I never
said anything of the sort.”

  Robert smiled crookedly and stared at Thomas. “He's not exactly popular among us country folk -- you might have noticed. It's only a matter of time before one of us does for him.”

  Thomas met his stare evenly. “I can't imagine he's shaking in his boots. He looks like he can take care of himself.” He smiled. “Just to put your mind at rest, I can tell you that Thomas Francis is alive and well. What's more, he's thinking of getting married.”

  Stephen shrugged. “Probably some cheap whore he got in the family way. He did mention a tart he was seeing.”

  “When was this? The night you were arrested?”

  “Nay, that was a Sunday. He wasn't in the alehouse that night. Must have been the night before. We'd had a bit of a set-too -- the big ox was grumbling on and on as usual, and we told him where to stick his complaints. He said he was leaving -- to see a woman. We thought he was scared of the beating he was going to get if he carried on.”

  Thomas' eyebrows raised as he tried to form a picture of the slight Stephen Wilkes squaring up to the giant, bear-like Francis. Stephen caught his look, and said: “Those big men are all the same -- all talk. We'd tie him in knots.”

  Thomas doubted it, but didn't challenge him. “I take it you wouldn't know anything about a dead man found in Eastcheap Monday morning?”

  Stephen replied, laconically: “We didn't do it.” He made a show of inspecting his fingernails.

  “I know you bloody well didn't -- you were in here. I just wondered if you'd heard anything.”

  Stephen Wilkes folded his arms of his chest and stared and Thomas defensively. “Why would we tell you, even if we had? What's in it for us? Do you even know when we're going to be tried? We're getting bored, rotting away in this shit-hole. We're not going to tell you anything else, about anything.”

  Thomas sighed, and stood up. Picking up the warder's club, he walked around the table and stood behind the brothers. He looked at the back of Stephen's head, and said: “You should tell me, because I'm all that stands between you and the rope.” He walked towards the door. “You might want to think about that.”

  Stephen laughed, with no trace of humour, without turning around. “By my balls you are, Constable. No rope for us -- we'll be away as soon as we see the magistrate. We can both read. Benefit of clergy, aye? There's no need to look at us like that.” Thomas shrugged, unaware that he had displayed any expression at all. Stephen continued: “I know my brother looks like he can't count to five, but actually he's quite an intellectual. So when you've finished taking the Sheriff up your arse, tell him he has to try us or let us go. We know the law.”

  Thomas ignored the provocation. “If you're thinking about demanding a clerical trial, you can forget that, even if you can read. There's no chance.” Then he banged on the door. Before the warder had chance to open it, the Wilkes brothers were on their feet, shouting. A few seconds later, Thomas heard the sound of a lock being turned, and the man called Hal poked his head around the door. Thomas said: “Sorry, false alarm. It looks like your guests want to talk to me after all.” He walked back to his side of the bench and sat down again. He twirled the warder's club around in his hand thoughtfully, then leaned it back against the fall. The brothers continued to glare, but there was a new look of wariness in their eyes.

  Thomas spoke, almost to himself: “I found something the other day. At the Mermaid. Stuffed under your foul mattress. Guess what it was.”

  The brothers said nothing.

  Thomas continued: “You say you know the law. No doubt you know that you can plead benefit of clergy to most charges, for better or worse. Even manslaughter. Sir Richard's son will probably live, after a fashion, so even with Sir Richard's influence, you'll probably only be charged with violent affray. The stolen money I found -- that was enough to get you hanged in the civil court, but you'll get off with a penance and branding if you you plead benefit of clergy.” Thomas paused, aware that he had the brothers' attention.

  “But did you know that there's one offence that the clerical courts won't claim jurisdiction over, even when the culprit is a clergymen? Go on, can you guess what it is? Nay?” Thomas smiled broadly. “Well, it turns out that stealing from a church doesn't go down too well with the churchmen.” He grinned. “Can't think why.”

  Thomas leaned back against the wall and put his feet on the bench, feigning a nonchalance he did not entirely feel. “I found the cross and, mostly by luck, I found the church you stole it from. So... start talking, or swing.”

  “And if we do? What's in it for us?” Robert finally sounded less sure of himself.

  Stephen also sounded uncertain. “Seems like we're in the shit either way.”

  “Well, now,” Thomas replied, continuing to stare at the ceiling. “If you think about it for a moment, you'll realize that the parish priest isn't going to want to prosecute you. The crucifix is idolatrous -- that's why it was hidden away in the first place.”

  The brothers looked at one another. Thomas continued: “But I might. The King will get the cross and melt it down for coin. I'll get a fat purse, and you'll get the rope.” He leaned swung his lags around in front of him, and leaned over the bench so he was talking almost into Robert's face. “And I doubt you'll have any friends to hang on your legs and speed your end, will you? It will be a slow choking for you.”

  “Aye?” Growled Robert, half rising form his seat. “And suppose you don't leave here alive?”

  Thomas waved him back down. “You don't think I'd be stupid enough to bring the cross with me, do you? Nay, it's safe with a friend.” Thomas thought to himself how little consolation this would be, if Robert decided to wrap the manacle chains around his neck.

  To Thomas's relief, Robert sank back down. “What if this friend of yours wants to prosecute for himself?”

  Thomas shrugged. “That's up to him. But you're in no position to bargain. Either talk, or I'll be bringing you in front of the Bench myself.”

  Robert rose again, but his brother dragged him back. “Don't be daft, Bob. The bastard's right.” Thomas relaxed -- he had been bargaining on Stephen having the sense to realize where his best interests lay, even if his more impulsive brother did not.

  Stephen glowered at Thomas, then continued: “By the Rood, we didn't have anything to do with any man killed in Eastcheap. I don't know anything about it. When was he killed?”

  “Probably the Friday before last, but maybe Saturday.”

  “We weren't even in this parish last Friday. We only got here last Saturday.”

  Thomas nodded -- this agreed with what Joan Warter had told him. “And what about Jane Allard, in Philpot Lane? We suspect that the culprits are new in the area, because a local man saw them and didn't recognize them. She was seen last Saturday night, so she was certainly killed after you moved here. For all I know, you could have done it on your way here from -- where were you staying before?”

  “At the Goat, near Shoreditch.”

  Thomas didn't have any particular reason to believe them, but it could be checked.

  “You could have killed her on Saturday night, after curfew.”

  “We could have done, but we didn't. You're just clutching at straws, aren't you? The only connection between us and this murder is that we're both from out of town and Bob has a bad leg. And I told you how that happened.”

  “Not quite -- the other information I have is that I'm looking for a pair of brutal, unfeeling wretches, and you lads seem to fit the description pretty well.”

  Robert started over the table again, but again his brother held him back. Thomas continued: “Joan Allard was beaten to death or strangled -- we don't know which actually killed her. I know you were involved in two violent assaults within a couple of days. What reason have I got for believing you didn't commit another one?”

  “Because, Master clever constable,” sneered Stephen, “We were stealing a silver cross on Saturday night. You just bloody told us we were. Or did you forgot?”

&
nbsp; Thomas groaned inwardly -- he knew when the cross was stolen, but it hadn't registered with him that the theft was an alibi. He consoled himself with the fact that he had never really suspected the Wilkes brothers of the murder of Joan Allard. He said: “Did you come to St Margaret's specifically to steal from the church? I presume you didn't come here for the sweet smell of the Thames?”

  “Just doing the King a favour,” smiled Stephen. “All that silver rightly belongs to the people.”

  “How did you know about it?”

  “Some daft old man blabbed about it when he was drunk. Stank of fish -- guess he worked on the boats. He told us this old priest was hoarding a stash of silver plate and stuff that should have been melted down years ago. We promised him a cut of the proceeds to tell us where it was.”

  “Does the daft old man have a name?”

  “I'm sure he does -- people generally do. But he never told us.”

  Thomas thought about this. The story was plausible, given the characters of the Wilkes brothers.

  “Well, boys, that just leaves Master Chilton. Why did you beat him up?”

  The brothers looked at one another. After a moment, Stephen shrugged, and said: “We were paid to.”

  “Go on.”

  “A man came up to us in the alehouse a couple of weeks ago. It seems that a friend of a friend of his told us we might be available for business. He told us where to find this Chilton and what he looked like. Said he needed to be reminded to pay his debts.”

  “Gambling debts?”

  Stephen shrugged. “If it had been any other sort, I guess he'd have employed lawyers, not us. He was a gentleman, after all. We sometimes help people who find that the law won't give them their rights.”

  Thomas nodded. Gambling arrangements were not considered contracts by the common-law courts, and there was often work available for men who were willing to recover gambling debts in other ways.

  “And who was this bastion of justice who employed you? Did he give his name?”

  “Don't be stupid, of course not. But we found out from the other drinkers after he'd left. Name of Gerard. Samuel, I think. A gent -- lives in a big house in Walbrook, apparently.”

  “What's a gentleman doing, drinking in a low alehouse in Shoreditch? Often enough that the regulars would know his name and address?”

  Stephen sneered. “A lot of wealthy young lads do. Makes them feel big, visiting places like that. Gives them something to boast about to their whores.”

  Thomas had indeed come across young men like this. Another attraction was likely to be the gaming, which was frowned on in reputable establishments, not to mention the prostitutes.

  At this point, Robert interrupted. “We didn't mean to hurt the young idiot. I think Chilton and this Gerard are friends, sort of.”

  “Some friends!” replied Thomas.

  “Well, drinking companions, anyway. We were just supposed to give him a bit of a scare, rough him up a bit. Turns out we didn't realize what a bunch of soft bastards you townies are. I only slapped him around the face, and he went down like a sack of shit. And it turns out that fellows in St Margaret's are pretty keen to give chase. We really expected people to look the other way.”

  “What, this bunch of soft bastard townies?” Thomas mocked. “Looks like they had your measure, right well.”

  “Ballocks! There were about thirty of them in the end,” Robert growled. “I'll take on any three of you fellows in a fair fight, but thirty's just taking the piss.”

  “Well, you've got Constable Harwood to thank for your swift capture. He's got his watch well trained to understand that sometimes they have to run after villains.” He chuckled. “How does it feel to be run to ground by a bunch of grandfathers? Not one of the St Margaret's watch has fewer than forty summers. If you'd run in the opposite direction, into St Andrews, you'd probably have gotten away.”

  The men sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute, then Thomas said: “Well, thank you for your cooperation. I'll be on my way.”

  “So what happens now?” asked Stephen.

  “I won't see a man hang for stealing if I can help it, even though I seem to be the only man in London who feels that way. I won't even wish the gallows on a couple of cheap dung-bags like you two.” replied Thomas. “Even beating up a priest doesn't merit death, although it sticks in my throat to say so when it's you.” The Wilkes brothers glowered at Thomas, but by now they realized that he offered their best chance of avoiding a long cart ride followed by a short drop.

  Thomas continued: “So it depends on what happens to Peter Chilton. If Chilton recovers, I'll try to persuade my friend to return the cross quietly to the church, and you'll stand trial for giving young Chilton a thrashing. You'll get a whipping and a turn in the stocks, but you'll live.” Until Chilton's father finds out that you're out of the compter, Thomas thought; there are plenty of other thugs for hire in the City. But he kept that notion to himself.

  “He'll do that, this friend?”

  “I think so. But if Chilton dies, I doubt there's much I can do, or would want to”

  “But you said...”

  “I said you didn't have anything to bargain with. You're getting more consideration that you deserve -- don't push your luck.”

  Thomas banged on the door to be let out. Warden cotton opened the door, and then locked it behind him, leaving the Wilkes brothers arguing in hissed voices. As he walked back along the dark passageway with the warder, Thomas asked: “How did Robert Wilkes come to have a leg injury?”

  The warder replied immediately: “He tripped an' fell down the stairs.”

  “So he certainly didn't have have the injury when he came in?”

  “Nay -- not that I noticed, anyway.”

  “Do your prisoners often fall down the stairs?”

  “They do if they steal food. It's amazing how being well-fed reduces a prisoner's balance. And they're very steep stairs, and not at all well lit.”

  “I see,” replied Thomas uneasily. He remained uneasy all the way back to the inn, although sorting out the conditions in the City's filthy and overcrowded gaols was too big a job for one middle-aged innkeeper.

  Monday afternoon, May 21, 1550

  After dinner had been served and the dining room tidied, Katherine told Thomas that she was ready for her visit to the neighbours of the late Jane Allard. She knew Thomas was still reluctant to involve her, and he hadn't entirely agreed to her plan. She also knew, however, that he knew that the women he had to question would be more likely to talk to another woman than to him. After a certain amount of wrangling, Thomas agreed to let her come, but the set of his mouth and wrinkling of his brow made it clear that he was not particularly happy to do so. He insisted that she put on a dark, shapeless cloak, and cover her hair, and lectured her vigorously and at tiresome length on the various dangers that they might encounter. Thomas debated taking a weapon of some sort, and settled on a stout wooden rolling pin from the kitchen. He stuffed this under his cloak, held in place by his belt. Katherine eyed the implement suspiciously, and perhaps for the first time properly realized the seriousness of the situation. When they had given instructions for the afternoon to the rest of the inn's staff, they set off on foot for Philpot lane.

  The walk took only thirty minutes, but it was already clouding over by the time they arrived, and it had turned cold and damp. The Allards had lived on the ground floor of a narrow, four-storey house, whose location George had described to Thomas as 'fifty paces west of the shit heap.' This turned out to be an accurate description. Philpot Street -- an insalubrious street in a mean district -- was the origin of many, even meaner, lanes. The Allards' lane, which did not even merit a name, started at the parish midden heap, and meandered west, getting increasingly narrow. Between the buildings were dark recesses of the kind that Thomas knew were a popular hiding place for desperate men, and sometimes women, intent on robbery. He held Katherine's arm with one hand, and kept his other on the end of the rolling pin, as they
walked with as much confidence as they could muster into the foetid dark.

  Unexpectedly, they turned a corner and found themselves in a small courtyard. The houses were slightly further apart and oriented in such a way as to allow a modest amount of sunlight to reach the ground. At the end of the courtyard, furthest from where Thomas and Katherine stood, was a small green area surrounded by a low wooden fence; two women and a group of children were busy among the straggly herb bushes, and paid the visitors no attention at all. Other than that, the area was deserted, although Thomas could not entirely shake the feeling of being watched. After looking around carefully for a few moments, Thomas relaxed his grip on Katherine and on the rolling pin, and sighed slightly with relief, wiping his damp brow with the back of his hand. He identified the Allard house from George's description: the numerals XIV scratched into the door. It was a tall, narrow, timber construction otherwise indistinguishable from the other buildings in the lane, with crumbling daub walls that not seen paint for years. Thomas banged on the door, which swung open under his fist.

  Katherine and Thomas walked into the cheerless passageway, and pushed on the door to the Allards' rooms. That door, too, was unlocked. As Thomas started to open it, Katherine held him back.

  “What if there's someone inside?”

  Thomas shouted: “What ho! Anybody at home?” When there was no reply, he looked at Katherine and shrugged. She let go of his arm reluctantly, and he pushed the door open.

  Inside, the dwelling was almost completely dark, and there was a rank smell that made Thomas's eyes water. While Katherine stood in the passage, he blundered around until he found the single glassless window, and opened the shutter; this did not make the room any colder than it already was -- the building was permeated by the kind of damp that feels cold regardless of the temperature. Katherine walked into the room, and looked around with frank curiosity. She sniffed with distaste.

  “What's that smell?”

  As she walked over to the window, there was a sudden burst of movement from the dark corner. She jumped, and gave a startled cry. Thomas came running over, the rolling pin already in his hand, just in time to see a large rat scurrying out of the open door. Thomas threw the rolling pin after it but missed by yards; they both giggled nervously. Katherine said: “At least we know what's causing the foul smell.” Thomas nodded, and waited for his heart to stop hammering.

  In the dim light, they could see that the dwelling consisted of one large room and a small kitchen, separated by a partition but no door. Satisfied that there was nobody hiding, not even another rat, Thomas walked back out to the passage and called upstairs, but he had already guessed from the silence that there would be nobody at home. The larger room contained a wooden bed, but no mattress, and a large wooden chest, which turned out to be empty. A brick fireplace, long cold, occupied the wall opposite the window. Thomas guessed that there was another house adjoining this one, and sharing its chimney. There were no hangings or fabrics at all, just bare wooden floors, and walls lined with crumbling plaster. Mean though the swelling was, Thomas understood that merely having a chimney put it in a better class than many.

  Katherine walked up to Thomas and held his arm, shuddering. “This place gives me the shivers. Is this where she died?”

  “It's where she was found, I believe,” replied Thomas. “There's no reason to think that she was killed here.”

  “What's happened to all the furniture?”

  Thomas shrugged. “If they had any, the neighbours would have disposed of it.”

  “Stolen it?”

  “Not necessarily,” Thomas replied. “If a dead body has laid on the mattress for a week, nobody else will sleep on it. I imagine the neighbours stripped the place and burned everything flammable. Look, they've even taken up the rushes from the floor.”

  Katherine looked down, noticing for the first time that they were walking on compacted earth. Not for the first time, she offered a silent prayer of thanks for the relative comfort of her own life.

  Thomas continued: “There's no family, so far as we know. To be honest, I'm mildly surprised that the place is still empty. Buildings don't stand vacant in the City for long these days, given how crowded it is.”

  Katherine nodded, but said: “I can't say I'm all that surprised. It's creepy.”

  Thomas shrugged but, taking a last look around, said: “Come on, lets get out of here.” On the way out, he stooped to pick up the rolling pin, and stuffed it back in his belt.

  Back outside, the houses on either side of the Allards' turned out also to be empty -- not actually unoccupied, Thomas assumed -- the residents would be working or about their chores. They had no better luck at the next house along: at Thomas's knock they could hear movement inside, but the person or persons within refused even to open the door. The next house was the same. Eventually they reached the small green yard at the other end of the courtyard without finding anybody willing to talk to them. The two women in the yard were feeding animals -- a scrawny pig, and a few hens in a wooden cage. Two small children dressed in smocks and boots were sitting on a blanket at one end of the yard, and two others slightly older were chasing one another around the other end.

  Thomas raised his cap politely to the women when they noticed him, and explained that he was investigating the murder of Jane Allard on behalf of the Sheriff, which wasn't strictly true; but it was more convincing than the real explanation -- that he was trying to help George out and thought there might possibly be a connection to the mystery murder in Eastcheap. The woman who was scattering grain to chickens looked at him coolly, and said: “I didn't think there was anything to investigate. We all know who killed her, don't we?” She looked at him a bit longer, then shrugged. “I'm Meg, by the way; Meg Garret.” She nodded at her neighbour. “This here is Meg as well -- Meg Soames -- but everyone calls her Maggie so as not to get us mixed up.” Maggie nodded over her shoulder and turned back to putting down scraps for the pig, which was tied to a wooden stake by a rope around its belly. The older children ran over and chased each around Meg Garret, pulling on her kirtle; she cuffed at them half-heartedly until they ran away to torment Maggie instead.

  “I'm Thomas Whyte, Goody Garret. This is Katherine; she's here to take notes and keep me on my best behaviour.” Katherine flashed a smile and said “God give ye good day.” She removed a bag from under her cloak, and took out the charcoal stick and paper as evidence of her role. Both of the other women looked at Katherine oddly for a moment, then at each other. Katherine knew that this was because a woman who could write was a rarity -- more so than a woman who could read, and that was unusual enough, even among the upper classes. Despite her dowdy cloak, Katherine realized that she would stand out clearly as an outsider among these women and their neighbours. Finally Maggie turned away from her pigs and asked Katherine uneasily: “Are you a lady, mistress? Begging your pardon, but neither of you are dressed like gentlefolk.”

  Katherine laughed. “Nay, Goody Soames. My cousin Thomas is an innkeeper, and I'm an innkeeper's daughter. My father taught me to read and write because there's no room for an idle, unmarried woman in an inn, and you don't have to pay your own children.” This wasn't strictly the reason, but it seemed to satisfy the women, who nodded.

  Meg appeared to relax, but she said: “We've already spoken to that constable -- several constables, in fact. Our menfolk have searched for Black Roger -- that's what they call her husband -- as best they can, but they've all got jobs to go to, if they want to keep them. I'm not sure what else we can tell you. Of course we'd help if we could, but I'm not sure how we can.”

  “Do you know who found her?” Thomas asked.

  Meg nodded. “John -- John Lockton, Mary's husband.” By way of explanation she added: “Mary's my sister. She lives over there.” She pointed over the road to the house where the occupants had not wanted to open the door.

  Thomas nodded, and said: “Was she badly frightened?”

  Meg narrowed her eyes. “Wouldn'
t you be?” Then she guessed his meaning, and added: “She might talk to you after her man comes home.”

  “Constable Harwood told me that Jane Allard had been dead for quite a few days before anybody found her.” Thomas said. “That's a bit unusual isn't it?”

  Meg looked at Maggie; both women shifted uncomfortably. “We aren't proud of that,” Meg admitted. They looked at one another again. “To be honest, we never saw much of her or her deadbeat husband even before she died.” There was an uncomfortable silence, then Meg continued: “But it wasn't right, what happened, for all that.”

  “They didn't grow up in this parish, I'm told. How long did they live here?” asked Thomas.

  The two women looked at one another again then Meg said “Two summers?”

  “Not a day more,” Maggie confirmed. “Maybe not even that long. Half the people in this parish didn't grow up here, maybe not even in London. We don't know where the Allards came from.”

  “Jane was born in St Margaret's, according to the midwife.”

  Meg shrugged. “Aye, well, wherever she came from, in the time she was here I saw her, mayhap, a dozen times.”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows. “You must have seen her in church, at least, surely?”

  Maggie gave a snort. “I don't think she ever set foot in church. Not St. Andrew's, anyway.”

  Meg nodded. “She never came to market with us, or to get water, or to bake bread.”

  “Why is that?” asked Katherine. “Did she not get along with the other women?” There was another long, uncomfortable silence. Thomas wondered how her lack of church attendance had escaped the parish authorities, if it had.

  Finally Katherine put her notepaper away, and said: “Cousin Tom, why don't you go and see who else you can find, and I'll talk to Goody Garret and Goody Soames. What do you think?”

  Thomas frowned at this suggestion, and looked from one woman to the other. They two Margarets didn't seem to offer much danger, and there didn't seem to be anybody else about besides the children. The women all stared back at him impassively, and eventually he nodded, and said: “I'll try further down the street. I won't be far away, if you need me.”

  When Thomas was out of earshot, Katherine moved closer to the other women, and asked in a low voice: “You really didn't like her, did you?”

  The women looked as if they were not going to answer, but Meg shrugged. “To be honest, I didn't know her well enough to dislike.” She hesitated. “We didn't like how she lived. She didn't like to mix, and there were fellows coming and going at all hours.”

  Katherine wondered what she meant by that. Suddenly she realized. “She was...” She picked her words carefully. “She was visited by other men?”

  Meg looked around, and nodded.

  “Lots of other men?”

  Maggie blurted out: “She was just a cheap whore!” Meg looked at her wide-eyed, but Maggie continued: “There, I've said it. That's all she was -- a common whore!”

  “Fie! For shame, Maggie!” hissed Meg. “You shouldn't speak like that about the dead.”

  Maggie reddened, but did not retract her words. She pouted her lips defiantly.

  For a while, nobody spoke. Katherine knew that prostitution was rife in the City, although it was extremely rare for married woman to carry on such a trade. Any woman who did would be a social outcast, as would her husband. It was almost impossible that the husband would not know.

  Eventually Meg broke the silence. “We were sorry for her, of course. It wasn't her fault. We should have helped her.”

  “She should have helped herself, the silly cow,” Maggie grumbled. “Better to die than live like that.”

  Meg rounded on her. “How can you say that? You don't know anything about her -- none of us did. We don't know what that wretched man did to her.” To Katherine she said: “When we did see her, she always looked worn down. Once she had a black bruise on her face, and I doubt she got it by walking into a door post. Mary said she often heard Roger shouting at night, and her crying.”

  Katherine stared at the other women, mouth open. She blurted out: “And you did nothing to help her? You knew her husband was beating her, and you did nothing?”

  “Oh, she didn't need help from the likes of us,” Maggie replied sourly. “In spite of everything, she still looked down on honest folk.”

  Meg nodded uncertainly. “It's true that she had an... odd manner. Unapproachable. I don't think she liked women at all. With men -- that was different. She was all over them, like cowpox. She and Roger were made for each other,” she scowled. “I know it's wrong to speak ill of the dead, but they were a wretched couple. Mind you, I can't help wondering if things had to end up the way they did.”

  “Did you see much of the husband?”

  Meg shook her head. “He's a butcher. He doesn't work in the parish, so none of our men really got to know him. What they did know, they didn't like. We didn't call him Black Roger for nothing.”

  “Where does he work?”

  Meg thought about this. “Same place as the Marris brothers -- somewhere in Eastcheap, I think. They're the people to ask about Roger. They're working now, of course.”

  “Did you see any more of Roger than you did of Jane?”

  Maggie shook her head: “We heard him, though, even from over here. We could tell when he wasn't at home, because the yelling stopped.”

  “Was he often not at home?” Ask Katherine.

  “Aye, indeed. Sometimes he'd be away for days. We don't know where. When he was around here he spent most of his time at the Mermaid.”

  Maggie nodded in agreement. “I think he only came home to give Jane a thrashing.”

  “So you weren't surprised when the Allard house was quiet for nearly a week?” asked Katherine.

  “Not really,” Meg agreed. “We all hoped he would stay away.”

  “I've noticed that everybody seems very sure that Roger murdered Jane. How can you be so certain?”

  “Who else could it have been?” asked Meg. “We know he treated her wickedly. It was only a matter of time before he went too far.”

  “Could Roger have beaten Jane up when he caught her with another man? Do you think that was why he beat her in the past?”

  Meg and Maggie exchanged glances, then Meg smiled condescendingly at Katherine. “You poor, innocent thing! Roger knew perfectly well about the other men. He was selling her to them. He was her pimp.”

  Thomas looked around in alarm, at the sound of feet hurrying towards him. He reached reflexively for the rolling pin tucked under his belt, then sighed with relief when he saw it was only Katherine. His relief gave way to dismay as he noticed the expression on her ashen face. Thomas gripped her arms as she reached him, and narrowed his eye in consternation. Her mouth was a tight line, as if she was trying not to cry.

  “Katt? Whatever's the matter, girl?”

  She struggled to control her breathing; finally she rasped: “Oh, Tom, how do you stand it?”

  “Stand what?” Thomas looked inquisitively across the courtyard to where the two Margarets were still looking at them impassively. “What did they say to you?”

  “Oh, it wasn't them, Tom. Well, not deliberately, anyway. I mean, how do you stand dealing with this sort of thing all the time?”

  Thomas let go of Katherine's arms and looked her up and down. For a while he wondered what sort of thing she meant. Then he shrugged. “I don't stand it, Katt. I gave up being a constable with no reluctance at all. And you, of all people, ought know how I get sometimes, when the Sheriff drags me into his little games. Sometimes I think the whole world has gone to Hell. It's bad enough, the pointless wars and riots and stupid laws that make everybody's life a bit more miserable; but then people have to go and make it worse.” He paused. “Come on, girl, let's get home. Nobody wants to talk to me, anyway,” he complained. “Things will look better over a cup of sack.”

  They said little as they walked back along the narrow passage to Philpot Lane; Katherine was preocc
upied with her thoughts, and Thomas was absorbed in examining the shadows. After what seemed an age, they reached the midden heap and the relative safety of the street. Thomas relaxed his grip on the rolling pin and straightened his cloak. They turned north, and Katherine told Thomas about Jane Allard's treatment at the hands of her husband, as reported by Meg Soames. Finally she hissed: “I hope you catch the bastard and string him up.”

  Thomas looked at her in surprise. “Harsh words coming from you, Katt.”

  “Men like that don't deserve any better. If it were the other way around. a woman killing her husband I mean, she'd be burned at the stake.” This was true, in principle at least. Murder of a husband by his wife, or a master by his servant, was considered 'petty treason', and was treated very harshly.

  “From what I've heard, the world would be well rid of him,” Thomas agreed. “But I'm still not sure he killed her.”

  “Why?”

  Thomas started to speak, and then changed his mind. “I'm not sure. I need to get a calendar and check some dates out. I can't work it out in my head”

  Katherine looked at him suspiciously, but did not press the matter. They walked the rest of the way home in silence.

  Tuesday morning, May 22, 1550

  After breakfast, Thomas Whyte sat in his workroom and tried to find reasons to put off doing the inn's accounts. It was that time of the week again. Slips of paper, and wax tablets with figures scrawled on them, lay scattered on the table, mocking him. Thomas poked at them idly, and whistled tunelessly between his teeth. He looked out of the small window; the weather was sunny and warm, and he wondered whether there might be something urgent to do outside instead. After a minute's reflection, he decided that the pile of firewood logs that had been delivered a month ago would not chop and stack itself. Winter was six month away, but firewood needed time to dry. He nodded in self-satisfaction, and stood up. Whistling more vigorously, but no more tunefully, he walked through the tap room and the dining hall. His good cheer lasted until he reached the kitchen, where Katherine gave him a hard stare. He sighed and resigned himself to a morning of paperwork.

  Back in the workroom, Thomas reflected that it had only been a week since George Harwood had interrupted his book-keeping with a plea for investigative assistance. Since then he had been involved with three suspicious deaths -- at least one of them a brutal murder. This morning George did not interrupt, and Thomas was left with a pile of undecipherable notes and scrawled invoices to examine.

  After about an hour of grumbling and cursing, he finally worked out that the inn had finished the week three shillings ahead, which was better than three shillings behind. Thomas wondered whether the Sheriff was going to pay him even if nobody was caught for the two deaths he had been commissioned to investigate. From past experience he knew that the answer was likely to be a sarcastic jibe, which was unfortunate, because the inn's finances were on a knife-edge, and he had few leads.

  Thomas was just stacking the papers when Katherine pushed the door open, carrying a mug of beer. “Your reward for being a good boy,” she said. She walked over to the desk and peered over Thomas's shoulder at the scrawled figures. “Can we afford to pay the staff this week?”

  “So long as we eat leftovers and drink the tap-room slops we can.”

  Thomas chewed his lower lip reflectively. Katherine waited patiently for a minute, and finally Thomas said: “Sorry. I was just wondering how I can figure out what happened to Peter Long, so the Sheriff will pay me.”

  “I thought you said he was poisoned?”

  Thomas nodded. “That's what it looked like to me. I would guess tincture of opium, not that I'm any sort of expert. But the point is that I have no idea why, or by whom, and I doubt the Sheriff will be inclined to dig into his pockets unless somebody swings. The family won't talk to me, which may or may not be significant. The boy had no particular enemies, and seemed generally well-liked, if a bit wayward.”

  “Where would you go to buy tincture of opium? What is it, anyway?” Katherine asked.

  “It's a preparation made from crushed poppy seeds, and...” He thought for a moment “...and something else. I don't know, to be sure -- I'm just an innkeeper. You'd get it from an apothecary. I remember that not many apothecaries in London sell it, but at least the ones who do are meant to keep records.”

  Katherine shrugged. “Then it's easy. All you've got to do is to ask every apothecary in the City if he sells this tincture of opium, and to give you a list of all the people he's sold it to in, say, the last month.”

  Thomas thought about this. “And then what? Put them all in the stocks until one of them confesses? Anyway, if I was going to poison somebody, I certainly wouldn't go out and buy the stuff myself, using my own name. That's the daftest plan I've ever heard.”

  Katherine scowled at him. “I don't see you coming up with any better ideas.”

  Thomas stood up and sighed. “Nay, you're right. At least it will get me out in the sun.”

  For once, Thomas got lucky.

  He wandered without any clear plan along Cheapside. The first two apothecaries he tried had not even heard of tincture of opium. At the third shop -- a dingy little place in a lane off Gracechurch Street -- the proprietor directed him to a certain Bartholomew Maycott, an apothecary near Candlewick Street in Eastcheap.

  Maycott's was not a grand premises -- a narrow, three-story building next to a lane that was little more than an alley. Thomas had become familiar with the area: it was only a few minutes' walk from Abraham's butchery, and the place where the murdered man had been found just over a week ago. Outside the shop were boxes containing bundles of herbs, and jars of suspicious brown powders. Some of the products -- ginger, comfrey, garlic -- Thomas recognized; many he did not. He was aware that apothecaries were seen by the Corporation as grocers who dabbled in healthcare, rather than professional medical practitioners, and Maycott's shop did look and smell more like a spicer's than anything else.

  Thomas entered the shop through the low door, and had to duck still further to avoid the bunches of dried green and brown foliage hanging from the ceiling. Thomas had rarely seen a shop so full -- boxes and cartons were piled on every flat surface, and he had to pick a path to the small counter. There, a middle-aged man was grinding powers in a clay bowl. A woman could be seen through an open door behind the counter, bustling to and fro in a room at the back of the shop. The man, who was short and had a plump, whiskery face, looked up at Thomas briefly and said: “Good day,” but continued at his work.

  “Good day. Goodman Maycott?” asked Thomas.

  The man nodded, while still inspecting the contents of his bowl critically. “That's me. How can I help you?”

  “I'm given to understand that you sell tincture of opium.”

  Maycott stopped his grinding, and looked at Thomas rather longer than was comfortable. Eventually he said: “Aye, and other pain-relieving preparations that you may find preferable. Tincture of opium is powerful stuff -- I'm not allowed to sell it without a good reason. The guild will be all over me. If you don't mind me asking, how do you know about tincture of opium? It's not widely used in London. Or in this Kingdom, for that matter.”

  Thomas shrugged. “Do you make it yourself?”

  “Of course,” Maycott replied. “Everything I sell is freshly made on the premises. I can supply a wide range of preparations, to treat most common medical problems, and many uncommon ones.” This last statement sounded like a speech he had rehearsed.

  Thomas smiled. “I'll be sure to bear that in mind. What is it made of?”

  “What, tincture of opium?”

  “Indeed.”

  The apothecary looked into his bowl again. Then he sighed and said: “Well, it's hardly a trade secret. You can read about it in Paracelsus, if you've a mind to. It's the seeds of the opium poppy, finely ground and dissolved in strong spirit. I distil the spirit myself. Paracelsus tells us we should combine it with deer musk and crushed pearls, but neither is easy to g
et hold in London.” He smiled weakly. “If I could put my hands on a supply of pearls, mayhap I wouldn't be working in this shit-hole. I've found that poppy seeds and alcohol are effective enough on their own. It's not difficult to make, but you have to be very careful about the quantities, given its strength. I've been making it for more than ten years, and I like to think I've got the hang of it.” The apothecary seemed to puff out his chest as he said this. “Was it for yourself you wanted it?”

  “Actually, Goodman Maycott, I don't want to buy any. I'm making enquires on behalf of the Sheriff. My name is Thomas Whyte.”

  Maycott pulled a face. “My records are up to date,” he sniffed. He made a show of returning to his grinding.

  Thomas smiled to himself, and did not correct the man's misapprehension of his interest. “Good. May I see them?”

  Maycott sighed, and pushed the bowl to one side. He gave Thomas a sour look, but fetched a heavy, leather-bound book from under the counter. He opened the book on the counter top and turned it towards Thomas. “Are you looking for anything in particular, Master Whyte?”

  Thomas wondered whether to make up a story, but couldn't find the energy. “If I wanted to poison somebody with tincture of opium, how much would I need? From what you say, I understand it's pretty potent.”

  Maycott stroked his straggly beard. “Well, that would depend.”

  “On what?”

  “Mostly on how tolerant your intended victim is of poppy seed. For a person who has never taken any, it wouldn't need much. Man or woman?”

  “A young man.”

  Maycott considered this. “In that case, perhaps an ounce. But you'd find it difficult.”

  “Why?”

  “Wait a moment, I'll show you.” The apothecary rummaged under the counter and found a small, brass key. He walked -- Thomas thought that perhaps 'waddled' might be a more apposite word -- into the room at the back of the shop, and came back with a dark bottle containing about a quarter of a pint of liquid, and a narrow glass rod. He removed the glass stopper from the bottle and dipped the tip of the glass rod into it, picking up a small drop. “Prithee hold your finger out.”

  Thomas hesitated.

  “Go on, Master” Maycott urged, “one drop this size won't kill you.”

  With some reluctance Thomas held out his index finger, and Maycott dabbed the end of the glass rod on it. “Just touch it on the top of your tongue.”

  Thomas touched the extended finger to his tongue, and spat hurriedly. “Ugh! That's repulsive!”

  The apothecary nodded. “Like very few other things I've ever tasted. Ale that has gone sour in the barrel is the nearest I can think off, only a hundred times worse”

  “You'd have a job to get somebody to drink even an ounce of that stuff.”

  “Quite so. Usually it's used in preparations -- a few drops in something sweet. You don't need much, assuming you want to continue to draw breath. As a poison, it wouldn't be much use, to be honest. Effective enough, if you can get the victim to take it, but that's not easy. It's hard to disguise that foul taste.”

  Thomas sighed and wiped his finger on his doublet. “Well, I'd better check the book anyway, now I'm here. Where are the dates?”

  Maycott showed him. Thomas ran his finger down the page until he came to the beginning of May. There were only a few sales of tincture of opium listed. Thomas fetched out his notepaper and charcoal stick, and began writing them down. Then his breath caught in his throat. Dated May 4th, was the entry: “Tincture of Opium, 6oz, Goodman William Holt on behalf of Lady Isabel Long.”

  Running his finger back up the page, he found another purchase for Lady Isabel a month earlier, and then one a month before that. Thomas drew Maycott's attention to the entries. He leaned over the book, and nodded. “Her servants tell me that she has a problem with sleeping. I wouldn't normally recommend tincture of opium for that -- there are much kinder things. But she insists.”

  “Why would you not?”

  “Because over time the bodily humours become habituated to it. You need more and more to get the same effect. Eventually it destroys your liver and kidneys. If you try to stop taking it, the effects can be very unpleasant.” He looked at Thomas. “Shivers, cramps, visions of demons, that manner of thing.” The apothecary sighed “I rather suspect that Lady Isabel has got to that stage, although you didn't hear that from me. I tell her servants to urge her to seek expert help, but she either can't, or won't. It's sad; even though I don't know her, I can't help feeling partially responsible. I should never have let her have it in the first place.”

  “Could she be taking that amount of opium, and her husband not know?”

  “I would think not. Even if he doesn't notice the effects, her servants must surely tell him. That's not something they would keep from the master of the house.”

  Thomas nodded thoughtfully, then continued to look down the list. He was surprised for a second time that morning. A little way down the page was:

  “Tincture of opium, 2oz, Goodman Henry Warter.”

  Thomas asked: “Is this Henry Warter from the Mermaid alehouse?”

  Maycott shrugged. “I don't know where he lives. He suffers from a degeneration of his spine; I imagine it must be exceptionally painful, poor fellow. He and his wife came to see me about a year ago. I recommended tincture of opium simply because we don't have any other way of treating his condition. They couldn't afford a doctor, but I'm sure a doctor would say the same thing.” Maycott grimaced sourly. “He'd just charge a shilling to say so.”

  He looked over the book again. “He doesn't take much, Goodman Warter. Not from me, anyway. If he does, he buys it elsewhere.”

  “Is that common?”

  “Aye, indeed. I won't sell more than a couple of ounces at a time, unless it's to a gentleman.”

  Thomas nodded, and wrote down a few more names out of a sense of duty. He had a feeling that the purchases of both Lady Long and Henry Warter were significant.

  As he was walking along Gracechurch Street anyway, Thomas decided that it would be helpful to discuss his findings with George. He found him in his shop, demonstrating to one of the apprentices how to sew the buckle onto a boot “so that it won't fall off the next time a bloody dog farts.” Both men were deep in concentration, and Thomas almost left them to it. However, George noticed him and beckoned him inside. He handed the apprentice the needle and said to Thomas: “Drink?”

  Thomas nodded -- walking in the May sunshine had made him thirsty. The apprentice stood up as if to fetch the drinks, but George pushed him back down again, saying: “You need to practice sewing buckles more than pouring ale.” He went out to the back of the shop and came back a minute later with a tray of mugs, which he passed around the shop. Thomas accepted a mug, and drank it in one draught.

  “So,” asked George. “Any news?” Looking around at the men's inquisitive glances, he continued: “Let's go into the back yard. We can sit in the sun.”

  As they left the shop and walked along the narrow passage, Thomas said: “Where shall I start?” He began by recounting his meeting with the Wilkes brothers in the Poultry Compter, and the theft of the silver cross from its hiding place in St Margaret's. At the end, he said: “So it seems there's most likely no connection between the Wilkes brothers and the murders after all.”

  The men sat on a bench in the yard. George rubbed his still-swollen knee, and winced. “That doesn't mean they won't hang for their other crimes. Stealing from a church is without benefit of clergy.”

  Thomas frowned. “If you prosecute for stealing the cross, you'll have to say where it came from. That will put Master Beresford in a very difficult position.”

  “Well, I can't just keep it!” George protested. “Just having it in the shop gives me a headache.”

  Thomas thought about this. “You could give it back to the church, maybe?” Knowing George as he did, Thomas didn't think this suggestion would be received well, but he felt he had to make it.

  “Not likely!
It's a graven image; an idol. It should be melted down with all the other popish frippery.”

  “It's a bloody work of art, Jack, popish or not.”

  George hesitated; the beauty of the artefact could not be denied. Nevertheless, he replied stolidly: “It's an image of our Lord, and a temptation to sinful idolatry. Its beauty makes it even more pernicious.”

  Thomas shrugged. “It's never going to be on display though, is it? Nobody's going to be tempted away from the New Religion by it -- the only people who will ever see it are incorrigible Papists and they're beyond redemption.”

  George frowned. “I'm not sure about any of this. Even if I approved of keeping the cross out of the furnace -- which I don't -- it's a big risk for all of us.”

  Thomas looked at George evenly, wondering whether the proselytising was intended to convince him, or George himself. “I wonder why you have not already handed it over to the Church Commissioners.”

  George squirmed. Thomas pressed his advantage: “The only people who know about the cross are the Wilkes brothers, Master Beresford, and ourselves. The Wilkes brothers will hang if they say anything, and the vicar will certainly keep quiet.”

  George frowned. “What about Goody Warter? She knows you took the cross with you when you left the Mermaid.”

  Thomas nodded. “That's true. But who would ask her?”

  George sighed deeply. “I'll think about it.”

  “On a different subject -- do you intend to do anything about this man Gerard -- the one who paid the Wilkes boys to beat up Chilton?”

  “I'll let the Sheriff know -- it's not our problem. He may take some sort of action. I doubt that the constables or jurymen will. It won't be the first time some wealthy young wastrel paid a bunch of cheap thugs to remind somebody to pay his betting debts. By the way, did you get to see the Allards' neighbours?”

  Thomas told George what he had found out from the Meg and Maggie, carefully omitting any mention of Katherine's role in the investigation.

  George spat. “I knew there was something odd about that marriage,” he hissed. “I don't know how you got those women to talk to you. They were as tight as oysters when I spoke to them.”

  “It's just my charming manner.”

  George raised his eyebrows. “Well done, anyway, however you did it.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder why their neighbours put up with it, if they knew what was going on? I'm surprised Jane Allard wasn't dragged behind a cart, and her husband strung up from a tree.”

  “Perhaps they were all scared of him?” Thomas suggested. “'Black Roger' isn't a nickname you get by tending to sick animals.”

  “Maybe. Perhaps we'll never know now, unless we find him.”

  “Have you had any luck?”

  “No. In fact, nobody has much heart to look. The men of his parish have more or less given up, and the few deadbeats the Sheriff has assigned to make enquiries are as lazy as old tomcats. Even if he's caught and hanged, his wife won't be any less dead, and nobody expects to catch him anyway.”

  Thomas considered whether to tell George his suspicions about Allard's whereabouts, but decided to wait until he had some more evidence. Or, in fact, any evidence. Instead, he said: “In fact, that isn't what I came to tell you about. Lacking any better leads on the death of Peter Long, I spent the morning talking to apothecaries. Actually, it was Katt's idea, to be honest.”

  “Aye? And?”

  “And I found something interesting. Do you remember Sir Richard telling us that he didn't keep opium in the house? Well, it seems he was most likely lying. His wife uses it, and in some quantity. So does Henry Warter from the Mermaid.”

  “Warter? Who's he?”

  “He runs the alehouse where Big Tom Francis drinks, and some of the other butchers from Eastcheap. I told you last week.”

  George shrugged. “Sorry -- I'm getting forgetful in my old age. Is he -- this Warter -- connected with any of this?”

  “I've got a hunch that he is involved somehow, or more likely his wife is. But I'm not sure what the connection is.”

  George thought about this. “Well, in the meantime, perhaps we should pay Sir Richard another visit?”

  “And tell him what? That we think he poisoned his own son?” He shuddered. “By the Rood, I can't imagine that going down very well. In fact, I can't imagine us leaving on our feet.”

  George scratched his face as he mulled things over. “It fits the facts, though, doesn't it? Peter is poisoned; Sir Richard has opium; he won't talk to us, or allow an inquest, and he couldn't wait to get the boy buried. And the man who found him dead has been packed off to sea. Were we right about St Margaret's, by the way? Was Sir Richard attending an illicit mass?”

  Thomas was considering what to tell him, when George interrupted hurriedly, waving his arms: “Nay, actually don't tell me. I don't want to know.”

  Thomas nodded. “I don't think it's relevant to any of this. The problem with Sir Richard being the killer, if that's what you're thinking -- apart from the obvious one that it's his son, for pity's sake -- is that it's hard to get somebody to take opium without knowing about it. It's foul-tasting stuff.”

  George frowned, and stretched his leg painfully. “Well, if we're to make any sense of this business, we've got to talk to him. If you're expecting rough treatment, we could always ask the Sheriff for some backup.”

  “Guildhall thugs, you mean?” Thomas grimaced. “I'd rather take my chances.”

  “When shall we do it?”

  Thomas stood up and stretched his back. “This afternoon? I need to get back to the Hart to help with dinner. Shall we say one o'clock, at the Long house?”

  George nodded with no great enthusiasm. “If we must. I don't know that we'll even get into the house, let alone out of it.”

  Tuesday afternoon, May 22, 1550

  As it happened, George's worries about getting access to Sir Richard proved unfounded. Sir Richard was just returning to the house on horseback as they arrived. The horse, as they might have expected, was black and magnificent; a stallion, Thomas guessed, from his demeanour. Expensive, anyway.

  No sooner had the horse come to a halt, than a liveried groom rushed out from the house to take the reins. He looked enquiringly at George and Thomas and then at Sir Richard, but his master shook his head. “Don't worry, John. I know these fellows.” Sir Richard nodded curtly at George and Thomas, and dismounted easily. While the groom held his horse, he started to unfasten his cloak. The afternoon sun was still warm, and Sir Richard was flushed with the heat. Thomas assumed that he had been riding for exercise rather than for travel.

  Sir Richard throw the cloak over the saddle and patted the horse's neck affectionately. “All right John, put him in the stable. I won't be needing him again today.” The groom nodded, and led the horse away.

  Away from the baleful influence of Stephen Caldwell, Sir Richard seemed less defensive -- not affable, exactly, but then that could hardly be expected in the circumstances. He still looked pale, and the grey puffiness of eyes hinted at a sleepless night. “Riding helps me to think,” he explained, as he led the way into the house. “I thought you'd be back,” he called to George over his shoulder. “Steven said you'd be scared off, that he sent you away with a flea in your ear. But I thought you looked like someone who doesn't scare easily. What's your line of business, anyway? Apart from being constable, I mean.”

  “I'm a cordwainer,” George replied. “ You have to be tough in my business -- some folks' boots fight back.”

  Sir George chuckled slightly. “At any rate, Stephen was wrong. Why does he hate you so much?” He asked bluntly. “I've never heard such bile as when he's talking about you.”

  “Caldwell and I go back a long way, ” George replied, but did not elaborate.

  “Indeed? Stephen wouldn't tell me either.”

  Sir Richard led George and Thomas through the grand hall, which was empty today, and no less forbidding and gloomy, and pushed open the door to his parlour. He ushered
the other men inside, then called out: “Mary! Prithee bring some ale, girl.” Then he nodded at the men to sit down beside the table, and pulled another chair over from against the wall for himself. Without Caldwell's hostility, Thomas had chance to look nosily around the room. The floor and walls were of dark, polished wood, and a heavy oak table dominated its centre. The chairs were high-backed and comfortable. Brass candle sconces lined the room, except where a modest fireplace was set in a brick chimney. What decoration there was was tasteful and unfussy -- a man's room, Thomas thought; a place where a wealthy businessman would come to study his accounts and escape his womenfolk. He found that he approved, and was rather envious.

  “Well?” Sir Richard asked, when they were all seated.

  George answered: “To be honest, Sir Richard, I'm somewhat surprised you agreed to talk to us at all. I'm sorry to have to intrude on you again at such a time --”

  “Aye, aye,” interrupted Sir Richard brusquely. “I'm sure you are, and I've had all the condolences I need. Now what is it you want?”

  At that point, the door swung open, and a middle-aged serving woman entered, carrying a tray. This must be the 'girl' Sir Richard was calling, Thomas thought. She put the tray down on the desk, and poured ale from a pitcher into three pewter mugs. Sir Richard nodded at her and she left, without saying anything.

  “Your staff are very efficient, Sir Richard,” George commented, as he reached for a mug.

  Sir Richard shrugged. “I treat them well, they treat me well. Now, you were saying?”

  George looked at Thomas, who said: “Sir Richard, we know about the opium.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Sir Richard said: “Ah. You do, do you? How did you find out, Master -- I'm sorry, remind me.”

  “Whyte. Thomas.” He continued: “I got lucky. I found the apothecary who sold it to one of your grooms for your wife's use. How is Lady Isabel, by the way?”

  Sir Richard considered this. Thomas reflected on how odd it was that Sir Richard genuinely seemed to need to think about it. “Not well,” he replied, finally. “She wasn't well before, and Peter's death has really hit her hard. Hit us all hard, of course.” He got up, and walked about uneasily. “I didn't know about the opium for a while. By the time I'd found out she was taking it, she couldn't stop. I've had doctors to her, of course. Deep down, I think she's resigned to her fate. Happy, almost. No, not happy -- satisfied.”

  “How long has she been taking it?”

  “A few years. Since the Old King died, anyway. She said it helped her to sleep; at first, anyway. Then I think she just needed it because she couldn't cope without it. Living here has never really suited her. Isabel grew up in Spain, you know. Her mother was Spanish. The suppression of the True Faith has been hard on her. Apart from her personal feelings, it separated her from her family. It's no great secret that we try to stick to the old ways in this household.”

  Thomas nodded. “So far as the law allows, I'm sure.” And a fair distance further, he thought, based on his observations at St Margaret's. He wondered what had moved Sir Richard to make such an admission.

  “So far as it allows, yes. There are mutterings, of course, but my loyalty is beyond question.” Sir Richard sat back down and rubbed his face, as if exhausted. “Anyway, she ought to have kept the foul stuff locked up.”

  George interrupted. “Are you saying that Peter took it accidentally?”

  “What? Nay, of course not!”

  “Then...”

  Sir Richard sighed. Thomas could see that he was struggling with some inner conflict. George started to speak again, but Thomas put out his hand to quiet him. Eventually, Sir Richard stood up and walked over the desk and took a small, folded piece of paper from the drawer. He looked at it, almost put it away again, and then brought it over. “I don't know why I kept this.” He passed the paper to George silently.

  George unfolded it and read, then silently passed the note to Thomas, who read out loud:

  “I am a murderer. Pray for my soul.”

  Thomas turned the note over; there was nothing else. “I am a murderer?”

  Sir Richard shrugged. “I know nothing about it. But you can see why I wanted to keep his death quiet.”

  Thomas nodded. “Suicide. The one unpardonable sin.”

  Sir Richard sagged back into his chair, and put his face in his hands.

  “Who else knows?” Thomas prompted.

  Sir Richard looked up. “Apart from myself? Bill Holt; now you two, of course.”

  “The man you sent off to sea?”

  “Indeed. He found the note, and called for me. Happily, he did not tell Isabel.”

  “You wife still doesn't know?” asked Thomas in surprise.

  “Nay! And it would kill her if she found out.” Sir Richard scowled. “In the old days, I would have endowed a chantry. Paid priests to say masses for his soul. Heaven knows he must need them. Now...” He beat his fists uselessly on his knees. “Now I must do the best I can.”

  “And Father Beresford?”

  It was Sir Richard's turn to look surprised. “You know about that? How?” He sighed. “Not that it matters. Nay, he does not know either. I doubt he would have been prepared to say a funeral mass if he knew Richard was a suicide. It's risky enough for him as it is. There's many would have a suicide buried at the crossroads.”

  George looked at Thomas inquiringly; Thomas remember that George still did not know about Vicar Beresford's illicit services, although no doubt he had an inkling. “Saturday night, at St Margaret's.”

  George just nodded.

  “What do you think, Constable?” Sir Richard asked George, who looked surprised.

  “Me? About what?”

  “About my poor son's fate. Stephen tells me you're a staunch Protestant, and a supporter of the so-called reforms.”

  George though about this. “I'm a boot-maker, not a theologian. Why would you ask me?”

  “I just want to understand how the protestant mind works.”

  George shrugged. “For what it's worth, our Church teaches that your son's fate is in God's hands, and that is what I believe. It makes no difference how many chantries you don't endow, or how many prayers you don't say. Purgatory is a myth; our fate is set with our last breath.”

  “The tree lies where it falls?” asked Sir Richard with a bitter smile.

  “As you say,” continue George. “But for what it's worth, I can't believe many misguided and disturbed young men are burning in Hell. The Lord is merciful.”

  Sir Richard reached for his ale for the first time, and swallowed it noisily. Then he said: “Thank you. Clearly you are a humane man, despite your heretical views.”

  George's mouth tightened, but he remember that he was talking to a man who had not only just lost his son, but had lost him in mortal sin.

  Sir Richard continued: “I can only hope that he took the opium under a delusion of mind. Or perhaps that he didn't mean to die -- it was just a way of confessing his crime. After all, he wouldn't have known how much opium he could safely take -- the amount my wife takes every day would fell a horse.”

  Thomas thought that the suicide note argued against such an interpretation of events, but he didn't press the point. Instead he said carefully: “You know I shall have to tell the Sheriff.”

  Sir Richard looked startled. “Must you? What purpose would that serve? I'm not worried for myself, you understand; it's Isabel I'm concerned about.”

  “The truth needs to be known. You know people are already muttering about witchcraft? A young man dies, in reasonable health and with no mark on him -- you know how these rumours spread.”

  “A pox on rumour!”

  “Aye, a pox indeed,” Thomas continued. “But the next thing you know, some poor, mad old woman with a squint and a cat will be dragged off to Tyburn. Would you want that on your conscience?”

  Sir Richard looked at the ground dejectedly. “Nay. I suppose it makes little difference now. Peter is dead and buri
ed, with the proper rites and observances. Tell the Sheriff, if you must. Nobody else has committed any crime, so far as I know. I suspect Isabel is beyond caring now.”

  George interrupted. “There is the small matter of the murder he wrote about, Sir Richard, whatever he meant by it.”

  Sir Richard looked at him. “I though you said Peter's fate is in God's hands? Does it matter now? He's beyond earthly justice.”

  “It matters if some unfortunate woman is wondering where her missing husband is.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or her son. We do still have two unsolved murders to consider, one a young woman. I doubt they are the only such cases in London.”

  Sir Richard looked at George, then at Thomas. Both men looked back impassively.

  “I don't know anything about it. Really, I don't. Why should I? Peter doesn't -- didn't speak much to me any more. In the last couple of years he's become very withdrawn, very surly. Aggressive, even. He'd always been a bit wayward, but he took to staying out all night, getting into fights, gambling. Gambling and losing, I think.”

  “When did this all start? Do you know what brought about the change in his character?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sir Richard replied, sourly. “It's when he started keeping company with that band of young thugs led by Walter Gerard's son. They're all bad, but young Gerard is clearly the leader, and the worse of the lot. I told Peter that I wouldn't allow Gerard in the house -- and I didn't. But I couldn't stop Peter meeting him elsewhere.”

  “Would that be Samuel Gerard?” asked Thomas.

  Sir Richard looked surprised. “You know him?”

  “Nay,” replied Thomas. “His name came up in connection with some other crime. Related to gambling, as it turns out.”

  Sir Richard drummed his fingers on the table. “I can't say I'm surprised. His father is a rough man as well, for all his money.”

  “How well do you know him?” Asked George.

  “He lives in Walbrook, but I don't have much to do with him. I wouldn't call him a friend. He's a mercer -- a very successful one. Some of his business practices are a bit shady, I fear.”

  George couldn't help himself: “Unlike yours?” Sir Richard ignored the provocation.

  Thomas continued: “There's a difference between illicit gambling and murder. Do you think Gerard and his fellows would be capable of murder? For that matter, do you think your son would have been capable of murder?”

  Anger and surprise showed in Sir Richard's face. He rose partly from his chair, as if to make a robust response, but then he subsided. “On his own? Nay, certainly not. Under the influence of young Gerard, who knows? That one could make the blessed St Francis torment a puppy. But Peter was not a violent young man, not remotely, for all his faults.”

  “I have to ask you this, Sir Richard,” said George, “but do you know where your son was in the evenings last week?”

  Sir Richard sighed. “Where he was every evening, I imagine -- out with Gerard's gang, gambling, drinking, and whoring.”

  Later, George and Thomas walked along Cornhill without speaking. Suicide, although not unheard of, was rare enough to be a scandal, not to mention a mortal sin. Sir Richard's story was credible simply because any father would rather have been convicted of killing his own son, than to admit that the son had killed himself. Thomas was still unsure why Sir Richard had told them at all, unless he had guessed that they wouldn't be believed. Or perhaps the suicide was just one of those secrets that burns to be shared, even with strangers. Of course, there was still a risk that they wouldn't be believed, but Thomas had no plans to tell anybody but the Sheriff if he could avoid it, and he thought that Sir John would be happy to have the matter closed. It was still just about possible that Peter's death had been murder, made to look like suicide, but Thomas doubted it.

  Finally he asked: “What do you think about this confession, then? Do you think Peter really killed somebody?”

  George nodded, then shook his head. “I think that he at least believed he did -- strongly enough to kill himself in his remorse, anyway. But if he did kill somebody, or was involved in a killing, then that gives us another unexplained murder to add to the other two.”

  “That's something for the Walbrook authorities to worry about, isn't it?” Thomas asked.

  George scowled. “Unless the Sheriff drags us into it again.”

  “Not me,” replied Thomas. “I'm not getting involved with another case until he's paid up for settling this one.”

  “I'll see him this evening,” replied George.

  They walked in silence for a few moments. Cornhill was busy, and Thomas occasionally waved or raised his cap to people he knew.

  “Of course,” he mused, “there's still the possibility of a connection between Richard Long and our other unsolved murders.”

  “You mean young Master Gerard?”

  “Quite so. This is the second time I've heard his name mentioned in connection with a crime. We know he paid the Wilkes brothers to beat up the Chilton boy. Now we also know he was a bad influence on Peter Long, who has confessed to a murder and taken his own life.”

  George sighed. “If I put it like that, the Sheriff is going to ask us to follow it up. You know that, don't you?”

  “Do you know how much money the White Hart made last week?” Thomas asked.

  “That's an odd change of subject, Tom. You mean you made some money for a change?”

  “Very funny, Jack.” What I mean is, while I really, really want to get away from this kind of work -- and I know it drives Katt frantic with worry -- just now I can't turn down the Sheriff's money, even if it means he tries to drag me into another investigation. Suppose -- just suppose -- that Peter killed Joan Allard.”

  “By the Cross! Why should I suppose that?”

  “I don't know yet. Just suppose.”

  George sighed. “Very well, Tom. I'm supposing. So what?”

  “If -- for whatever reason -- Peter killed Joan, that means her husband didn't.”

  “No it doesn't,” George objected. It just means that her husband didn't do it alone.”

  “That's true,” Thomas conceded. He wondered where George had got pedantic streak from recently, and realized that it was probably from him. “But it's just possible that Roger Allard had nothing to do with his wife's murder.”

  “That's always been possible,” George admitted. “Just not very likely.” He paused, and stopped to look at Thomas. “But if you're right, where does that leave the husband?”

  “It leaves him lying dead in the crypt at St Margaret's,” replied Thomas. “If he isn't in the ground already.”

  George shrugged, then carried on walking. He seemed less surprised than Thomas expected, and Thomas wondered if George had already been thinking along the same lines.

  As they arrived outside the White Hart, George said: “It would certainly explain why we can't find him. I'll see the Sheriff later.”

  “While you're there, would you tell him that he's invited to a performance of... I'm not sure what just now... by Master Beauchamp's company at the Hart tomorrow night? With my compliments, of course. And you, Jack, of course, if you're so inclined.”

  George grinned. “Will it be clean, Tom? Can I bring the girls?”

  “Clean? I shouldn't think so for a moment. They'll love it.”

  Tuesday evening, May 22, 1550

  After dinner at the Whyte Hart, Thomas called a meeting of the inn staff in the tap room; or, rather, Katherine told him he had called a meeting. In the tap room were 'Gaffer' Walter and Agnes Shaw, Mary and the other maids, Katherine, and himself.

  “Right,” Thomas announced. “As you know, we've been graced by the presence of Master Beauchamp and his company of villainous scoundrels for the rest of the week. Yes, I know...” he spoke over the groans, “...lock up the silver. We've got a couple of rooms empty -- Roland and his company can sleep in there. We'll put some fresh sawdust down. If there's any overflow, there's always the stables. Now, we've decided to do things a b
it differently this time. Rather than squeezing in the whole of London, we're going to charge a reasonable price, and provide seating and food for everybody. Gaffer, how are we doing for seats?”

  Walter Shawe cleared his throat noisily, and answered: “Well, I've been rounding up planks and crates from everybody that owes us a favour. We should have enough seats for everybody, so long as they don't mind a wood splinter up the arse. You said a hundred, right?”

  Thomas nodded. “Katherine and the girls have been putting the word around. I'm sure we'll have as many people as we have seats.”

  “Well,” Gaffer continued, “We've got enough seating for at least a hundred. It won't be Hampton Court, but it will do if the King decides not to grace us.”

  “Probably not the King, but I've invited the Sheriff,” said Thomas. He gritted his teeth, but the news was met with stoicism.

  “Which one?” Gaffer asked.

  “Sir John. The one who doesn't always wish us washed away by the river with the other dung. Can we set up some sort of private enclosure for him and his family up on one of the balconies?”

  “Will he come?” Asked Mary. “I mean, isn't he a bit, well, fancy for the likes of Master Beauchamp?”

  “Hardly,” Katherine laughed. “Even though he looks like a dry old stick, he like likes a good fart joke as much as the next man. He came last year, with his whole household -- even though he had to squeeze into the courtyard with the labourers and apprentices.”

  “And besides,” Thomas continued, “Master Beauchamp is determined to raise the tone of his acts this year. Who knows -- we might be in on the start of something big.”

  Gaffer sniffed. “Hah! This acting business will never take off. Bunch of scoundrels!”

  “Well,” replied Thomas, “so long as it takes off from Wednesday to Friday, that's good enough for me. Now, what are we charging, Katt?”

  Katherine continued to explain what the inn was going to charge and how it was crucial to keep out people who weren't prepared to pay. To that end, she had detailed Thomas -- old soldier and war hero -- to man the gate.

  Thomas frowned. “Me? How am I going to keep out a bunch of rowdy apprentices?”

  “I'm sure you'll think of something,” replied Katt. “Mary, you're in charge of food. Make sure we have a good supply of eel pies and ale handy. Now, I know we aren't exactly rich in hands at the Hart these days -- he looked around at the sparse staff of the inn -- so you'll need to get some assistants lined up.”

  Mary nodded. “I've been asking around, Mistress. There's plenty of girls that could use a few evenings' extra work.”

  Thomas took over. “Good. As to drink, we'll pass ale around as usual. If anybody wants anything stronger than ale, they have to come into the tap room-- I don't want anybody getting drunk and trying to climb on stage again. We all remember what happened last year.” The sight of young men in women's clothes had clearly been too much for some members of the audience.

  Thomas concluded the meeting. “Now, we're aiming for a decent, genteel evening's entertainment for the City worthies. Worthies who will be prepared to pay... what was it, Katt?”

  “Tuppence,” Katherine replied, “or fourpence on the balcony.”

  “Thank you. Worthies who will be prepared to pay decent sums of money, and to sit quietly on Gaffer's splintery planks. There's to be no rowdiness or vulgarity.” He paused. “Unless it's on the stage, of course. Any questions?”

  At that moment, George Harwood put his head around the door. He winked at Thomas, and waited to the meeting to break up. When everybody except Thomas and Katherine had left, he walked into the tap room, and untied a leather bag from his belt. He grinned as he shook it in Thomas's face; it jingled. George laughed as Thomas made a grab for the bag. “Not so fast, Tom. There's a condition.”

  “Condition, my ballocks,” grumbled Thomas, as he grabbed the bag. He tipped the gold coins out into the palm of his hand, while Katherine looked over his shoulder. “That should keep the bailiffs away for another month or so,” he said. Then he passed the money to Katherine, who announced that she was taking it away to a safe place.

  When they were alone, Thomas said: “All right, what's this condition?”

  “As you guessed, we're to follow up the murder allegedly committed by Richard Long. Master -- oops, Sir John -- York said that he was happy with your conclusion of suicide, but he didn't like the idea of somebody from a family of the Longs' influence being involved in an unsolved murder.”

  Thomas grunted. “My hunch is that Peter Long killed Jane Allard, and then Black Roger Allard threw himself himself in the Thames out of grief. No loose ends. Can I have some more money now?”

  “The usual terms. Payment when somebody swings.”

  Thomas scowled. “Peter Long isn't going to swing. He's already dead.”

  “But young Gerard isn't. You know he's involved in this business somewhere. His name has come up too often for it to be a coincidence.”

  “I think we need to speak to him. Does he live with his father in Walbrook?”

  “Aye. What's more, I've got a warrant from the Sheriff for us to question him. In the compter if necessary.”

  Thomas whistled. “Sir John must be very keen to have this business cleaned up. I wonder why?”

  George shrugged. “He thinks that unsolved murders lead to disorder. Can't think why.”

  Katherine walked back into the room, and brought George a mug of ale, which he accepted with a nod. She said to Thomas: “Does this mean we'll have to manage without you again tomorrow?”

  “You heard that, then? Do you mind?”

  Thomas thought that she did mind, but what she said was: “Not at all, so long as you keep bringing in bags of money.” Seeing his look, she said to George: “I'm relying on you to stop Cousin Tom doing anything stupid. You know what he's like.”

  George nodded, uneasily. “You can rely on me. Any sign of danger, I'll run like hell in the opposite direction.”

  Thomas nodded at George's leg, which was still slightly misshapen. “You'll limp like hell.”

  George hissed scornfully. “I could outrun you with only one leg.”

  “If I had only one leg, I suspect you could. But I could hop like Hell.”

  Katherine interrupted. “I'm serious, Master Harwood. It isn't just cheap thugs you're dealing with now. Sir Richard Long and Walter Gerard are influential men. If they're involved in something disreputable, you can be sure that they'll use any means they can to stop it getting out.”

  Thomas said: “Yes, mother,” but he knew she was right.

  Wednesday morning, May 23, 1550

  After the usual controlled chaos of breakfast at the Whyte Hart, Thomas and Katherine tidied the dining hall in silence. Thomas noticed that the inn was unusually quiet, despite most of the guest rooms being occupied, and that matched his mood. George walked in at about ten o'clock, dressed in his best doublet and breeches, and a short cloak. Thomas looked up and whistled softly. “Lock up your daughters.” Katherine looked up also, and winked at him boldly. George blushed momentarily, which Thomas thought made him look ten years younger.

  Somewhat defensively, George said: “We need to look like officers of the City Corporation, not vagrants, or Gerard won't even let us into the house. Rather than making sport of me, Tom, you should put some proper clothes on yourself -- you look like a stable-boy again.”

  “These are proper clothes,” Thomas protested, smoothing the front of his jerkin. Katherine sniffed. “I like these clothes,” he continued sulkily. Still, he knew that George was right. He scowled and wandered off to his bedroom.

  George walked over to the dining table and helped Katherine stack plates. “Thank'ee,” she said quietly, not looking at him.

  “Is anything the matter, Mistress?” George asked.

  Katherine shrugged. “Just the usual.” She looked up at George suddenly. “How much longer is this going to last, Master Harwood?”

  “This what?”
<
br />   “This -- business. How much longer is Cousin Tom going to be involved?”

  George shrugged unhappily. “I really don't know. We don't seem to be getting anywhere on the Allard case or the mystery man, and the Sheriff keeps adding to our work.”

  Katherine sighed, and carried a pile of plates over to a chest. With her back still to George, she said: “I know cousin Tom worries about money, and the inn. I just worry about Tom. Oh, I don't worry so much when he's just dealing with vagabonds and petty villains. They might beat him up -- they often do beat him up -- but at least they're predictable. But this business -- this is something different. Tell me something.”

  George raised his eyebrows. “If I can.”

  “Why is the Sheriff allowing you -- encouraging you -- to antagonize men like Long and Gerard? And don't tell me it's out of civic duty.”

  George snorted. “York's only duty is to himself.”

  “So why? Normally these wealthy men with gentry aspirations stick together. They don't accuse each of crimes.” She paused. “Unless it's treason. Then they go at each other like fighting cocks.”

  George shuddered. “I honestly have no idea. I know that the Sheriff and Richard Long have a dispute over some land. What his gripe with Gerard is, I don't know.”

  “I don't like the idea of Tom getting caught up in a feud between two wealthy and powerful men. He's just an innkeeper --”

  “-- and the only family you've got,” finished George.

  “Aye, quite so.”

  “I have family too, you know.”

  Katherine looked at George, as if seeing him for the first time. “I'm sorry,” she replied. “I didn't mean to imply that you neglected your family. That's rather my point, in fact. You're used to knowing that people depend on you. You wouldn't take unnecessary risks.”

  “Not bloody likely,” George agreed.

  “But Tom -- I'm not sure that he realizes that --” She waved her arms in frustration. “Oh, what's the use?” She swept up a towel from the table and threw into the chest, letting the lid slam shut. Without another word she hurried out of the room.

  George scratched his head, then pulled out a chair from the dining table and sat down.

  When Thomas reappeared, he was wearing a fashionable, closing-fitting doublet and embroidered hose. He looked very uncomfortable. George grinned. “Look what Tom found in the bottom of his trunk. Find many moth-holes?”

  Thomas scowled. “Bugger off Jack. Let's get it over with, so I can get back into my innkeeper costume.” He pulled at the doublet where it pinched his ample midriff. “Whoever came up with the idea of clothes like this for men?”

  “The Old King,” replied George. “Although I rather doubt he'd have squeezed into that particular outfit in his later years.” He looked at Thomas critically. “Looks like you're having a bit of difficulty yourself.”

  “Katt bought this doublet,” Thomas conceded. “I suppose I'd better wear it while I still can.”

  He held the door open. “Well, shall we go? Where is Katt by the way? Did she have to have a lie-down after seeing you in all your finery?”

  “It's not funny Tom. She's worried about you.” George looked at him evenly, and shook his head. “Can't think why -- everybody knows you're bloody indestructible.”

  Thomas nodded. Until now, whether by the grace of God or just plain good luck, he had been spared the worst consequences of his own carelessness. It had been a running joke in his military days that Thomas could sit on an barrel of gunpowder and play with flint and tinder, and just get a few extra haemorrhoids. Nevertheless, he did not feel inclined to rely on this situation continuing.

  “I'll be glad when this is all finished,” he said. “It's nice to have the extra money, of course, but I'll be glad when the worst worry I have is whether the ale will stay drinkable until the barrel's empty.”

  Thomas and George sauntered along Candlewick Street towards Walbrook. Despite his recent breakfast, the smell of cooking meat from the open hearths of the cook-shops -- of which there were many in the street -- made Thomas's stomach grumble. By means of enquiries, the two men found the Gerard house in Walbrook, just a few minutes' walk from the Sir Richard Long's house. The house -- a sprawling, two-storey stone construction -- was set away from the street at the end of a tree-lined avenue. Thomas looked around appreciatively as he and George strolled towards the house.

  “Well, this is nice, isn't it?”

  “Aye. Of course, I thought of buying a place like this, but I'm not sure we'd get along with the neighbours.”

  Thomas chuckled, and looked around. “What neighbours?” It was true -- amongst the trees they could almost have been in the grounds of a country manor house. “Mind you, it must be difficult, having armies of servants to boss about.”

  “Nay,” George replied. “You just hire a chief servant and get him to boss the other buggers about for you.”

  They arrived at the entrance. Thomas walked up the few steps to the imposing door, tapped diffidently with the knocker. George shook his head, and said: “Don't fart about. We need to show him we're not scared of him.”

  “I am scared of him,” Thomas complained. “He probably does have armies of servants; an army, in other words.”

  “I'm scared of him, too,” George admitted. “But I'm damned if I'm going to let him know that. Go on, give him the constable's knock.”

  Thomas shrugged, then banged on the door with the flat of his fist while shouting: “Open up in there!” He resisted the urge to add “prithee”, and George nodded approvingly.

  The door was opened by a solidly-built groom in livery, who looked at them with frank hostility. “Aye?” he grumbled. “What do you fellows want?”

  To Thomas's astonishment, George strode over the threshold and took hold of the groom's jacket with his fist and pushed him back into the house. The groom was too surprised to resist, and stumbled backwards until his back hit the wall behind, George's hand pushing his jacket into his throat.

  “Don't 'aye' me, sonny. Tell your master that Constable Hargreaves is here with a warrant from the Sheriff to question his son Samuel.” The groom made a choking noise as he tried to speak. “Just nod,” George instructed.

  The groom swallowed with difficulty, and nodded.

  “Good lad. Off you trot.” George released him and brushed him down.

  The groom almost ran along the passage, looking anxiously over his shoulder as he went. Thomas stared at George, and said: “You've been a constable too long.”

  George straightened his clothes. “Well, I'm not going to be messed about by a snotty-nosed servant after I've gone to all this trouble of dressing up.”

  After a while, there was a disturbance and the far end of the passage, and a thick-set, middle-aged man strode up to them. He was followed by two other substantial, stolid-looking grooms in livery, both with long knives hanging from their belts. “Well?” he asked curtly. “What's this about?”

  “Master Gerard,” George replied. “I am making enquiries on behalf of the Sheriff, concerning certain events last week.”

  “Events? What events? Out with it, man!”

  “A young man was beaten and almost killed. We think your son was involved.”

  “My arse he was!” roared Gerard. “Now get out, or I'll have you thrown to my dogs.” The armed grooms started forward, hands on their knife hilts. George had been expecting this kind of response. Ignoring the stares of the armed men as best he could, he said: “I hate to say this, Master Gerard, but Sheriff York said that he was prepared to use the King's militia to secure your willing cooperation.” He looked Gerard in the eye. “Now, you can set your goons on us if you wish, but you wouldn't want them to have to take on the militia. I've no doubt you've got a good supply of men here, but such an action might well be considered treasonable. You know the law on keeping armed retainers.” He smiled, somewhat nervously. “Of course, we'd all prefer not to have that kind of confrontation, wouldn't we?” George took the S
heriff's warrant from his doublet. “Perhaps you'd like to see my authority?”

  Gerard scowled, but read the letter anyway. When he'd finished, he crushed it into a ball and threw it back to George. “That whoreson York! He's gone too far this time.” All the same, he walked to one of the doors in the passage way and opened it. He shouted into the room: “Simon, wake Master Sam and tell him to get his lazy arse downstairs, right now.” Thomas and George watched impassively as Gerard paced heavily up and down the passageway.

  After a few minutes, a young man of about eighteen appeared in the passageway. He was dressed only in shirt and hose, and bareheaded, as if he had just been risen from his bed. His red eyes and pale faced suggested that he hadn't been in the bed for long. He was tall and muscular, and despite his evident tiredness he held himself with an easy confidence. Thomas could see why other indolent young gentlemen might look to him for leadership. The young man smiled in a genial way and asked, “What is it, Father?” He looked from from his father to Thomas and George, and at the two grooms who were still glowering, hands on their knife hilts.

  Gerard senior looked at his son disapprovingly and shook his head. Then he said: “Just tell these --” He looked Thomas up and down. “-- gentlemen from the Sheriff that your were at home every evening last week, and then have them thrown out.” Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, Gerard walked over to the door and out of the room.

  Samuel Gerard grinned at Thomas and George conspiratorially, and walked towards them. It was very obvious that he walked with a noticeable limp. Thomas and George exchanged glances. Samuel stopped in front of the two grooms, and said: “It's all right -- you fellows can go. I don't need a bodyguard.” They looked at one another, then shrugged, and lumbered after their master.

  When they had gone, George said formally: “Samuel Gerard, this is a very serious business. Despite your father's comment, I'd suggest that you ask him to be with you when we question you, or at least some adult you can trust.”

  The young man shrugged, and yawned. “I have nothing to hide. What do you want to know?” He leaned against the wall, and made a show of examining his fingernails. Thomas wondered whether he was feigning unconcern, or just naturally impolite; he guessed perhaps both.

  George looked at Thomas, who shrugged. He continued: “Very well. Do you know a Robert Chilton?”

  “Aye, indeed,” Samuel answered. “He was set upon by thieves a couple of weeks ago. Grievous hurt, I understand. His family won't let me see him.”

  “How well do you know him?” Thomas asked.

  “Slightly. I see him at card games from time to time.”

  “Gambling?”

  “For pennies.” He grinned again. “It's very wrong of me, of course. Is that what all this is about? Everybody plays cards, you know.” Again, he grinned as if to include the other men in a joke. He folded his arms over his chest, as if to emphasise his arm muscles.

  Thomas was about to reply, but George butted in impatiently. “Don't waste my time, Samuel. We know you paid to have him beaten up.”

  For a moment, Samuel looked disconcerted, but he soon recovered. He smiled. “Not me. Why would I do that?”

  Thomas asked: “Did he owe you money?”

  “You know that gambling debts aren't legally enforceable.”

  “That isn't answering my question. So he did owe you money?”

  Gerard looked at his hands again, without unfolding his arms. “A few shillings, perhaps. I really don't remember.” He looked up at George again and grinned.

  George frowned; Thomas could tell that Samuel Gerard's constant smug nonchalance was getting on his friend's nerves. He resolved to finish the questioning as quickly as he could; he knew that George was not completely immune to being provoked into a violent outburst, which could have disastrous consequences in the present surroundings. “So you didn't meet a couple of vagabonds called Wilkes the week before last? At the -- where did they say, Master Harwood?”

  “The Goat, in Eastcheap, Master Whyte,” George replied. “They even gave your name, Samuel.”

  Gerard smile turned into a sneer. “Surely you don't think I'd be stupid enough to hire thugs and tell them my real name?”

  Thomas felt his own hackles rise; despite his resolve to remain dispassionate, he found himself putting his face right up close to Gerard's. He spoke almost in a whisper, forcing Gerard to lean towards him to hear: “Your problem, young man, is that Stephen Wilkes definitely isn't stupid, despite being a wretched, festering boil with the morals of an alley cat. You see, you're known at the Goat, and people like to talk.”

  Gerard looked from one man to another, then took a step back, away from Thomas. He chuckled dismissively. “So what if I paid to have Robert given a bit of a slap? It was never my intention to hurt him, just to remind him who has first call on his debts.”

  Thomas scowled at him. “Well, you certainly failed there, Samuel. I doubt he can even remember his own name any more. I guess you underestimated how much the Wilkes brothers enjoyed their work.”

  Gerard drew himself up and tried to remain unconcerned, but he was clearly finding this increasingly difficult. “You won't get anywhere with this,” he protested. “My father won't stand for it. Nobody will prosecute me.”

  “Oh, I don't know,” replied Thomas. “Your father has made a bad enemy in the Sheriff. I don't know what you've done to upset him, but Sir John seems quite happy drop your family in the shit.”

  “By the Rood! Nobody would testify, even if it came to it.”

  “Well, the Wilkes brothers might,” Thomas replied grimly. “They've got nothing to lose. If they hang -- and constable Harwood here is very keen that they do -- I imagine they'll be very happy for you to keep them company on the gallows at Tyburn.”

  Samuel scowled. “You can't believe that a jury will believe them rather than me?”

  “Oh, the words of a condemned man can be very convincing to a jury.” George assured him. “They won't expect a man to be willing to go to his maker with a lie on his lips.” He paused for a moment. “Of course, most jurymen haven't dealt with the kind of pox-infested whoresons I meet in the course of my duties.”

  Samuel looked from George to Thomas uncertainly. George grinned reassuringly. “But enough of that for now. Tell us what you know about the death of Peter Long.”

  Gerard looked surprised at this change of subject, but Thomas was sceptical about how genuine the reaction was. He said: “You'll know he's dead, of course?”

  “Aye, he was my friend. How could I not know? I'm just surprised you're asking me about it. What business is it of yours?”

  “His father -- Sir Richard -- is no friend of yours, I gather.”

  Gerard shrugged, and smiled. “Sir Richard is no friend of anybody who likes a good time. Him and that sour-faced wife of his -- all they care about is licking the Pope's ballocks.”

  George scowled at him. “I'm surprised you'd make an accusation like that against the family of a friend.”

  “Peter's dead,” Gerard replied coldly. “His family aren't my concern.”

  “Did you see much of Peter?” Thomas asked.

  “A couple of times a week. perhaps, with other fellows. We'd go to inns, or bear-baiting, or the cock-pit. Sometimes hunting, if he could get away from his father for long enough.”

  “And gambling?”

  “Oh, cards, dice, the usual. But I've already put my hand up to that.”

  “Whores?”

  “Aye. What of it -- it's not a crime, is it? Peter was mad for women; couldn't leave them alone. He was supposed to be getting married -- did you know that?” Gerard unfolded his arms and pushed himself off the wall, yawning as he stretched. Thomas speculated that Gerard was relieved to find the questioning turning to somebody else's behaviour that his own.

  Gerard continued: “His family fixed it up, of course. The daughter of some minor Spanish gent -- the count of some-place or other. Of course, that couldn't go ahead, not with the New K
ing's views on the Spanish.”

  Thomas nodded, although he recalled that the Old King hadn't been very keen on the Spanish either, at the end.

  Gerard continued: “Still, he was determined to sow his wild oats before his father made him settle down with some mare-faced slapper with a defunct title. Of all of us, it was Peter that was led by the codpiece. Now, me, I'd rather read a good book any day.”

  Thomas regarded Gerard sceptically; he suspected that Gerard had not even opened a book since school, if even then. “What sort of man was Peter?” He asked. “Apart from being interested in the pleasures of female companionship, which is hardly a distinguishing feature in a young man.” He paused, then continued in a sarcastic voice: “Present company excepted, of course.”

  Gerard chucked, then thought about this. “Quiet, mostly. Liked a good time, but nothing rough. A bit uptight but, knowing his family, that's no surprise. But why are you asking me about Peter? You're surely not accusing me of being involved in his death?”

  George scowled at him. “God's wounds! If I thought that, we'd be having this friendly meeting in the compter, not in your father's hallway.” The two men stared at one another.

  “Peace,” Thomas said, breaking the strained silence. “I'm just wondering how much you know about a serous crime he was involved in, shortly before he died. Did he tell you about that?”

  Gerard shook his head and frowned. “I know nothing of any crime. Who told you, anyway?”

  “He confessed.”

  Gerard looked up rather quickly. Thomas thought that this answer had taken Gerard completely by surprise. Gerard continued: “Confessed? To you?”

  “Nay.” Thomas was reluctant to discuss Peter Long's suicide with Gerard even though he guessed that Gerard probably knew, or at least suspected. “He told his father that he had murdered someone. Whether he really had or not we don't know, and we can hardly ask him now.”

  Thomas watched Gerard closely. The young man definitely seemed less self-assured now; his red eyes darted from Thomas to George and back again. Thomas wondered how thin Gerard's veneer of confident civility was, and how he would react if it were penetrated. Could he become violently unpredictable? Thomas guessed that it was at least possible. Gerard got himself back under control, and shrugged. “As I said, I don't know anything about it. I'm surprised Peter would have the backbone to murder anybody, to be honest.”

  “On his own, maybe.” Thomas agreed. “Peter's father rather thinks that you might have had a hand in putting him up to it.” That wasn't precisely what Sir Richard had said, but Thomas was happy for Gerard to think it was.

  “God's teeth! That's bloody outrageous -- he can't say things like that!”

  Thomas shrugged. “Well, as I said, he doesn't like you very much. Well, that's all for now. We'll be back when we've consulted the Sheriff about your dealings with the Wilkes boys.”

  At this point, Walter Gerard burst back into the passage. “No you damned well won't! That's quite enough. The Sheriff gave you leave to question my son, against my wishes, and you have. Now get out. He's told you everything he's going to. Isn't that right, Samuel.”

  “Aye, father,” Samuel Gerard simpered. “Everything I know.” He smirked.

  “The Sheriff is just baiting me,” Gerard Senior complained. “ I don't know why; but I don't believe for a moment that he will prosecute Samuel over a youthful disagreement.”

  George interrupted: “Ballocks! His 'youthful disagreement' has left another man drooling and pissing himself.”

  “That wasn't my fault,” the younger Gerard moaned. You already have the fellows that did it locked up.”

  “Just one more thing,” Thomas asked, resisting Walter Gerard's attempts to manoeuvre George and himself towards the door. “Samuel, what happened to your leg?”

  Samuel looked down in surprise. “Oh, that? I broke it in a hunting injury. Years ago. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason. I just wondered. We can let ourselves out. Fare ye well.” Thomas lifted his cap to Walter Gerard in a mocking display of exaggerated deference, and he and George left the house.

  Wednesday afternoon, May 23, 1550

  “I'm hungry,” Thomas complained, as his senses were assaulted by the smell of the Candlewick cook-shops.

  George shook his head. “By my beard! You're always hungry, Tom.”

  “Wondering whether I'm going to end up as dinner for somebody's dogs gives me an appetite.”

  “Aye. I wonder how many many fellows he keeps holed up at that place, and whether the King knows about it?” He looked at the length of the shadows to get an idea of the time, and said: “Do you have to get back to the Whyte Hart?”

  “There's only two or three for dinner today, and Katt can cope perfectly well without me.”

  George grinned. “Better, probably. Come on, lets go to Spicy Sam's. I fancy something with suspicious gristly lumps in.”

  Goodman Samuel Roberts' cook-shop was a noisome, rickety timber-framed building whose narrow front was mostly taken up by a serving hatch and counter. The hatch had a wooden shutter which opened upwards, and could be supported on wooden poles to form a makeshift roof to shield customers from the weather. Today, however, the hatch cover had been removed completely, and a hearth had been rigged up from bricks and stones outside the shop, encroaching on the street. On the glowing embers on top of the hearth three iron pots of stew simmered and bubbled thickly. A group of men were clustered around the hearth, some eating, other talking.

  George took a ladle from the counter and disturbed the surface of each pot in turn. “Looks like...” He peered into the first pot suspiciously. “Seagull in this one. This one I can't identify -- rat, perhaps?”

  He ducked as a grinning fat man in a stained apron swiped a damp towel at his head from the other side of the hatch. “Do you mind, Jack?” the man grumbled in a deep, gruff voice. “You'll scare off the real customers. I'm a purveyor of fine foods.”

  George continued his investigation. “What's in this one, Sam?” He smelled the contents of the ladle and screwed up his nose. “Apart from the garlic, that is?”

  “That's beef and carrots. The middle one is pork and ginger -- not bloody rat, nothing like rat. You wound me, you really do.” For the benefit of the other men he said: “Do you want to see my licence, constable?”

  George shrugged. “Nay -- you probably forged it anyway.” He ducked another swipe of the towel. “And this other one?” He pointed the ladle at the first pot.

  “Aye, well that is seagull in fact,” Samuel admitted with a shrug. “Very tasty bird, seagull.”

  “Got any of that beef fried with nutmeg and ginger?”

  “No. But I can do you some, since you asked so nicely. Penny a bowl. Don't forget to bring the bowls back.”

  “Two bowls, please Sam.” George handed over a coin, and Sam waddled over to the hearth inside the shop and threw some meat on a skillet, where it hissed and spat. He wiped his greasy hands on his filthy apron. Outside, George poked the middle pot of stew again and sniffed suspiciously. “I'm sure it is rat, you know,” he said, and ducked as a carrot top flew threw the hatch at him.

  Thomas replied: “Have you noticed you never see any stray dogs or cats around this street?” He also ducked reflexively, but the cook did not hear him over the noise of the frying meat.

  While they were waiting, another customer arrived with his own saucepan, which he filled up with definitely-not-rat soup. “My brother and his family have come visiting, and here we are with nothing in the house,” he complained. He pushed some money over the counter in Samuel's direction; he took it and threw it in a wooden box without taking his eyes of his cooking. “Funny how relatives always turn up just before a meal, isn't it?” The man grinned, and hurried away with his saucepan.

  Samuel scooped the fried meat into two bowls and pushed them over the counter, where the contents slopped over George's waiting hands.

  Thomas said: “Don't wipe your fingers on that fancy doublet, J
ack. Your wife will skin you.”

  George grinned, and handed a sticky bowl to Thomas. They picked up wooden spoons from a box on the counted and, as they walked away, Samuel called after them: “And don't forget to the bring the bowls back. And the spoons.” They heard him muttering: “Bloody constables, worst petty thieves in London.”

  Thomas and George looked around for somewhere to sit, and finally found a couple of ale barrels, which they dragged into the sunlight. For a while they sat on their barrels and chewed reflectively; then Thomas screwed up his face. “I can see why you call him Spicy Sam.”

  George nodded. “You can hardly taste the meat, which is probably no bad thing most of the time. You really feel you've eaten though, after one of Spicy Sam's dishes.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and just stopped himself in time from wiping his hand on his jacket.

  “So,” he said eventually. “What do you make of young Gerard's story?”

  Thomas spat out a piece of gristle, and shrugged. “The limp is interesting, but there are plenty of Londoners with leg injuries.”

  George nodded. “The might-soil man said he didn't recognize the man with the limp he saw near the Allard house, but then he probably doesn't mix in the same circles as Gerard. Most likely Gerard and his cronies don't spend much time in Philpot Street.”

  Thomas extracted a suspicious lump from his mouth and inspected it, before throwing it over his shoulder. “But the possible connection is that Jane Allard was known to receive male visitors; Gerard and Peter Long visited prostitutes, and somebody saw a man with a limp in the street at around the time she might have been killed, give or take a day or two.”

  George replied: “It's pretty thin, though, isn't it? We should have asked Gerard about his whereabouts on the evening the night-soil man saw the fellow with the bad leg.”

  “I doubt he would have told us anything.” Thomas finished his food and licked his fingers. “But how about this: Gerard and Long visit Jane Allard but are interrupted in the act by Black Roger. He attacks his wife in a jealous fit, and kills her, then turns on Gerard and Peter Long, who kill him. Peter kills himself out of guilt.”

  George thought about this as he took the bowls back to the cook-shop. When he came back, the men rolled the barrels back into the alley where they found them, and walked along Candlewick street.

  Eventually George said: “It's a nice idea, Tom, but there are two problems. First: if Roger Allard is the mystery corpse in Eastcheap, as you maintain, why did Long and Gerard drag his body all the way there from Philpot Street? More to the point, how did they do it without being seen by the watch?”

  Thomas nodded. “Aye, the 'why' certainly is a problem. As for the 'how', you know as well as I do that the men of the watch aren't all that vigilant in the hours after midnight.” He paused, thinking of his own parish. “Or before midnight, for that matter.”

  “Mine are,” George objected, “or they get my boot up their arses.”

  “Would Long and Gerard necessarily have to come through your parish to get to Eastcheap?”

  George shook his head after a brief consideration. “I wouldn't walk down Gracechurch Street if I were carrying a corpse. There are plenty of alleys they could have used. The St Clement's watch is particularly slack. If it was a wet night, they'd all be huddled around the fire in an alehouse somewhere. Actually, that's where the lazy sots are on any night after midnight.”

  “Well, that's one problem dealt with. What was the other problem?”

  “It just doesn't sound right, Tom. You told me that Allard was pimping his wife.”

  “That's what Katt -- that's what I heard.”

  George gave him a sharp, inquisitive look, but didn't follow it up. “All right. So what motive would he have to attack men if he found them with his wife? Surely that would suit him, so long as they paid up?”

  Thomas nodded. “Maybe he didn't catch them with his wife -- maybe they just had a row about the price.”

  “That might explain Allard getting into a fight with Gerard and Long -- if he did -- but it wouldn't explain why any of them would attack Jane Allard.”

  Thomas shrugged as he picked bits of meat from his teeth. “From what I hear, Black Roger didn't need much excuse to lay into his wife. Maybe he was angry that she wasn't charging them enough.”

  George scratched his head. “All right, so Allard kills his wife, for some unknown reason, and the lads attack him. Why? Gerard didn't strike me as the kind that would come to the aid of a damsel in distress.”

  Thomas chewed his lip reflectively. “More likely the kind to add to the distress.” Something nagged at the back of his mind as he said this.

  George continued. “And we're missing the biggest problem -- if Allard is the mystery corpse, he wasn't just killed, he was almost dismembered. Why would Gerard and his cronies go to the trouble?”

  “To put the blame on a butcher?”

  “It's possible, I guess,” George conceded. “It just doesn't sound very likely.”

  Thomas nodded. The men strolled into Eastcheap in silence. Then Thomas said: “Perhaps we're working too hard to link Allard and Gerard. Perhaps Allard had nothing to do with his wife's murder.”

  George scowled. “I don't like that explanation. I want to believe that Allard killed his wife, because it would give us a good reason to hang him.”

  “If he ever turns up.”

  George shrugged. “Then who killed Jane Allard?”

  “Suppose that Peter Long killed her, and then committed suicide out of guilt.”

  “Why on earth would he do that?”

  “I don't know. Perhaps she made fun of the size of his little man?”

  George nodded. City prostitutes were not know for their warm hearts or generous natures. There was no reason to think that Jane Allard would be any different. Then he said: “With no witnesses, it's going to be bloody hard to find out, let alone prove it in court.” Thomas had to agree with that. “There is another connection, if we're looking for more connections.”

  “Oh? What's that?”

  Thomas thought as he talked, almost to himself. “The Mermaid in St George's Lane. Allard drank there. Big Tom Francis drinks there, and he's still a suspect, sort of. And Goody Warter acted very oddly when I mentioned the mystery corpse.”

  “It seems to me,” George mused, “that Roger Allard is still at the centre of this mess. We really need to know more about him.”

  Thomas nodded in agreement. “Well, there's no point asking his neighbours -- it seems they hardly spoke to him, and were scared half to death of him anyway.”

  “Who wouldn't be scared of him? He sounds like a nasty piece of work -- a nasty piece of work with a meat cleaver.”

  Thomas thought about this. “Another butcher? I suppose the people who knew him best would be the other butchers at Abraham's.”

  The two men looked to their right, into the open gates of Abraham's yard. As always, men were engaged in the strenuous work of tuning carcasses into food products, accompanied by the sounds of chopping and grinding.

  Thomas continued: “I can't imagine Big Tom was scared of Allard. I can't imagine Big Tom being scared of anything smaller than a siege catapult.”

  “Perhaps it's time we spoke to him again -- particularly about Allard?”

  Thomas looked nervously into the yard. “Well, we're right here, as luck would have it. Shall we seize the moment?”

  Thomas and George presented themselves to Peter Abraham, who was supervising a delivery of pig carcasses. He recognized Thomas, and nodded at him, but continued haranguing the cart driver. “You can't seriously mean to tell me that these were slaughtered yesterday?” His voice was querulous. “This one's got mould on!”

  The cart driver looked down from his seat at the offending hog indifferently. “I just drive the cart, Master Abraham. You'd need to take it up with Master Jenkins. Now, do you want them, or nay?”

  Abraham sighed. “I don't want the mouldy one. I'll alter the in
voice.

  The driver shrugged. “All the same to me. Cart was going back anyway.” He got down and began unhitching the horse from the cart traces.

  Abraham turned around and called out across the yard: “Tom! Tom Francis!”

  Big Tom swaggered up with his thumbs in his apron belt. “Aye?”

  “Tom, have some of the lads get these hogs into the salting room. They need skinning and salting this afternoon.” He looked distastefully at the pile of carcasses. “Or some of them are going to float away.”

  He handed a piece of paper to the driver. “Tell Jenkins payment will be one short.”

  The driver took the paper and stuffed it into his jerkin without looking at it. “Right you are, Master Abraham.” With a nod at the other men he led the horse over to a water trough, where it lapped thirstily.

  Abraham sighed. “It's always the same when summer comes. Half the animals we get are spoiled before they arrive. He stood to one side as a gang of young men arranged themselves around the cart and began heaving it to the rear of the yard. “I remember the days when we got carcasses so fresh they were still squealing.”

  “What happened?” Thomas asked, interested despite his more pressing concerns.

  “People happened, that's what. We just can't bring animals into the City fast enough. When I was a lad, the farmers would bring their animals to market in the morning, and they'd be on the dinner table the next day. Now there are animals backed up all the way to Norfolk. Some folks have started slaughtering the beasts locally, and then carting in the carcasses. Easier for them, of course, but what we get isn't really fit for human consumption. But I take it you didn't come to discuss the trials and tribulations of the butcher's trade?”

  “Nay, indeed, Master Abraham. We wanted to ask you, or your men, about Roger Allard.”

  Abraham spat. “That lazy wastrel? Have you found him?”

  Thomas and George exchanged glances. Thomas said: “I didn't know you'd lost him.”

  Abraham turned and walked towards the yard buildings. George and Thomas followed him. Over his shoulder he said: “I'm not sure when he last graced us with his presence. The other lads cover up for him, of course. They're a close bunch. But I haven't seen him myself for, oh... at least a week. If I do see him again, it will be for the last time. I'm fed up with never knowing whether he'll be here or not.”

  “Do you know where he might have gone?”

  “Tom Francis tells me that the rumour in the alehouses is that he killed his wife and ran away. Is his wife dead, Constable?”

  George nodded grimly. Abraham sighed. “I try to look after my men, but I don't interfere in their home lives. Apart from the apprentices, of course. Roger was a decent enough butcher, when he bothered to show up. He didn't live in this parish, so I had little reason to poke my nose in.”

  “What sort of man was he?” asked Thomas.

  Abraham considered the question, then asked: “Was? Are you saying that he's dead?”

  “We can't say,” George replied. “We've had fellows looking for him, and so has the Sheriff. But if he he's left London, he won't be easy to find.”

  “Well, he was -- is -- oh, I don't know. You'd do better to ask Tom. Tom Francis, that is. He knows the men better than I do.”

  As luck would have it, Big Tom sauntered back to the card just as Abraham mentioned his name. He looked at Thomas and George appraisingly. “Still checking me out?” he asked.

  Thomas chuckled. “Not really, Goodman Francis. Don't worry, your secret's safe with us.”

  Abraham looked quizzically at Francis, who reddened slightly around the eyes -- the only part of his face that was visible under the beard. “Don't worry, Master Abraham. It's a personal matter.”

  Abraham nodded reluctantly. “Well, I'll leave you to it, if you don't mind. I've got paperwork to do. God give ye good day.” He nodded at Thomas and George and walked away.

  When he was out of earshot, Francis led them other men to a quiet corner of the yard, where they sat on packing cases. Francis looked Thomas up and down. “Nice outfit, Goodman Whyte.” He said, grinning. “Or should I say Master Whyte? I thought you said you were an innkeeper?”

  “And so I am, indeed, Goodman Francis. But it seems everybody's a master these days, unless he's covered in soil.”

  Francis nodded. “Well, whatever you are, I hope you're going to keep quiet about Rosie and me. I take it that's what you meant?”

  Thomas grinned at George, and mimed covering his mouth. “Our lips are sealed. It's not a bloody crime to marry outside your parish, anyway. These days the whole of the City seems like one great big parish, anyway. How many of your fellow butchers live in this parish? Apart from yourself, of course?”

  Francis thought about this. “About half, I would guess. Times are changing, and not for the better I should say. I always said...”

  George tried to hurry things along. “What do you know about Roger Allard? Black Roger, as he seems to be known as.”

  Francis gave him a narrow-eyed stare, then continued lightly: “Now there's someone who doesn't live in the parish. He lives in St Andrews, I think. Where he came from originally, I don't know. He's been working here a couple of years. Claimed to have served his time. Probably true -- he knows one end of a dead cow from the other. It's about the only good thing I can say about him.”

  “What sort of man is he?”

  Francis scowled. “He's all right. We weren't exactly best pals.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  Francis looked up at the sky. “Don't know. Maybe a week ago, maybe longer.”

  “Doesn't that strike you as odd?”

  Francis shrugged. “Day rates. He doesn't work, he doesn't get paid. That's his business.”

  “Is he a reliable worker?” Thomas persisted. “When he's here?”

  “He's all right.”

  Thomas sighed. “Look, we know that everybody thinks he killed his wife and ran away. You'd hardly be giving anything away by being open with us.”

  Francis looked hard at him. “And what do you think?”

  “I think he's dead and buried.”

  Francis nodded. “That's what I think, too, after what you've said.” He scratched his beard. “Don't know why. Just something about him. If he really did kill his wife, he'd more likely boast about it than run away, even if it led him to the scaffold.”

  “Did you see him often, outside work?”

  “In the alehouse, sometimes.”

  “The Mermaid?”

  Francis nodded again. “More often than not.”

  “I'm curious about that,” Thomas mused. “Why the Mermaid? It's a bit out of your parish, isn't it? Goody Warter told me that quite a few of your workmates drink there. I was wondering why. Are there no decent alehouses in Eastcheap?”

  “Oh, that's no secret, as least.” Francis replied. “Harry Warter and I go back a long way. He used to work here, before he got married and decided that there was a better living in ale than in meat. Can't say I blame him. I might try the same thing when Rosie and I are married.”

  “You mean Warter used to be a butcher?”

  “Of course. Didn't you know? If we're going to spend our hard-earned money on ale, it might as well go into the pocket of a friend as a stranger.”

  As they walked out of the yard and into Eastcheap, George said to Thomas: “Maybe you're right about the Mermaid. There's definitely something suspicious about it.”

  “Henry Warter used to be a butcher, and the mystery corpse was killed with a butcher's cleaver. I wonder if Warter had a cleaver?”

  “Are you suggesting that Warter killed the mystery man?” George asked.

  “I'm increasingly sure that the mystery corpse is Allard, although I don't have any more evidence. It just seems right.”

  “I guess one of us needs to speak to Warter, and soon.” George thought for a moment, then grumbled: “I can't do it tomorrow. I've spent too long away from the shop as it is, and I've still go
t a watch to organize. And I should probably call off the search for Allard, if you're sure he's in his shroud. I'd better talk to the Sheriff, as well.”

  “Oh, speaking of the Sheriff -- did you tell him about our entertainment tonight?”

  “Aye, sorry -- forgot to tell you. He said he couldn't wait, and he'd organize a couple of men to help you keep order.”

  “Oh. That sounds ominous.”

  “Well, you can't keep the whole City out single-handedly.”

  “I only need to keep out the fifty thousand who haven't paid,” replied Thomas glumly.

  When he returned to the Whyte Hart, Thomas found the place in chaos. As he approached the courtyard, he could see Gaffer Shawe and some men he did not recognize hammering nails into the wood of a makeshift stage, while struggling to hold up timbers. Katherine was shouting instructions to girls who were running in and out of the kitchen doors carrying pots and bottles, while Agnes and Mary were on the balcony, fighting over a roll of linen. Before he could even enter the courtyard, Thomas was accosted by two heavy-set, liveried young men carrying pikes, whose demeanour was just barely on the right side of threatening. “Sorry, Master,” one of them leered. “Can't let you in here. Sheriff's orders.” He stuck the butt of his pike in the ground at Thomas's feet. Thomas put one foot against it, and yanked hard on the point end of the pike-shaft. The pike-man's jaw dropped in surprise as the leverage pulled the shaft out of his hand, and neatly overbalanced him. His colleague guffawed.

  Thomas sighed and pushed the pike back into the man's hands as he helped him up. “Here. Try to hold onto it in future. It works better when the point is towards the enemy. Or so they told me in France. I never quite got the hang of it myself.” He looked around. “Better still, put those damned things in the kitchen before you hurt yourselves with them, and ask Gaffer over there if he needs any help.” Thomas indicated the half-finished stage.

  “But...”

  “Don't worry. I own this place. The Sheriff sent you because he thought you might be able to help.” He grinned and pushed them into the courtyard. “And, do you know, I rather think you can.” Seeing their faces, Thomas took pity on them. “Don't worry, you can play at big, brave soldiers again when the show starts. Right now, it looks like Gaffer could do with some extra muscle. Go -- get to it!” He pushed the men in the direction of the stage, and followed Katherine into the kitchen.

  There, she sunk onto a stool in the corner and grimaced at Thomas. He found a wooden tankard -- the only drinking vessel still in place -- and dipped it into the barrel of small ale. Katherine smiled weakly as he pushed the tankard into her hands. She was flushed in the face and her hair was in knots. She pushed it out of her face and swigged from the mug.

  Thomas said: “I'm sorry Katt. If I'd realized there was so much to do, I'd have come home sooner.”

  Katherine shrugged, and put the mug down heavily on a bench. She sighed and walked over to the cooking hearth, where iron pots of hazelnuts were warming on the embers. As she stirred the pots, she said: “Don't worry. You'd only have been in the way. Despite appearances, everything is under control. I'm going to send Mary and Gaffer out for the pies in half an hour; we should have everything set up by then.”

  “Have you got a place sorted out for the Sheriff and his family?”

  She nodded. “On the front balcony. Mary and Agnes are trying to put up an awning in case it rains.”

  Thomas walked over to the window and looked up at the sky. It had been warm all day, but black clouds were gathering. “Let's hope it holds off until the show's over. Where are Beauchamp and his mob?”

  Katherine gestured with her head. “In the blue bedroom, practising, they tell me. If the audience laugh half as much as the performers, it will be a good show.” As if on cue, there was a burst of raucous laughter in the distance and a slamming of doors. A thin young man wearing a woman's kirtle, his cheeks painted red, ran past the kitchen door.

  Thomas scratched his head. “When were the privies last emptied?”

  “Last night, I hope. I dread to think what state they're going to be in by collection time.”

  Wednesday evening, May 23, 1550

  By six o'clock the courtyard was full, and the Sheriff's men were busy keeping people away. The Sheriff and his family were safely installed in the courtesy box, and about a hundred people were sitting on the benches that Gaffer and his gang had put up. Despite his original plans, Thomas had allowed people to stand at the back, since they seemed to be prepared to pay the same price as the privileged seated people. As a result, the courtyard was almost full. Thomas heard his name being called from the courtyard entrance, and looked over to see George Harwood waving at him from between the two doorkeepers. Thomas wandered over and motioned them aside, to let George and his wife and their two girls into the courtyard. “Sorry we're late, Tom. Constable business -- you know how it is.”

  Thomas nodded. “Not to worry, they've not started. Come on, I've saved you seats up on the balcony. Come on through the kitchen, it will be quicker.” He led the family through the kitchen and up a narrow flight of stairs into the upstairs passageway. From there they walked through an empty bedroom onto the balcony. “Make yourselves at home; some snacks should be coming around later.” He looked hurriedly around the balcony. “Take some chairs from the bedroom if there aren't enough. Sorry, I've got to rush. Innkeeper business -- you know how it is.” He winked at George and rushed back to the courtyard to help man the gate.

  The girls were circulating with cooked nuts and cakes, which were selling well. Then a tall, elegant young woman walked from the kitchen door to the area in from of the stage. She was carrying a 16-string lute, on which she strummed chords. She was followed by a man with large, flat drum, which he beat slowly with a short stick, and an older woman playing softly on a pipe. The band increased the volume and the tempo of their playing, and the crowd gradually quietened. After a few moments four men ran from the kitchen onto the stage, carrying burning torches. On the stage, they began to juggle the torches, throwing them from person to person. The crowd began to clap and shout, as the tempo of the music got faster and faster. The lute player's fingers were a blur over the strings.

  As he stood watching the performance by the gate, Thomas felt a touch on his arm. Katherine was standing next to him, looking exhausted but relieved. “Looks like it's going to be a good show,” Thomas said. “If they don't burn the stage down.”

  Katherine nodded, as if in relief. “I've asked them to break after an hour or so, and we'll hand out the food.”

  “Is everything in order?”

  “Gaffer and Mary have set off for the bakery. They'll be back in half an hour, all being well.”

  Thomas nodded. “Well done.”

  Katherine smiled. “It's a team effort. Mary and the girls have worked themselves into the ground.”

  “Not completely, I hope,” Thomas objected. “We've got to do the same tomorrow and on Friday. How are the takings looking?”

  “Healthy enough, God be thanked. We might just survive the week.”

  At that point the jugglers left the stage to loud applause. They were replaced by three women, who sung a madrigal in three parts, accompanied by the lute. Thomas thought they were pretty competent, so far as he could tell over the whistles and catcalls.

  Thomas said to Katherine: “The lute girl's pretty good, isn't she? I wonder what she's doing with Beauchamp's gang of rogues?”

  Katherine nodded. “That's Meg -- I've forgotten her surname. I was talking to her earlier. I think she makes better money with the players than she did playing in a rich man's household.” She leaned over and whispered in Thomas's ear. “Actually, what she said was --” she broke off.

  Thomas looked at her, grinning. “Are you blushing, Katt?”

  She scowled at him. “Certainly not.” She whispered again. “She said: at least with Beauchamp if one of the audience wants to -- visit her bedchamber -- after the show, she gets paid for it.”
r />   Thomas chuckled. “I'll bet she didn't say 'visit her bedchamber'. Has she ever even had a bedchamber?”

  Katherine reddened again. “She used words that a young woman shouldn't even know.”

  “Well, you evidently knew what they meant.” Katherine elbowed him painfully in the ribs.

  When the singers had finished, their place on stage was taken by a man in a toga, padded around the middle and covered with a cloak like a wealthy merchant might wear. It was Roland Beauchamp, looking even more stout and well-fed than usual. The applause continued, and the man waved his hands for quiet. He stood with his chest thrust out, hands in his belt, and harangued the audience with a speech about the man's role as head of his household, and how a man's duty was to keep his wife under control. In rhyming couplets he went on to explain how his own wife was lacking in domestic virtues, and how he was going to discipline her with a good thrashing. In the middle of this speech, a young man dressed and padded as a middle-aged woman strode on stage, and proceeded to abuse him with a rolling pin. The audience laughed uproariously, as Beauchamp was chased around the stage to the jeers of his 'wife', and eventually chased off the stage, accompanied by a jaunty dance tune played by the band, and good-natured boos and cat-calls.

  Katherine look at Thomas with her eyebrows raised.

  “Well, it's not George and the Dragon,” he said. “What it is, I'm not sure. The audience seems to be lapping it up, whatever it is.” He looked up at the Sheriff's party. The Sheriff's usually-dour face was creased with laughter. Catching sight of Thomas he waved, and Thomas nodded and raised his cap slightly.

  A minute and a costume change later, Beauchamp stamped pompously back on stage, accompanied by a heavy drum-beat, dressed as the god Jupiter, complete with laurel wreath and wooden thunderbolts. He delivered a long speech, in which he displayed a surprising knowledge of City officials, whom he satirised mercilessly. He even alluded to the Sheriff and his desperate desire for a knighthood. The Sheriff took this in good spirits, throwing a pie crust down from his seat on the balcony at Beauchamp, who saluted good-naturedly.

  Thomas turned to Katherine. “He's on the ball, that's for sure. How does he find out about this kind of stuff?”

  Katherine shrugged. “He has a knack for getting people to talk to him. Hadn't you noticed?”

  “What did you tell him about me?”

  She grinned. “Oh, don't worry. You're nowhere near important enough to make fun of.”

  By the time Beauchamp's company came on stage for their final bow, the audience was well-fed and well-watered with ale. Thomas brought the Sheriff's men drinks, and thanked them for their efforts. They accepted the drinks gratefully, and leaned their pikes against the wall. There was still a small crowed outside the inn gates, straining to see the performance. Thomas waved at them and called “Sorry we couldn't fit you in tonight. There'll be another show at the same time tomorrow, same price. God give you good night.” The Sheriff's party walked up to the gates, and the Sheriff nodded at Thomas. Then the Sheriff swept away, his livery-men pushing a path through the crowd.

  Gaffer Shawe ran up to Thomas, wheezing slightly. “We're out of ale, Tom. We've sold three barrels.”

  Thomas looked around the courtyard. “Are we expecting a delivery from Master Langbridge tomorrow?”

  Gaffer nodded. “Another three barrels. But what about tonight?”

  “It's late. Just tell people we've run out. Of course, there's wine and stronger drinks in the tap-room if anybody's interested.” He looked at the darkening sky. “Otherwise, it's time to go home.”

  At ten o'clock, the last of the show-goers had been persuaded to go home, and the courtyard was mostly tidy -- Gaffer and Thomas had pushed the benches against the inn walls, leaving the stage in place. Any horses or carts would just have to manoeuvre round it. Katherine and Thomas sat on chairs in the kitchen with a cup of wine each, feet on a low table. “Well,” Thomas mused, “that went all right.”

  Katherine smiled broadly. “More than all right,” she confirmed. “We've taken more money in one night than we normally do in a week.”

  Thomas nodded. “Are Beauchamps' rascals under control?”

  “The men are,” Katherine replied. “I'm not sure the same can be said about the women.”

  “I don't want to know,” grumbled Thomas, waving a hand. “So long as they aren't frightening the horses.”

  Katherine shrugged. “We've all got to make a living, as best we can.”

  Thomas paused. “It's odd, actually.”

  “What is?”

  “I was speaking to one of Beauchamp's girls earlier this evening. Not the lute girl -- one of the singers. I got the impression she wanted to talk to somebody. But, not to me, unsurprisingly.”

  “Is that a hint?” Katherine looked at him.

  “Well,” Thomas shrugged, “I don't know why, but I got the impression it was important; I'm not sure why. So if any of the girls want to tell you anything, don't discourage them.”

  Katherine nodded, and swallowed her wine. “I haven't had time to ask you how your day was.”

  Thomas drank his wine reflectively. “I spoke to Gerard's son.”

  “What's he like?”

  “Twenty pounds of horse-shit in a ten-pound sack.”

  Katherine giggled. “Don't be coy, tell me what you really thought of him.”

  “I didn't know what to make of him, to be honest. He was polite enough, charming even. Smiled all the time; but not, I think, in a friendly way. I got the impression he knew more than he was letting on, and he didn't think George and I were smart enough to figure it out. To be honest, I got an impression of an angry and disturbed young man, under the smooth talk. I wonder what he's like after a skin-full of strong ale? He admitted that he paid the Wilkes brothers to beat up Robert Chilton, but I've got a feeling the he's involved in the murder of Jane Allard as well.”

  Thomas drank some more wine. “But I've also got an idea that Henry Warter is involved, too.”

  “Who's he?”

  “He runs the Mermaid Tavern in St George's with his wife. Warter used to be a butcher -- he's a friend of Tom Francis.”

  Katherine shook her head. “I don't think I know any of these people.”

  “Probably for the best. Perhaps it's not important, anyway. I might be just be making connections because I like things to be orderly. Perhaps the killings are completely unrelated.”

  “But you don't think so.”

  “No. There's some connection between the Warters and the Allards; I just can't figure it out.”

  Thomas swirled his wine in the cup for a minute, then sat up. “Wait -- what if the connection is the opium? Warter has tincture of opium for his back condition. Suppose he killed Allard with tincture of Opium?”

  Katherine was now completely confused, but did not want to disturb Thomas's thinking. “Why would he do that?”

  “To be honest, I don't know. But when I mentioned the murder in Eastcheap, Goody Warter seemed very surprised.” Thomas looked into his wine again. “But if Allard is the dead man in Eastcheap -- and I rather think he is -- then I'm not sure where the opium fits in. Unless --”

  Thomas stood up and started pacing the kitchen. “I thought it was odd that the dead man in Eastcheap had no defensive wounds.”

  Katherine scowled at him. “Do I even want to know what that means?”

  “Sorry. Look: normally if somebody is attacked with a weapon, he'll put up his arms to defend himself, unless it's a sneak attach from behind.” Thomas mimed doing this, sticking his tongue out and gurgling as he did so. “We usually find cuts or bruises on the victim's arms. The Eastcheap man had no injuries on his arms or hands.”

  “You're thinking that maybe whoever killed him gave him opium to knock him senseless first?”

  Thomas nodded animatedly. “That's exactly what I'm thinking. Suppose, for some reason, Warter wanted to kill Black Roger. We know that Warter was at one time a butcher, and presumably the cleaver wo
uld be his weapon of choice. But suppose he didn't trust himself to take on somebody of Roger's violent disposition?”

  “A drop of tincture of opium in his ale would even the odds?”

  “More than a drop but, aye; and the taste of the Warter's not-very-fresh ale would mask the foul taste of the opium, to some extent. I've tried it.”

  “The opium, or the ale?”

  “Both. I'm not sure which tasted worse.”

  Thomas continued to pace up and down, while Katherine inspected the bottom of her wine cup. Finally she sighed. “Then I suppose you'll have to talk to these Warters, won't you?”

  “I'll go tomorrow afternoon, after lunch. I'll help getting the place ready for Beauchamps' gang in the morning. That reminds me -- I'd better send a lad down to Langridge's and ask him to send over another card-load of ale; three barrels might not be enough.” He shuffled slightly. “I feel rather guilty about leaving you to it all day today.”

  Katherine finished her wine. “Well, we managed. Just be careful.”