Read Butchery: A Mystery of Tudor London Page 2

  Part 1: A mystery and a sign

  “God made the wicked Grocer

  For a mystery and a sign

  That men might shun the awful shops

  And go to inns to dine;”

  -- GK Chesterton, The song against grocers

  Tuesday morning, May 16, 1550

  The scratching of quill on paper was interrupted only by the occasional curse. Thomas Whyte was hunched over a stack of invoices on the desk in his tiny workroom, doggedly trying to get the inn's weekly accounts in order. An observer would have noticed, but he did not, that as he worked he bit his lower lip, and frowned with such intensity that his eyebrows met. Thomas had often reflected that book-keeping was the least agreeable part of his life as an innkeeper. Events were shortly to prove him wrong.

  It was about ten o'clock in the morning, according to the dissonant peals of the cracked bell of St Peter's, and the quietest part of the inn's day. Even the most gluttonous breakfasters had been hustled away, and dinner -- the main meal at midday -- would not be served for another two hours. Thomas looked up from his papers and rubbed his eyes. He chewed the end of his quill while staring through the single small window into the inn's courtyard. This was a sizeable square of compacted earth, engraved with cart tracks, enclosed on all four sides by three-story buildings, save for a cart-sized gate opposite where Thomas sat. A few of the inn's guests stirred behind the open window shutters; a crow pecked for breadcrumbs on ground that was still damp from the morning's rain, but otherwise all was still.

  Thomas dragged his attention back to the top item on his stack of papers, scowled for a while, and then gave up.

  “Katt!”, he shouted, learning back on his stool and pushing the door open with his foot. “Katherine!”

  A minute later, a young woman strode up, looking flustered. She wore a plain, light-brown linen kirtle with white sleeves, and a white apron; her red hair was tied loosely and uncovered in the fashion of an unmarried woman.

  “How now, Uncle Tom? I'm working.”

  “Nay, not so,” retorted Thomas, “you're playing cards with Agnes!”

  “How did you know?”

  Thomas smirked and pointed at her hands. “You've got ink on your thumbs from those cheap cards we buy for the guests to amuse themselves with.”

  Katherine raised her eyebrows. “Very clever, I'm sure.” She held her hands up in front of her, and frowned. “Nay, I haven't!”

  Thomas chuckled. “Aye, I know. Actually, Agnes told me. You two always play cards before dinner, and she always wins. I'll wager she's had thruppence off you already this week. Carry on like this, and she'll be paying us, rather than the other way around.” He pushed a slip of paper under Katherine's nose. “Anyway, is this a two or a three? I can't tell if that's an 'iii' or an 'ii' with a dash next to it.” She squinted at it, then moved it up to her face and back again, and said “It's a two. Definitely. Or maybe a three.” Thomas scowled; she grinned at him.

  “Nay, it's a three, for sure.”

  “Three barrels? Are you sure Master Langridge's man brought us three barrels?”

  “''Tis what it says.”

  “I only saw two in the yard when I came in. Where's the other one?”

  Katherine walked over and poked him gently in the belly. “Perhaps you drank it, Uncle Tom!”

  Thomas looked down at his midriff, then shook his head. “Not even I can drink fourteen gallons before dinner.” He paused. “And stop calling me 'Uncle', girl. I'm your cousin, or something, and I haven't even thirty summers.”

  “Twenty-nine,” she replied, grinning, “and already a belly like a Dutchman!”

  Thomas stood up and slapped his solid girth heartily. “Well, an innkeeper has to trust his own wares. What would the guests think if I sipped wine like an Italian?”

  “They'd think you were the proprietor of the prosperous and popular Whyte Hart Inn and not a seedy stable-hand. Look at your clothes -- you've been playing with the horses again, haven't you?” Thomas's dark, weathered skin, and his dense mop of unruly brown hair, did indeed give him the look of a stable-hand, albeit a middle-aged one. Katherine plucked a piece of straw from the shoulder of his leather jerkin and regarded at it dubiously. She brushed one of his shoulders, then the other. “Hmmm,” she said.

  “Well, somebody's got to see to the nags,” Thomas protested. “It's amazing how few people we seem to employ when it's time to shovel horse-shit. And I'm not seedy -- I'm in the prime of my life: I've got all my own hair, and most of my own teeth.” He grinned, revealing all but two of a full set.

  “Aye,” scoffed Katherine, raising an eyebrow, “the gallant soldier's battle wound. Prithee tell me again: what feat of daring led the dashing hero of the day to lose two gnashers?”

  Thomas scowled good-naturedly -- it was well-known that he had tripped over his own sword and hit his face on a Frenchman's head. He had been surprised, but not as surprised as the Frenchman. “I'd better check this with Walter -- good ale is two shillings a barrel. You know we can't afford to lose a barrel. And on the subject of extortionate prices, have any of Goodman Beauchamp's pack of villains called around yet?”

  “Aye, Uncle,” replied Katherine, stressing the word 'uncle' rather more than Thomas cared for, “but you're not going to like it.”

  “How much?” sighed Thomas.

  “Two shillings.”

  Thomas sat down heavily. “Two shillings for three nights' entertainments? That's robbery!”

  “It's worse than that -- two shillings a night.”

  Thomas's jaw dropped. “God's wounds! I remember when mummers and jugglers and the like worked for a mug of ale,” he grumbled, when he had recovered the power of speech. “Six shillings is more than our takings.”

  “Apparently it's worth it 'because of all the extra ale you'll sell.'” Katherine shrugged.

  “Not if we've lost it, we won't. Katt, would you have a word with Gaffer Walter about this? See if he remembers how many barrels Langridge sent -- when you can tear yourself away from gambling your money away to his wife, that is.” Katherine stuck out her tongue. “All right Uncle -- sorry -- Tom.”

  Their bickering was interrupted by the arrival of a tall, thin, man with a lined, worried looking face, and sparse, greying hair.

  “Good day, Master Harwood,” Katherine said with a smile. “Please excuse me while I attend to some tiresome chores my tedious guardian has found for me.” She tossed her head and left them standing in the open doorway. Harwood touched his cap politely, and smiled at her retreating back.

  “Well met, Jack,” said Thomas, when they were alone. Thomas got up and drew him into the room. “Can I offer you a cup of anything?”

  “Ale would suit me, Tom, if it's no trouble.”

  “'Tis never a trouble when it's you, Jack. Come through to the tap room.” Thomas hesitated. “Or is this a private matter?”

  “It's not a secret, Tom,” replied the constable, frowning slightly, “but it is a bit, well, sensitive. If you know what I mean.”

  “Ah. Well, have a seat in the workroom here, then, and I'll fetch us a drink.”

  When Thomas returned a few minutes later with two pewter mugs of ale, he set them down on the desk, pulled up an empty crate, and sat on it. George Harwood was already sitting on the only stool, nosily perusing the contents of Thomas's desk. He grinned sheepishly and took up a tankard. Thomas looked at his friend while he drank: a once-robust man of about his own age; two terms as a parish constable -- dangerous and largely unpaid -- had taken their toll.

  “So what's this about, Jack? Gaffer Walter hasn't been bothering the milkmaids again, has he?”

  The constable stroked his tidy, greying beard reflectively. “Not that I know of,” he replied. “But, then, this isn't my parish, or even my ward. I'm sure he can find plenty of milkmaids to annoy around here, but that's not my problem.” He sipped his ale. “This is a bit more serious than Gaffer's straying hands. Well, actually, a lot more serious.” George drain
ed the rest of his ale in one mouthful. “The bloody Sheriff is giving me a hard time.”

  “Which one? Not Master Turke?”

  George put his tankard down, and wiped his mouth on his hand. He shook his head. “Not this time, surprisingly enough. This time it's Master -- oh, I'm sorry -- Sir John York.”

  Thomas was not entirely surprised at his friend's scathing tone -- George had little time for either of the sheriffs, or the City's aldermen for that matter. He said: “Sir John's a decent enough fellow, George. I'm sure he'll settle down now he's finally got his knighthood.”

  “Maybe so,” replied the constable. “Heaven knows he sucked up to the Old King long enough without getting one.” He scowled, and then grinned. “He'd have bought the ceremonial sword to the old man's death-bed if he could have.” His face became serious. “Unfortunately, his vigour for cleaning up the City doesn't extend to doing any actual policing himself. The poor constables get the work, while he gets the credit, what little there is of it. He spends most of his time swanning around at the mint.”

  “Well, 'tis his job, Jack,” interjected Thomas in a reasonable tone. “He is an officer of the mint.”

  “I know it. And my job is a cordwainer, not a thief-taker. I should be making fancy boots for gentlefolk, not chasing pickpockets half-way across the City. Not at my time of life. Nor, for that matter, nurse-maiding a bunch of so-called watchmen who need two walking sticks to get from one end of the Bridge to other. That's what the City pays beadles for. Supervising the watch, I mean, not walking over the Bridge. Not that my watchmen ever go to the other end of the Bridge.” He paused. “Mind you, nor do I if I can help it.” He scratched his head. “What the Hell was I talking about?”

  “You were talking about why the Corporation ought to employ a paid police force,” replied Thomas. “Again.” It was, to be sure, an old argument. The City was implacably opposed to a full-time, salaried watch. They were worried it could be used as a militia -- whether for the City authorities or against them was never clear.

  “The City has a paid police force!” grumbled George. “I know for a fact that you pay Gaffer Shawe to stand your watch, and he's fifty if he's a day. Everybody does it.”

  “Forty-four, he says,” admitted Thomas, shuffling slightly. “Jack, you know I can't be prowling the streets all night when I've got to get up at five o'clock in the morning and get the inn ready. It was bad enough when I was a constable, but at least I didn't have to go out every night. But you haven't walked all the way over here to discuss the politics of law enforcement, I would guess.”

  “No. But Sheriff York is very keen to get this latest mess cleaned up, and this time he's even offered a little incentive, rather than just reminding me that the alderman will fine me if I don't catch the villain.”

  “The sort of incentive that clinks?” asked Thomas, hopefully.

  “Aye. And he's allowed me to bring in outside help. Specifically, old friend, he asked for you.”

  “Why me?” Thomas asked, with a slight sinking of his shoulders; but he was not entirely surprised.

  “Because you're good at investigating crimes -- everybody said so when you were a constable -- and I'm not. And I haven't got the time. And,” George shrugged apologetically, “you need the money.”

  It was true. The Whyte Hart inn was popular and reasonably highly regarded, but it was too large and cost a mint to run. And -- Thomas remembered the missing ale barrel -- it needed more eyes kept on its suppliers than the inn had heads to keep them in. He considered the possibility of moonlighting for a few days; he knew Sheriff York reasonably well, and had worked for him in the past. The City's system of largely private justice -- crime was supposed to be prosecuted by the victims or their families -- was not very effective when the victim was dead and unidentified. In principle, investigation was the responsibility of the wardmote jury of each of the city's wards, under the direction of its alderman. In practice the system had the resources only to deal with civic offences -- selling stale food and cheating on taxes -- not violent crime. The Sheriffs were deputies to the Lord Mayor, but traditionally answered directly to the King on matters of law and order.

  Thomas shook his head: “I never saw myself as an innkeeper ten years ago, but I certainly didn't see myself working as a common hired informer. I've tried to get away from the Sheriff's jobs because I don't want to end up branded as one.” Informers made a living by bringing prosecutions and taking a share of the fines or confiscated property on conviction. Some constables did work as informers, but were generally not respected for it.

  “You'd be working for the Crown, Tom,” George objected. “It's not the same think at all.”

  “Maybe not. But Master Savill won't like it. He actively campaigned for the post of constable when my term was up -- Heaven knows why. He won't want to see me poking my nose in again.”

  “But that's the best part -- the incident happened in St Margaret's parish. It's nowhere near here. No reason to involve Savill at all, or your alderman”

  “What about your own alderman?”

  “Tom, Master Judde doesn't want anything to do with it -- he's too busy prancing about in his smart new Mayor costume, jangling his bloody chain.” George looked into his empty tankard and scowled slightly.

  Tom chuckled as he reached over and took the tankard. “Does he wear it when he's out patrolling the streets on horseback every evening with you?” He was referring to the Privy Council's direction that the aldermen were to supervise the night watch in person until the rebellion in Cornwall had been completely routed. The orders were followed sporadically at best.

  George gave him a crooked grin. Thomas continued: “Don't tell me he doesn't ride out? Tut, tut! Whatever will the King say when a horde of rampaging Cornishmen come storming over the Bridge waving pitchforks?”

  “He'll say; 'This way to the shops, good fellows, prithee no pushing or shoving,' I imagine. The City's half full of Cornishmen anyway, these days; they'll soon feel right at home. Besides, Master Judde has no time for mere murders. It was he who set the Sheriff on me.”

  Thomas thought about this. “Jack, to be sure, I do need the money, but I'm not sure I have time for this. Whatever 'this' is.”

  “Let me tell you what it is, then decide”, said George.

  And he did.

  Monday morning, May 16, 1550

  There are, no doubt, worse ways to be woken at six o'clock in the morning than by a man in a blood-stained apron ranting about a dead body. But George Harwood, constable of St Margaret's parish, couldn't remember many. The visitor, a butcher from Eastcheap, had been sent to the constable's shop, which was also his family home,workshop, and warehouse, to summon him to a murder scene. George apologised to his wife and the shop staff, who were already settling down to work, and grumpily followed the man along Eastcheap, where a crowd had already gathered, scowling and elbowing each other around. This milling about and grumbling was the commonplace result of a hue-and-cry with nobody to chase, but today there was a particularly unsettling edge -- the pushing and shoving was more ill-tempered, just short of violence. Many of the crowd were dressed in butcher's garb -- thick-set men who looked as if they would be quite comfortable with a pig over each shoulder. The others were the usual gaggle of day labourers and apprentices, the sort of men that invariably turned out for street entertainment involving violence.

  The dawn sky was a uniform grey, and there was a light drizzle. Pale sunlight reflected off the damp, slick cobbles. Eastcheap and its neighbouring streets formed a major market during daylight hours, mostly for meat and meat products. Normally vendors would already be setting up their stalls, butchers sharpening their tools, and shops putting out their displays. But today, opening time had been deferred.

  In the centre of the crowd was a badly mutilated corpse. The dead man was dressed in the coarse clothes of a working man -- worn, brown leather boots, dark brown woollen hose, and a thick one-piece woollen tabard, tied about the waist with a belt. Thro
ugh holes in the tabard George could see a leather jerkin. The man's wounds, together with the attentions paid to the soft tissue of his face by the ubiquitous rats, had made him unrecognisable. The tabard gave him the look of a farmer -- city people tended to scorn what they considered to be peasant garments, but the tabard was warm and practical: George owned one himself. Even the dead man's age was difficult to determine, but he had probably been between twenty and thirty. He was of medium height and build; what was left of his hair was short, dark, and rotten, and matted with blood. On his chest were a number of deep gashes, clearly caused by a blade, which had passed through his clothing into flesh. His head hung at an unnatural angle, because his neck had been partly severed. George was not entirely surprised to find the murder weapon apparently lying where it had been dropped on the cobbles -- the perpetrators of frenzied attacks frequently did not tidy up after themselves as diligently they should. The weapon was a heavy butcher's cleaver, some two feet in length from handle to tip, and probably weighing nearly twenty pounds. Next to the body was a neatly stacked pile of wooden packing crates.

  George pushed his way through the milling crowed to the body, but still had to shout at the top of his voice to be heard.

  “Does anybody know anything about this? Who is this fellow?” Nobody replied. There were shrugs and shaking of heads. “Come on, somebody must know something about him! Is anybody missing?” More shrugs and head shaking.

  A large man dressed in a butcher's apron shouted: “Seems the fellow is an incomer, then. Good bloody riddance to him!” There was a murmur of approval, and more shouting.

  George looked at the butcher. The man was probably right -- he knew of nobody who had been reported missing, and this body had clearly been lying for a while. As constable, he ought to be aware of any family in his parish that had lost a member, and would expect to have heard rumours of anybody in the neighbourhood missing for any length of time. On the face of it, it did look as if the man was a newcomer. Nevertheless such disrespect for the dead was unusual, even in Eastcheap. George was about to berate the butcher, when a voice shouted from the back: “'Tis bloody obvious what happened to him: one of the damned butchers did for him. Have you no eyes in your head? His swivin' chopper's lying there, covered in blood.” Another murmur of agreement followed this outburst, and the pushing increased. George stretched to see the complainant, but did not recognize him. He decided that now might not be the best time to let a stranger antagonise the belligerent butcher -- a short-tempered man who was well known to him.

  “All right,” shouted George, looking around again. “I know what it looks like. Who found the body?”

  It turned out that a couple of butcher's apprentices had found the dead man on their way to Abraham's yard at least two hours ago, whilst it was still dark.

  The older one explained: “We were walking along the alley between Eastcheap and Candlewick Street, when Bob 'ere tripped and fell against a pile of wooden crates.” He nodded his head nervously at the the crates. “I guess the movement was enough for his hand to flop out. So we shifted the rest of the crates and, Jesu! You know what we found.”

  Not sure what to do, they had waited with the body until the older men arrived. One had been sent to raise the hue-and-cry, but a dead body in the street can hardly fail to draw a crowd, particularly such a gruesome body, and in the butcher's district.

  Not hoping for much response, the constable hefted the cleaver above his head and called out “Do any of you good people recognize this?” He was not surprised when nobody claimed it. One cleaver looked like any other, but presumably a butcher would know if he was missing his. The constable shouted again: “Very well. I need two volunteers -- a couple of stout fellows -- to carry the dead man to St Margaret's.” Without waiting for a reply, he singled out two men. “You and you!” Then he added: “And take the cleaver, too. We might need it as evidence.”

  A man called out angrily: “And what are you going to do, Constable? Sew up some boots?” There was a murmur from some parts of the crowd. George waved his arms for quiet, and silently wished he was indeed sewing boots.

  “I'm going to see Alderman Judde,” he replied glumly. “Would you like to trade places with me?” The muttering died down. The new Lord Mayor wasn't going to like it.

  Tuesday morning, May 16, 1550

  “He didn't like it,” confirmed George to Thomas Whyte. “Not at all. And you can see why. The butchers and their apprentices are a hot-tempered bunch, and they've been picking on day-labourers coming in from the country for months now. These incomers might be vagrants, strictly speaking, but we can't have punch-ups in the street. In any event, half the work in the City is done by incomers.”

  “Aye.” Thomas scratched his face thoughtfully. “It's the same all over the city. More people arriving every day, and no more work in the parishes. I had to deal with the same sort of trouble when I was a constable. But I think it's worse now. In a few years we'll have people standing on each other's shoulders.”

  The two men considered the situation glumly. Vagrancy was hard to distinguish from vagabondage -- roaming the land without gainful employment -- for which there had been harsh penalties for over a decade. Vagabonds were a major source of petty crime, but immigration from the rural areas -- which meant most of England -- was common, given the high levels of unemployment and poor harvests.

  “Are you even sure that the dead man is an incomer?” asked Thomas. “From what you said he was unrecognisable.”

  “Aye. Even his wife wouldn't have recognized the poor fellow if she'd been there.” The constable shuddered. “Rats, eyes, you know how it is.”

  Thomas finished his drink, and grimaced. He knew how it was. It didn't take long for rats to get to work, and they had no respect for the dead, whatever the species.

  “Coroner?” He asked.

  George shook his head. “No point. When you see the dead man, you'll understand why. The cause of death is pretty obvious.”

  “'You mean if I see the dead man.” Thomas objected. It's not as if I've got nothing else to do here.” He paused. “Did you speak to the butchers in Eastcheap? Did you recognize the butcher who complained about incomers?”

  “I recognised him, of course. He's Thomas Francis. His workmates call him 'Big Tom' -- it's not hard to guess why if you've seen him.”

  “Do you suspect him for the murder?” asked Thomas.

  George waved a hand. “Hardly. He's been in trouble before -- mostly fighting with the incomers. I've had to lock the fellow up a couple of times to cool off. But he's not unusual in that. He draws attention to himself because of his size, but he's only saying what plenty of City folk think.”

  “What about the other butchers?”

  “Alack, Tom, I don't have time to question every butcher in Eastcheap,” replied George with a frown. “The ones I did talk to didn't have much to say.”

  Thomas nodded, and finished his drink. Then he stood up and stretched his arms. “Well, they won't need me here between dinner and supper, so I guess I can take a look at the crime scene. But I'm not promising anything.”

  “As you will. Why don't you meet me at Abraham's yard at one o'clock? You know where it is?”

  “The big butchery that takes up half of the south side of Eastcheap?”

  “That's the place. Just follow your nose.”

  Tuesday afternoon, May 16, 1550

  Thomas Whyte walked down Gracechurch street. It was an area of small businesses and tradesmen's premises, interspersed with cook-shops and taverns. It had turned out in the end to be a fine summer day, but the street was quiet, apart from the usual press around the public water conduit at the junction with Lombard street. Women and children with buckets and flasks where jostling for position around the spout. Being on official business, of a sort, Thomas had changed into his Sunday clothes -- dark, sober breeches and a close-fitting blue doublet, which was regrettably tight around the midriff. He wouldn't pass for a duke, but some of the women curt
sied to him as be passed.

  He passed Leather Lane, where the constable's business was located. When he turned into Eastcheap Thomas could see that, unlike Gracechurch Street, it was bustling. Clearly business had returned to normal: men were carrying racks of animal carcases from poles over their shoulders, carts were bringing animals from the slaughterhouses of Smithfield; runners with barrows were taking finished meat out to the markets and shops. Meat was piled high on stalls that lined the road. Everywhere there were horses, and where you found horses, there were the foul by-products of a horse's digestion. Flies buzzed around his knees, and Thomas stepped around the piles of dung.

  He found George Harwood waiting by the gates leading to Abraham's yard. The men walked in silence along Eastcheap, until George stopped at the entrance to an alley beside a tallow chandler's shop.

  “Is this where the body was found?” asked Thomas.

  “It's where I found the body, at least. Whether the butchers' men found it there, I don't know.”

  Thomas smiled. “You're being unusually pedantic, Jack. I thought you said you had no skill at investigation?”

  George paused, then shrugged. “Aye, well, they told me they found the body here, and there's no particular reason to doubt it.” He pointed to the ground. “It was lying just where you're standing now, under a pile of crates like those outside the chandler's shop.” George pointed at them, and Thomas nodded.

  Thomas crouched on the ground, carefully avoiding the dung, and looked carefully at the cobbles. Eventually he looked up, and said: “Have you ever seen a man wounded by a sword, Jack?”

  George scowled. “Nay, Tom, of course not. I'm a cordwainer. The worst bloodshed I see is when one of the 'prentices pricks his thumb with a sewing bodkin. Why?”

  Thomas clucked his tongue as he scratched the back of his head through his cap. “I saw a few in France. The thing you notice about sword wounds is that they bleed. God's teeth, do they bleed. I'm guessing that this is equally true for if the weapon is a butcher's cleaver, although I've seen such a hurt. Your man's wounds were deep and grievous, you said?”

  George shuddered. “Like somebody had tried to hack him to pieces.”

  Thomas pointed downwards. “But there's only a few spots of blood on the ground. I take it nobody's cleaned it up?”

  George shrugged. “I can't imagine why anybody would, around here. It's not exactly shy of blood. And it was raining this morning. Well, drizzling, anyway.”

  “Not enough to wash away the quantity of blood we'd expect. And look...” Thomas pulled George down to ground level; the older man's knees cracked loudly. “The drops of blood are not in one place. There's a trace.” He pointed at a few spots of discolouration that would have been barely visible to a man standing up. “Water's made it a bit difficult, but...” Thomas got on his hands and knees and inspected the cobbles closely. “It's a shame there are so many horses stamping around, and it's been so damp, or you'd likely be able to follow it all the way to where he was killed.”

  “He wasn't killed here, then?”

  “I would say not,” Thomas replied. He stood up. “Let's see if we're in luck, and there's a bloody puddle anywhere.”

  After half an hour of desultory search they admitted defeat.

  “This is Butcher's Alley, after all,” said George. “There are drops of blood everywhere.”

  “Aye, but we're not looking for drops, Jack -- we're looking for a pool. Did it rain much last night, do you recall?”

  George dipped the toe of his boot into a nearby puddle that had formed where the cobbles had sunk, and swirled the muddy water about. “It was only drizzling when I arrived, not enough for puddles; so I would think it must have done.”

  Thomas whistled tunelessly through his teeth, as he paced up and down aimlessly. Finally he sighed, and said: “Well, no sense putting it off. Let's go and see the dead man.”

  St Margaret's church was a ten minute walk away in New Fish Street. The church was a modest stone building, dark and gloomy. Poor houses clustered around a tiny churchyard, separated from the street by a low stone wall. A muddy path wound from the street to the dark, arched entrance to the church between moss-covered headstones, which leaned erratically against one another. Carvings around the arch had been defaced or were missing entirely, as was now nearly always the case with City churches. Some of the window glass had been replaced by wooden panels, although the structure itself looked clean and sound.

  Inside the church, the parish priest turned out to be well-suited to the premises in his charge, at least in appearance: a small man, stooped and balding, with scars on his face that suggested a brush with smallpox. George knew him well.

  “Master Beresford, this is Thomas Whyte from St Peter's parish. He's helping us look into the murder this morning. Tom, this is Master Reynold Beresford, Vicar of the parish”

  “Pleased to meet you, Vicar,” said Thomas, putting on his speaking-to-the-clergy face. Beresford looked at him steadily, as if unsure whether he was pleased to meet Thomas or not. Finally he nodded slightly, and smiled. “Welcome to St Margaret's, Master Whyte. I hope you are well?”

  “In truth, I would be better if I didn't have to examine a mutilated corpse,” Thomas replied. “May we see the body, and get it over with, if you please?” Despite the warmth outside, the cold and gloom of the church made him reluctant to encourage small talk.

  “That poor man,” sighed the priest, turning and walking with some difficulty towards the chancel. “Such violence. Even in this terrible place I've rarely seen such brutality.” As the vicar turned away, George noticed a dark bruise on the man's head, just below and behind his ear, large enough to be clearly visible below his cap. He looked at Thomas, and indicated the bruise by pointing at his head. Thomas raised his eyebrows and shrugged. From a plain wooden chest that lay against the wall of the chancel, the vicar retrieved a box of candles which he passed around. “We can light them from the candles on the... on what I suppose I shall have to get used to calling the communion table, now we're no longer allowed to say 'altar.'”

  “Oh, you can say altar, Master Beresford,” said George, grinning. “You just can't have an altar.”

  The vicar narrowed his eyes at him and scowled, but without much rancour. “Thank you for reminding me of the law, Constable. I sometimes forget it, if a whole week goes by with nothing else being smashed up.” He sighed. “It was a beautiful church, once, before your so-called reforms.”

  “I'm sorry, Vicar. I didn't make the law. Blame the King and Master Cranmer”

  The vicar turned to face George. “Indeed not, Master Harwood, but you needn't deny you approve of it. Anyway, since we aren't going to agree, we'd better get on with the job at hand, hadn't we?” He turned back to the table.

  Having lit their candles, the vicar led the way behind the chancel and down a flight of narrow stone steps to the crypt. It was cold, and the draught made the candles flicker. Eerie shadows danced on the damp stone walls. In the distance water dripped. Thomas shuddered involuntarily and huddled into his jacket. At the far end of the crypt was a small wooden door that hung lopsidedly from only one hinge. In alcoves formed by the stone arches were various cloth-wrapped bundles, into whose contents Thomas decided he didn't want to enquire too deeply. In the middle of the crypt was a table on which a corpse was covered with a linen sheet. The priest crossed himself before pulling it back, looking slightly uncomfortable for doing so. Then he shrugged. “Caught me. Old habits die hard,” he said, “rather like this unfortunate fellow.” His voice echoed in the stone chamber.

  Thomas whistled in surprise. The priest nodded sympathetically. “We've started to prepare him for burial, but we can't make him look handsome.” He looked at George. “Is there any family, Constable? I'm guessing from the casual way he was dumped here that there isn't?”

  “We really don't know,” admitted George. “Nobody has claimed him.”

  “Another expense for a poor parish, then,” grumbled Beres
ford. “We'll do our best for him, of course, but it won't be an ebony bier drawn by six black stallions.”

  Thomas steeled himself to take a closer look. He raised his candle above the body, and the other men did the same. The body was naked apart from the sheet, and had long, deep gashes in the upper chest and shoulders. The face was a mass of exposed muscle tissue -- most of the skin had gone. But, most disturbingly, a blow to the neck had partially severed the head. Pieces of the man's spine protruded from the opening in his throat.

  “Is this how he looked when you found him?” He asked George. “I mean, the wounds clean like this?”

  The priest shrugged. “He's been cleaned him up a little. There was a fair amount of blood, but perhaps not as much as you might expect.”

  Thomas gave George his candle so that he and Beresford could roll the body onto its side. Thomas looked it over carefully while George illuminated proceedings as best he could. “Look, Jack -- there's bruising on his back, as if he's been dragged. Rather a lot of bruising, in fact, like he was bumped down some steps.”

  “But there are no weapon marks on his back?”

  “Not edged weapons.” Thomas confirmed. He looked around the dead man's neck. “Nor on the back or sides of his neck.” They laid the corpse back down, and Thomas lifted each of the arms in turn. “There are no marks on his arms or hands. This man was certainly attacked from the front. Whoever did this, he's got to be fairly drenched in blood.”

  “Doesn't help much,” replied George. “If he was killed by a butcher, the man would be bloody most of the time.”

  “I'm not talking about a bloody apron -- I mean blood on his hands and face; blood in his hair; blood stuck in his teeth; blood up his nose.”

  “Nobody fitting that description has been reported,” replied George, laconically. “I think I would have heard.” He passed Thomas his candle back.

  “And it's most likely not your butcher who did for him,” continued Thomas. “What's his name?”

  “Francis. Tom Francis.”

  “He's a big, powerful man, you say?”

  “Like a bear standing on his hind legs.”

  Thomas looked around the crypt. “Where's the weapon?”

  George looked questioningly at the priest, who hobbled over to an alcove and lifted one end of a large cleaver. He smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize how heavy it was.”

  Thomas walked over and took it with a grimace, then hefted it with some difficulty.

  “A fearsome weapon,” he announced, holding it up unsteadily, “and an experienced butcher. Whoever killed this man seems to have tried to take his head off. But if your man Francis did it, and with this, he would most likely have succeeded.”

  The Vicar sighed. “So much violence.” He rubbed gently at the bruise on his head. “So much disease. You know, for the first time in my life I'm burying more people than I baptise. You'd think that half the houses would be empty, and yet it's more crowded than ever.”

  “Aye,” grinned George. “It's the end times, Master Beresford, sure enough.”

  “Don't mock,” scowled the vicar. “You might just be right.”

  Thomas and George strolled along New Fish Street deep in thought. Finally, George said: “What do you think?”

  Thomas took off his cap and scratched his head. “In truth, I have no idea at all.” George scowled at him. Thomas grinned, then continued: “Very well, if I had to make a wager, I would guess that it's simple as it looks. The killer and his victim had an argument about something -- could be about anything; you know the way London folk are. There are plenty of meat cleavers lying around in Eastcheap yards, even after dark.

  “It was an angry, frenzied attack. The killer tried to drag the body to the river, that's the usual place these unfortunates end up. But he gave up for some reason -- dragged it into an alley and covered it with crates instead, nothing else coming to hand.” Thomas sighed. “We have no idea who the dead man is and, if he's a recent incomer, we're unlikely to find out, given the state of the body. We don't really have a suspect. It would be easy to blame this Francis fellow, but apart from being a butcher and having a grudge against incomers, there's not much to point the finger at him.”

  George nodded. “There are plenty of butchers who don't like incomers.”

  The two men walked in silence for a few minutes.

  “What about that bruise on the Vicar's head?” George asked.

  Thomas replied. “You're not thinking there's a connection, surely?”

  “Of course not.” George shook his head. “For all I know he might have tripped on the stairs. Heaven knows its dark enough in St Margaret's, and slippery.”

  “Best not to let it distract us, then.” replied Thomas, nodding.

  “The Sheriff's not going to to be happy,” George sighed. “Tom, I could really do with some help with this.”

  “How can I help? I've told you everything I can think of. Well, nearly everything -- there is one other odd thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, it's peculiar that the dead man has no injuries on his hands or arms. If somebody came at me swinging a meat cleaver at neck height, I'd put my hands up to fend him off. At least, I'd expect to see a man make some attempt to defend himself. The dead man wasn't attacked from from behind, by somebody who sneaked up on him. The injuries are in the wrong place. This doesn't look like a sneak attack anyway, quite the opposite. The victim must have been face to face with his killer.”

  “Perhaps the killer just got in a lucky blow?” Suggested George. “The neck wound alone would have killed him, methinks.”

  “Maybe.” Said Thomas. He frowned. “But I'm not convinced. I'm not even sure a butcher did this, despite the location of the body and the weapon. A butcher would have made a better job of it.”

  “Be fair Tom -- a butcher's victims are usually bled and skinned before he starts work. They aren't running around. I'm not a military man, as you know, but I'm guessing that it takes more than butcher's skills to decapitate a moving target.”

  Thomas considered this. “Aye. You might be right. But the fact is, unless we get new information, we really don't have much to go on. You could try getting some men of your watch to ask around the area -- see if anyone is missing somebody.” He caught George's strained look. “Sorry, of course you've got that in hand. Also, ask the alderman to put some jurymen onto it. Unless he arrived yesterday, somebody must have known him.”

  They strolled a bit further. George gave Thomas a pained look. “The watchmen aren't particularly diligent, and the wardmote jury aren't much better. Oh, well -- I'd better go and report to the Sheriff.”

  “Well,” conceded Thomas, “I could ask around the area for a bit, for what that's worth. Somebody might have seen something that he doesn't want to tell the constable or the watch.” He smiled slightly. “I could do that much, since there's money on offer. Has anybody spoken to the chandler? I presume it was his crates the body was lying under.”

  “What, Candle Joe?” asked George. “Surely he wouldn't kill a man and leave him outside his shop?”

  “No. But he might have an idea how long the crates have been undisturbed. That might give us some idea how long the mystery man has been dead.”

  “Too long,” shuddered George, remembering the face of the corpse. “Too bloody long is all I know.”

  The sign above the door gave the chandler's name as Joseph Nash. The shop had a narrow front squeezed between a pie bakery and the entrance to the alley where the body had been found. In front of the shop were full crates of candles stacked four feet high. The candles were of different colours and shapes, but all gave off the same familiar, rank smell of tallow -- animal fat rendered down from the butcher's leftovers. Thomas waited outside for a few minutes, hoping that the chandler would come out. It took a lot to make the smell of Eastcheap -- predominantly rotten carcases and horse dung -- appealing, but Thomas knew what to expect inside the shop. He took a deep breath of Eastcheap air
, and opened the door.

  Inside, the smell was as overpowering as he feared, as was the heat. There was a narrow shop counter, behind which was arranged the equipment of the chandler's trade. Dipping racks were suspended over large, rectangular iron pots, in which boiling meat fat bubbled thickly. Along the back wall of the shop were stacked black iron kettles, two feet high, each packed with meat fat and offal. Shelves along the other walls contained stacks of candles, large skeins of string, and metal tools whose functions Thomas did not even care to guess at. All the spare floor space was taken up by piles of crates, some full, some empty. A young man was raising and lowering the racks, from which hanging wicks were gradually turning into candles. What could be seen of his face was red from the heat; from the nose down it was covered with a linen kerchief tied behind his neck. An older, heavy-featured man -- Joseph Nash himself, Thomas assumed -- was sorting through some papers. When he saw Thomas, the man smiled and sauntered over to the counter.

  “Good day, Master; I noticed you inspecting my fine wares. Is it beef or lamb you're after?”:

  “To be honest, neither, Master Chandler” Thomas replied.

  The chandler frowned. “Well, we do make hog candles, of course,” said Nash, scratching his face, and looking Thomas up and down. “But, begging your pardon, an upstanding citizen like yourself wouldn't be wanting any of those.” He tapped his nose, as if imparting a confidence. “Most of our more discerning customers prefer lamb. Burns brighter and smells nicer.” Thomas felt somewhat guilty: the inn's candles were pure beeswax -- a luxury he could scarcely afford. Tallow candles of any sort were foul-smelling and smoky, and pork was the worst. Pork candles guttered and spat. He remembered using them in his army days. On occasion he had eaten them.

  “In truth, Master Nash, I'm not looking for candles at all.” Thomas grinned apologetically. “The constable has asked me to help investigate a suspicious death -- you'll likely be familiar, as the dead man was found near your shop.”

  “I have an alibi.” joked Nash, smiling all the way to his red, deep-set eyes. Seeing Thomas's look, he continued soberly: “Sorry. Not very funny, I know. You have to laugh, though don't you? Any one of us could be the next out of this world. Best to look on the cheerful side -- that's what I always say.”

  Thomas shrugged, and said: “You didn't see the dead man, then?”

  “No. Giles might have done.” He turned to the man working the dipping machine, who shook his head and continued with his work. Nash turned back. “Seems not, then. I heard about it, of course, but it was all sorted out afore I got here. There's not usually much to do until the tallow ovens heat up, and that takes a couple of hours. The fellow from the pie shop described the dead man to me -- so far as that was possible -- but it could have been any one of dozens of folk in this neighbourhood.”

  “Aye,” Thomas agreed, with a deep sigh. “That's the problem. You don't live on the premises, then?”

  The Chandler sniffed a couple of times and pulled a face to indicate why he didn't. “Actually, the landlord lives upstairs -- him and his wife and their four children.”

  “''God's teeth! What about the smell?” exclaimed Thomas.

  “Oh, I've got used to them by now.” Both men laughed, as people do when they don't know each other very well, and want to put off discussing something disagreeable that they can't avoid.

  Eventually Thomas said: “We're assuming that the wooden cases the victims was hidden under were yours? They look the same as the ones out front, anyway.”

  “Aye, they're delivered... just a minute. Fie! Are you suggesting that I put candles out for sale in boxes that have been used to hide a corpse?”

  Thomas grinned sheepishly. “Well, I did wonder.”

  The chandler scowled. “Lucky I had stock. I burned the foul ones.” He indicated the ovens behind. “No point wasting good fuel.”

  “But the delivery?” Thomas prompted.

  “Aye, they're delivered on Thursdays. I often have too many to keep in the shop, so I put them in the alley. Nobody much walks down there and, to be honest, all the shopkeepers tend to use it as a midden.”

  “You put them out Thursday night?”

  “Nay, Friday morning.”

  Thomas asked without much optimism: “I suppose you'd not notice if the pile had been disturbed since then?”

  The chandler grinned. “You suppose right. To be honest. I put them out there so I didn't have to notice them. We're tripping over them in here as it is.”

  Thomas sighed, and peered around the shop listlessly. “A dead man was dumped in an alley right next to your shop.” He frowned, and looked back at Nash. “I don't suppose you've seen anything odd at night, have you?”

  “Odd? What, like a man carrying a heavy bundle over his shoulder and a meat cleaver in his other hand?” Nash grinned. Then his face changed, and he stroked his jowls. “Now you mention it, I did see something. Last week sometime -- maybe Thursday, maybe Friday, I'm not sure.” He thought for a moment. “Nay, definitely Friday. I don't normally work late, as I said -- I've got a home to go to. But I was boxing up a big order for the Black Eagle, and I wanted to get it finished. I noticed Big Tom the butcher passing -- at a fair pace, almost running”

  “Are you sure it was him?” asked Thomas.

  Nash raised his eyebrows. “I take it you've not met Big Tom?” he replied. “Aye, it was him all right. Not a fellow you don't recognize. I only noticed because it was late -- after curfew anyway, and he wasn't carrying a lantern.”

  Thomas nodded. The law demanded that anybody out after the curfew bell had rung had to have a lawful excuse, and to show a light.

  “What time?” he asked. “Do you know?”

  “It was full dark. Certainly after nine o'clock, I would say. Maybe even ten o'clock. Do you think it's important?”

  “I don't know,” replied Thomas, with a shrug. “The murder could have been on Friday night. Francis wasn't dragging a heavy bundle was he?” Thomas asked hopefully.

  “Nay, I only noticed him at all because I happened to look up. Could have been in a hurry to answer the call of nature, for all I know. Still, he's an aggressive man. Do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation,” replied Thomas. “And even then only since this morning. But I suppose I'm going to have to get to know him now. What's he like?”

  Nash frowned in concentration, then called over to the other man: “Giles, how would you describe Big Tom?”

  The man called Giles walked over to them, pulling down the kerchief. He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, and screwed up his face. He said: “Big. aye, there is no better word.” He looked at Thomas and grinned. “Just don't mention you've ever set foot north of Shoreditch, that's my advice. He thinks civilization stops at the City walls.”

  Thomas nodded, thanked the men, and made his goodbyes. Back in the street, it was cooler and the air was marginally clearer. Thomas stood and watched the Eastcheap bustle for a while, considering paying a call on Big Tom Francis. In the end he decided that this questionable pleasure could wait until the morrow.

  Wednesday morning, May 17, 1550

  Wednesday dawned cold and damp. Thomas had not slept well -- his dreams had been of France, and his service with Sir John's Wallop's regiment of militia. Despite his youthful bravado, he had not proven to be a good soldier -- he lacked the ferocity and self-abandon that most foot soldiers seemed to have in abundance. Better men than he -- brave, decent men; men with families -- had died on the long march from Calais to Antwerp, and most of the fatalities had not been in battle. The fighting itself had been brief and sporadic, and Thomas had been secretly relieved when the French had beaten the English forces back to Calais. Although he never admitted it, he had found that he had no particular objection to Frenchmen -- not enough to want to see them dangling from the ends of pikes, anyway. He had come home with his sword, at least. He used to use it to chop kindling, until he almost cut the end of his thumb off. Now it was propping a door shut betw
een the stable and the stairs to the hayloft.

  After helping the girls serve breakfast -- which Thomas had come to accept meant him serving breakfast while the girls watched and giggled -- he found Katherine in the kitchen, preparing hops for the beer. With her was Mary Strope, a young woman of about sixteen.

  Thomas peered into pan of hops, then said: “I'm sorry, Katt, I've got some errands to attend to today. Will you be all right without me?”

  Mary and Katherine grinned at one another. “Oh, we've managed without you before, isn't that right Mary?”

  “To be sure it is, Mistress Katherine, and this way we won't have to follow Master Thomas around with a dustpan and brush.” Both women chuckled, and made a show of attending to their work and ignoring Thomas. Katherine looked up. “Now, be fair, Mary -- he's not broken anything since my mother's favourite vase last week.”

  “I mended it!” complained Thomas. Then he added: “Well, enough to stand spoons in, anyway.”

  “Aye, that's true,” agreed Katherine. “I've always been saying we had more spoons than things to stand them in, haven't I Mary?”

  “Indeed, Mistress Katherine. but at this rate we'll soon have to get some more spoons.”

  Thomas grinned and shrugged apologetically. “Well, I won't be giving you an opportunity to complain today. I've got to see George, and persuade him to help me interview a giant, bad-tempered butcher who may have chopped a man's head half off his neck.”

  “Don't put your best doublet on then, Master Thomas,” said Mary, without looking up. “It's the devil to get blood out.”

  “Oh don't worry,” Mary joined in, still trimming hops. “He never does. He steals all his cloths from stable-hands.”

  “Well, I'll bring us back some sausages.”

  “Just make sure you don't come back in the sausages,” replied Katherine.

  By the time Thomas left the Whyte Hart, a fine rain had started. Thomas debated returning for his cloak, but in the end decided the rain would not last. He was wrong, and he arrived at the constable's shop damp and miserable.

  The shop was in a narrow lane off Gracechurch street, which it shared with a number of other small businesses. The living quarters above the shops were built out over the lower storeys, so much so that George could lean out of his bedroom window and shake hands with the clothier who occupied the premises opposite. This proximity made the lane dark even in mid-afternoon, as the sun could only enter through the narrow gap between the gables. In some parts of the City this building arrangement made the lanes a tempting proposition for cut-purses and robbers, not to mention a relief for those who found themselves too far from the privy; but being a constable did have the small advantage that petty criminals and those caught short kept clear of his house.

  Thomas pushed the door open, and stepped into deeper darkness. The inside of the shop was lit by candles in wall sconces even at this time of day, and warmed by a fire. Two boys were polishing boots, whilst a couple of older youths were sat at a bench, busy cutting and sewing leather. Thomas waved at them grumpily, and walked around behind the shop counter. He crouched for a moment in front of the fire, where his clothes steamed gently. They men grinned at his appearance, then informed Thomas -- with a certain amount of chuckling amongst themselves -- that the constable was upstairs.

  Thomas reached the constable's living quarters by a narrow, dark staircase at the back of the shop. The staircase gave onto a cramped passageway, which led to a small kitchen, a dining room, a tiny parlour and two small bedrooms. Another stair case led up to the attic area, which was home to the apprentices, who slept on palettes.

  “In here!” called George from the bedroom. Thomas put his head around the bedroom door. George Harwood was sitting in a wooden chair next to the bed, with his leg out on a stool, the leg of his hose rolled up. His left eye was blackened, and a wooden crutch was leaning against the chair. Thomas groaned. “Got away, did he?”

  “Aye, the bastard,” George cursed, but without much irritation. “Almost tripped over the whoreson sneaking out of Goodwife Clitherow's house.”

  “I see you tried to fend him off with your face again.” Thomas indicated the black eye.

  “Fie! I'm not bothered about that. Look at this bitch instead.” George turned his leg around to reveal a swelling just beside his kneecap the size of half an orange. He winced as he did this. “Gave me a right kick.”

  Thomas whistled softly. “Looks wondrous painful,” he said. “Taking anything for it?”

  George sighed. “Mary's taken the girls to get some comfrey.”

  Thomas winced sympathetically. “Hot poultice?”

  George pulled a face. “A cup of sack would suit me better. But you know how she likes to nurse me. In fact, you look like you could do with a cup yourself. Swam here, did you?”

  “She's been nursing you a lot, lately, hasn't she?” Thomas frowned, ignoring the jibe. Being an honest constable amounted to a large extent to being treated as a punch-bag by the ward's petty criminals. Strictly speaking, a watchman's armoury amounted to a stick and a lantern, although many carried daggers concealed in their clothes. When he had been a constable Thomas had not even done that -- he considered that the risk of being injured by a criminal was outweighed by the risk of stabbing himself in the ribs.

  “Aye, for sure. Time to retire, I think.”

  “You said that last year,” retorted Thomas. “And the year before, I recall. Anyway, did you recognize the thief?”

  “No, damn it.” The men looked at each other and frowned. “And you know what that means: most like he was a vagrant from outside the ward; probably from outside London.”

  Thomas said: “I'm curious: where do these incomers stay, when they get to your parish, Jack? You'd notice if they were sleeping in doorways, wouldn't you?”

  George grimaced. “We're not allowed to let people sleep in doorways, you know that. You know how we're supposed to treat the so-called sturdy beggars these days”. Both men gritted their teeth. The traditional penalty of flogging -- bad enough in itself -- had been replaced with the cutting off of an an earlobe, and by slavery for repeated offences. “In the old days, many of them would have been put up by the cloister crawlers.” Thomas winced at his friend's vulgarity. “At least for a few days.” George sighed. “Even I can't avoid noticing that the dissolution of the monasteries has caused problems for men who are genuinely too sick to work. They're creating an even bigger strain on parish funds. St Margaret's is not a wealthy parish, and I get sick of trying to twist money out of my neighbours.”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were all in favour of the dissolution -- a staunch protestant like yourself? I thought you were happy to see the back of the 'cloister crawlers', as you call them.”

  George shuffled, then retaliated with: “The dissolution of the monasteries has certainly been good for inns and alehouses.” Seeing Thomas's look, he continued: “Sorry, Tom, but you of all people should know that.”

  Thomas frowned. “It gives me no pride, Jack, but I can't deny trade has increased since I was a lad. The monasteries were all closed before I took over the inn, but I remember my father was always talking about it -- guilt, I guess. He used to say that the Old King took the City for a fool, by claiming that the brothers' assets would raise so much money that nobody would ever have to pay taxes again. Can't say I've noticed, have you?”

  “Not bloody likely,” George sneered. Taxation was as high as either man could remember. “Anyway, if they can't afford an inn or a tavern -- and they probably can't -- there are plenty of low alehouses that will put them up for pennies and help with the chores.”

  “And private houses?”

  “Sometimes. They don't advertise, of course, but you can spot places that take guests without a licence. You know alehouses aren't supposed to allow visitors to stay for more than two nights? Around here the Corporation tolerates it, because we don't have the resources to deal with hundreds of homeless vagrants. When you were
a constable, did you submit a list of everybody in your parish to the alderman, like you were supposed to?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Of course not. I gave up trying after a while. I just made it up.”

  “Same here. But here in Bridge ward it's an even bigger problem than in Cornhill. Vagrants are attracted by the possibility of day labour on the docks and fishing boats. So long as they aren't causing trouble I leave them to it.”

  Thomas nodded at George's swollen knee. “That looks like trouble.”

  George sighed. “More trouble than it's worth, if the thief got away with as much as Goody Clitherow claimed.”

  “How much?”

  “She says four shillings and a silver brooch.” Both men grimaced -- thefts of more than a shilling were rare, because the penalty for a common person was hanging. They were a problem for the constables, because most likely a jury would not convict a man of such a theft even if he was caught and brought before the magistrate. In any case, George went out of his way to ensure that no petty thief was never apprehended with more than a shilling's worth of stolen goods in the first place. However, if the man was never caught, the constable risked being fined.

  “I just happened to be passing when she yelled. She'd already chased him out of the house with a stick -- she's a feisty old biddy, I'll give her that. The thief only kicked out at me because I caught him by surprise. There was a half-hearted hue-and-cry, of course, but he was long gone. She'll insist that I organize a search of some sort, but I can't say my heart's in it.” George gritted his teeth and painfully stretched his leg.

  Thomas said: “That's very tolerant of you, considering what he did to you.”

  George shrugged. “Comes with the territory. It's different if they're deliberately violent, of course,” he continued. We can't have aggressive vagabonds in the ward. We arrested a couple on Sunday night -- two brothers down from Norwich. It took about ten men to subdue them. They'd beaten Master Chilton's son black and blue in the street for no obvious reason.”

  “God's teeth! How did the victim fare?”

  “Fie!” George slapped his forehead. “I forgot! He's in St Margaret's, waiting to do the one thing or the other. He's was unconscious when we took him there. I meant to ask Master Beresford whether his condition had changed when we saw him yesterday, but I completely forgot.” George sighed. “I suppose Master Beresford would have told me if he had died. Whether he lives or dies, the brothers will probably hang. Chilton's an influential man, and I'll certainly back him up in this.”

  “Unless they claim benefit of clergy?” Thomas suggested with a grin, knowing it would irritate George.

  “Over my dead body!” exclaimed the constable, predictably. Traditionally, only clergymen were literate, so anybody who could convince the court that he could read from the Bible could insist on trial in the clerical courts, which were more lenient than the common-law courts. In practice, the benefit of clergy was widely and increasingly abused, and was loathed by the constables. These days there was not even a pretence that benefit of clergy was anything other than a way of shielding the educated classes from the full harshness of the common law, and the clerical courts had developed the practice of branding the hands of defendants who claimed benefit of clergy as a defence, so that at least repeat offenders could be identified. In practice, this branding had come to be the standard penalty for literate first-time offenders -- painful, to be sure, but preferable to the noose. Since the the penalty of branding had been introduced, even the reading test had become something of a formality, and many criminals learned by rote the 'neck verse' that the magistrate conventionally used as a test.

  George continued: “I'll insist that the court examine their reading skills very thoroughly if they try anything like that. I'm not having those two scumbags walking away with a burned thumb and a penance. I don't even know why they did it -- beat up young Chilton, I mean. I was hoping to question them myself today but...” George scowled at his leg. “It's going to be tricky now.” He swung his leg down and tested his weight on it.

  “You really shouldn't try to walk on it.” said Thomas.

  “Oh, don't fuss so! You're worse than Mary.” He winced as he pushed out of the chair. “I'll be fine tomorrow, I'm sure, so long as she doesn't nurse me too much.”

  There was the noise of a door opening downstairs. George sunk back onto the chair.

  “That'll be her now, I reckon,” grinned George. “Quick -- you'd better tell me your news before she shoos you out.”

  “To be honest, Jack, I was rather hoping you'd be fit. I've got to go ask Butcher Francis if he's a murderer.”

  “Really? I thought you said it couldn't be him?”

  “I've been wrong before,” Thomas admitted laconically. “To be honest, I still don't think it's him. But after talking to Goodman Nash, I think we must at least consider the possibility.” Thomas briefly reported the conversation that had taken place in the Chandler's shop yesterday. He concluded: “The pile of crates was put out Friday morning, which means that the body was hidden between Friday night and Sunday night.”

  “That doesn't mean he was killed then,” said George.

  “No. He could have been killed elsewhere and then moved. Probably he was, in my view. But, for all that, the body was hidden around that time, and Goodman Nash says he saw the butcher in the area after curfew Saturday night.”

  The constable considered this information. “It's certainly not enough for a murder charge. But we should follow it up, all the same.”

  “We?”

  “All right, you. Then again, it's possible that Candle Joe has a grudge against Francis, and wants to make trouble for him.”

  At that point Mary Harwood and two small girls burst into the room, carrying a variety of hot, sweet-smelling materials.

  “Oh, lovely -- just what I need.” George winked at Thomas. “I'll be up and about tomorrow, I'm sure. Good luck with Big Tom.”

  The rain had stopped, but it remained cold and misty. Abraham's butcher's yard was only a short walk away from the constable's house, but Thomas thought it would be quicker to follow the alleyway that ran past George's house to the west, than to retrace his steps to Gracechurch Street. Within minutes he was lost in a dark, foetid maze. Small children playing outside the houses glared at him suspiciously. Eyes followed him from behind the shutters of tiny, glassless windows. Thomas put his hand over his belt purse, then felt guilty for doing so -- he knew that dark, dirty alleys which smelled of piss did not necessarily conceal cut-purses. Nevertheless, it was with some relief that he turned a corner and saw light, and heard the sound of industry ahead. He squeezed past a pile of refuse, and emerged into the familiar chaos of Eastcheap. Almost directly opposite were the black iron gates of Abraham's yard. Thomas dusted off his clothes with relief and strode through the gates into a world of meat.

  The front of the butcher's yard was occupied by horses and carts. Further from the street, under a wooden canopy, men dressed in leather aprons were chopping meat, filling crates, carrying carcases, and feeding a massive grinding machine. Tom introduced himself to a man who had momentarily stopped slicing beef to mop his brow, and asked where Master Abraham was. The man nodded his head in the direction of the back of the yard, and hoisted his knife again. Thomas walked further into the premises and made out an older man, dressed in plain but good-quality clothes, fighting with a stack of papers on a desk. When Thomas approached, the man scowled without looking at him, and grumbled: “If you're from the White Lion, don't worry. We'll have your beef ready before dinner time.”

  “Actually, I'm not. Are you Master Butcher Abraham?”

  The man looked up. “Indeed I am. Sorry, everything's in a mess. We haven't really got things back in order since that business yesterday morning.” Abraham was a solid-looking man, with a dense beard and heavy, lined face. Although he now employed people to carry his pigs, he looked as if he would be quite capable of hefting one over his shoulder if the need arose.


  “My name is Thomas Whyte, Master Abraham, and it's that business yesterday morning I've come about.”

  “Aye?” Abraham stopped his fiddling and looked levelly at Thomas. “We all told Master Harwood that we didn't recognize the poor dead fellow. And none of my men are missing a cleaver, either, if that's what you're wondering.” Abraham snorted, and coughed noisily. “Sorry, not feeling so clever today.” Thomas regarded Abraham warily; the butcher scowled at him. “Oh, don't fret, Master Whyte -- 'tis just a sniffle. I keep a clean yard -- ask anybody.”

  Thomas grinned apologetically. “Constable Harwood asked me to help out. I just need to talk to your Thomas Francis, if you can spare him for ten minutes. Is he here?”

  “Why? What's he done this time?” asked Abraham, shaking his head.

  “This time? What's he usually done?”

  “Oh, the usual,” sighed Abraham. “Brawling. Getting drunk. Disturbing the peace with his ranting about incomers.” Then he added: “Not that it bothers me, of course. He joints hogs like a madman, and he's a good foreman: the other fellows are scared shitless of him. I don't care what he does in his spare time, so long as keeps the meat moving. He's in the back, washing up, I think.” Abraham pointed to a door behind him. He smiled. “I dare say you'll know him when you see him.”

  Thomas nodded uncertainly, and walked through the door and along a narrow, dark corridor. At the end of the corridor was a room lined with clay wash-pots. Big Tom Francis was indeed recognizable. Even bent over with his face in a basin, he seemed as tall as Thomas. Standing up, he towered over him. Francis was in his mid-twenties, with dark hair visible under his leather cap. His untamed beard covered the whole of his face and neck, showing only small, intense eyes. Thomas thought that the man did have a passing resemblance to a bear, just as George had described him.

  Francis looked down at Thomas and screwed up his eyes. “What do you want?” he asked, with a direct stare.

  Thomas stepped back slightly, disturbed by this stark disregard for social niceties, then recovered. “I'm sorry to disturb you at work, Goodman Francis. I'm making enquiries about the body your workmates found yesterday, on behalf of the constable.”

  “Aye? Constable scared to come in here is he?” Francis wiped his face and hands on a cloth and chuckled. “Can't say I blame him, mind. This place scares me sometimes.”

  “He's indisposed, that's all -- injured his leg.” Thomas nodded back at the yard. “But I reckon he's pretty attached to his fingers. That doesn't look the kind of place where you want to be careless where you put yourself.”

  “Hah!” grunted Francis. “If you don't keep your wits about you in the yard, you'll be lucky if it's just a finger you lose.”

  Thomas thought of the heavy cleavers banging down at codpiece height, and winced. Then he said: “Constable Harwood told me that you aren't keen on folk from out of town.” Francis said nothing. Thomas continued: “He said you made a remark to that effect when the dead body was found.”

  Francis frowned as he hung up the cloth, and hung his head slightly. Thomas noticed that he suddenly seemed to have lost a lot of his belligerence, and wondered how much of it was actually a front. Francis said quietly: “I shouldn't have said that. It was wrong of me.” He turned to Thomas, and seemed to realize that he had let his guard down. He planted his boots solidly on the ground, feet apart, fists balled on his hips. “Look, I'm not the only man around here who doesn't like all these new folk coming in. We have trouble enough putting bread on the table as it is. I don't much hold with Popery, either, and a lot of these incomers are openly Catholic.” He paused. “Nevertheless, I shouldn't have said what I said. I don't know that the dead man even was an incomer. From the state of him, he could have been anybody, poor fellow. Odd that nobody knew of anyone missing, though.”

  Thomas nodded in agreement. “I understand you've been in trouble over your views in the past?”

  “Aye. Couple of times,” admitted Francis. “I'm not the only one who's worried. It's bad enough that we've got all these strangers in the parish and no more work to go around, but the ones that aren't Papists, half of them are rebels. Would you believe there was a couple of fellows in the Mermaid on Sunday night who said they'd fought alongside Kett at Norwich?” He spat. “And right proud of it, they were. Bastards.”

  Thomas shrugged. “There's many who consider Kett a martyr.”

  The butcher pulled a face, and looked like he might get angry. He loomed over Thomas, who fleetingly regretted making jokes about ending up in the sausage grinder. But Francis just growled: “He's not exactly popular around here, and nor are his supporters.”

  Thomas could understand that. Despite its problems, London was more-or-less loyal to the King, and Londoners tended to think that everywhere where farming was the main livelihood -- and that still meant most of Britain -- was a nest of traitors; Papist traitors, at that. The problem was that Robert Kett and his followers believed they were loyalists too -- but they had badly misjudged the view that the King, or rather his Council, took of their complaint. No great surprise: predicting the mood of the Council was never very productive -- it had separated into rival factions, whose fortunes rose and fell for no clear reason. The reaction of the Council to any crisis would often depend on the implications it had for the faction currently in the ascendant.

  As always, the issues of politics, economics, and religion were entangled in the grievances that caused Kett and his followers to take the action they did. Enclosure of land was a factor, as always. But suppression of traditional religious observances -- essentially Catholic ones -- was deeply unpopular as well. Kett had led his band to Norwich last July, tearing down enclosures as they went, and taken control of that city. There, they fought off a force of 1,500 men whilst armed only with farm implements and sticks. Regardless of the rights and wrongs of their position, Thomas found that he couldn't help admiring the tenacity of the Norfolk farmers. In the end it had taken ten times that many soldiers to recover the city for the King, and since most of those men had been mercenaries rather than militia, the campaign had been fabulously expensive. Kett's had been by no means the only rebellion the King had had to put down in the last few years, despite the example of Kett's desiccated corpse, still dangling from the wall of Norwich castle where he had been hung out and left to die slowly.

  “The Mermaid?” asked Thomas, remembering his enquiry. “Is that a tavern?”

  “It's an alehouse. I wouldn't dignify the dump with the word tavern. It's all right though. Just down the road in St George Street. Quite a few of the men from the yard go there for a quick ale after work from time to time. Why? Is that a crime now?” replied Francis, suddlenly becoming belligerent again.

  Thomas laughed: “I should bloody well hope not, Goodman Francis. I keep an inn.” Then, keeping his voice even, he said. “However, I have to tell you that someone saw you near the place where the dead body was found on Saturday night, after curfew. Do you want to tell me what you were doing?”

  With hardly a pause, Francis retorted: “Indeed I do not.” The two men stared at each other. Then Thomas shrugged. “Fair enough. Curfew breaking isn't a hanging crime. Murder, now...”

  “Don't be a fool!” interjected the butcher. “You know I didn't kill that man.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Because if I took my cleaver to a man, I'd cut him right in half. I wouldn't need to hack at him like any twelve-summers apprentice trying to joint a pig. What do you think I've been doing these last five years?” Thomas nodded; he'd suggested as much to George yesterday.

  “So did you go to the Mermaid on Saturday night as well? Before you were seen breaking curfew?”

  “Nay. As I said, I was there Sunday. And before you ask -- aye, I had a row with some incomers. Then I came straight home.”

  “Where is home?” asked Thomas.

  Francis indicated behind him with his head. “There are some shacks behind the yard. Quite a few of the younger men live there.” Then h
e added defensively: “Aye, I know. But it's not for long. I've saved a bit of money. I don't spend it all on ale, you know.”

  “I'm all in favour of people spending money on ale,” replied Thomas, attempting to lighten the mood, “so long as some of it comes my way.” Then, more seriously: “But I suppose this means that nobody can vouch for you on Friday, Saturday or Sunday night?”

  “Like I said, Sunday I was in the Mermaid until it got dark. Friday too. Saturday is my business.” He frowned. “Now, if you've got nothing else ask, I've got work to do.”

  Thomas shrugged. “I've already asked. You didn't want to tell me.”

  The butcher grinned. “Nay, that's right, Master Whyte, I didn't.”

  Wednesday afternoon, May 17, 1550

  On a whim, Thomas decided to visit the Mermaid. He reasoned that he'd get more useful information about Francis from the alehouse keeper than he would from his workmates, who were all in awe -- perhaps even dread -- of their colossal foreman. The day was warming up, but there were still puddles between the cobbles in Eastcheap, as Thomas discovered when a cart drove through one and splashed his hose with muddy water.

  Thomas strolled glumly along Eastcheap past the junction with New Fish Street, where catches from Thames fishing boats were being unloaded and sorted. From Little Eastcheap he turned right at the parish midden heap into St George Street. It was an unremarkable thoroughfare, lined with modest dwelling houses, and indistinguishable from dozens of others in the City. The parish church of St George was the only substantial stone building -- the houses were all of the more common timber and daub construction. Muddy areas between each building housed chickens, pigs, and the occasional goat. Dark alleys led from between the larger houses. The street was only partially paved -- there were muddy puddles in the ruts where cartwheels had passed but, Thomas reflected with relief, few carts at this time of day. A bunch of untidy children was involved in a noisy game that Thomas could not identify; another group was chasing an escaped chicken up and down the street.

  The Mermaid was a two-storey building, only slightly larger than the two houses between which it was squeezed. Like them, it was thatched and of modest construction. However, it had small leaded windows facing the street, rather than wooden shutters, and a wooden porch over the door to shield visitors from the rain. A faded wooden signboard swung from a bracket, and a pair of coarse wooden benches sat optimistically outside on the street. Thomas squeezed between them and pushed open the narrow door.

  Inside, the main room of the alehouse contained two oak tables with bench seats. At one end of the room was a stone fireplace, clearly used for cooking as well as warmth. Blackened iron pots hung from pegs on the wall above. There was no fire burning now, and the room was cold. Along the walls shelves were stacked with wooden plates, and spoons, and leather mugs. Thomas assumed that out the back of the building would be a yard containing an outhouse for brewing and food storage, as well as a privy. A staircase led upstairs, where there would be two or three small bedrooms.

  Thomas lifted his cap briefly, and introduced himself to a woman pouring ale into a keg, who gave her name as Joan Warter. Joan was a thin, pale woman; Thomas sensed she could do with more sleep -- but who couldn't? “God give you good day. Is this your establishment, Goodwife Warter?”

  “My husband Henry and I keep it. He's out back, seeing to the ale. Do you want to talk to him?” she asked, looking away shyly.

  Thomas shrugged. “I'm just as happy to talk to you, if your husband is busy. I don't want to disturb his work.”

  Joan smiled, and the deep creases around her mouth resolved into dimples. It was a great improvement, Thomas thought. “Oh, nothing much to disturb. There's nobody here right now -- doesn't get busy until later, of course. I take it you're not after victuals, then?”

  Thomas thought about the long time that had elapsed since breakfast. “Actually, I will take some ale, and some bread, and cheese if you have it.”

  Joan nodded and busied herself pouring ale into a mug and getting the food ready. As she did, Thomas continued: “Goody Warter, you'll know that a dead body was found in Eastcheap yesterday?”

  Joan looked startled, and the wooden ladle she was using slipped from her fingers and clattered noisily on the table.

  “Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Here let me help you mop up.”

  “Nay, it's fine, really.” Joan fetched a cloth from beside the fireplace and half-heartedly rearranged the ale puddle into different patterns. She nervously pushed her lank hair back under her cap as she did so. “I knew about it, of course. I was just shocked to hear you speak about it so suddenly like that.”

  “I'm very sorry.” Thomas said. The woman grinned slightly; the dimples reappeared briefly.

  “I just wanted to ask you about a man who drinks here sometimes. Thomas Francis?”

  Joan raised her eyebrows. “Big Tom? Surely you don't think he killed that man?”

  Thomas considered discretion, but decided on honesty. “Nay, not really, in truth. But the Sheriff is paying me to investigate the crime, and I don't have any other leads. He was seen after curfew in the area where the body was found, that's all. Do you know him well?”

  Joan shrugged. “I know he's a fine man, in spite of everything people say about him. Of course, he can be a bit rough, but there's no real wickedness in him. Not like some.”

  “Aye? Anyone in particular?” Thomas asked, mostly to keep her talking.

  Joan scowled. “Most of our customers these days, to be honest.”

  “Who are your regulars?” asked Thomas.

  Joan seemed to inspect the ceiling and she thought about this question. Finally, she said: “Some of the butchers from Eastcheap -- workmates of Tom. They're mostly all right. Jack Crocker, Bob the Hammer, John Dale, they come in a fair bit.”

  “Bob the Hammer?” Thomas raised his eyebrows.

  “Hambard,” Joan grinned. “Big hands,” she explained, making small fists. Her smile faded. “And that Roger Allard from time to time. 'Black Roger', they call him. He's not been in for a while, though.”

  Thomas wondered idly whether he ought to write these names down, then remembered he had left his paper and graphite stick at home.

  “Do you get a lot of business from incomers?” he asked.

  “More and more,” Joan replied. “Mostly they're decent. They're not all like those Wilkes brothers. You'll know about them, I suppose?”

  “I can't say I do,” replied Thomas, frowning. “Who are they?”

  “Two wicked wretches.” Joan scowled. “Arrested, thank Heavens, or so I understand. They left here at curfew on Sunday night and beat a man senseless in the street.”

  “Ah!” Thomas exclaimed. “Constable Harwood did tell me about that, but not their names.” Then realisation dawned. He looked at Joan, eyes wide. “They were staying here? In your house?”

  Joan Warter looked at her feet.

  “I won't tell anybody. I know that lots of people are doing it. We could all do with the extra money.”

  “Well, they paid us in advance -- that's the one good thing I'll say about them. Other than that...ugh.” she shuddered slightly.

  “When did they arrive?”

  “Just on Saturday. They fought with my regular customers the whole time they were here, and by Sunday they had been arrested.”

  “Did they argue with Tom Francis? He mentioned something about a disagreement here with two country men.”

  Joan sighed, and fiddled with her hair which had fallen loose again. “Yes. Most of the butchers don't like country folk very much. Not just butchers, in fact, but they seem to have the worst of it. Or think they do.”

  “Jobs?” asked Thomas.

  She nodded. “The incomers do day work for lower wages than time-served butchers. Tom says their work is no good, but what would I know? Forsooth, if you've got the muscle, how hard can it be to chop up a bloody pig? Keeping a pig alive when you've hardly enough to feed yourself is hard
er, I can tell you. Master Abraham won't employ them. Tom says he knows how to tell a good butcher from a bad one. But some of the other butchers will -- even Guild members.”

  “Francis said that the brothers were supporters of Kett.”

  “Hah! That's what they said,” she scowled. “Fancied themselves soldiers.” She thought for a moment. “Fancied themselves generally, in fact.”

  “What were they like?”

  “Well, the younger man, Robert, he was a big man. Reckoned that women liked him, I think. Kept looking at me like, you know...” She pulled a face.

  Thomas nodded. He could guess what she meant.

  “Not very bright, I think. He was a nuisance -- nearly came to blows with Henry -- my husband -- a couple of times. But the older brother, Stephen...” She shivered. “I don't really know how to describe him. Looked at me like he was measuring me up for my coffin. You know what I mean?”

  Thomas nodded again. “Like he was planning something nasty, and that he'd enjoy it?”

  “Aye.” Joan agreed. “Smiled all the time. Not in a nice way. Like a cruel little boy tormenting a puppy. And whenever he left I felt like counting the silver spoons.” She paused and handed Thomas a leather mug of ale. “Not that we have any silver spoons. But if we had any, I would have counted them. You know what I mean.”

  “Thank you. And don't worry, they're in the compter now. George -- Constable Harwood -- is quite keen for them not to come out, unless it's to Tyburn.” Thomas made a gesture as if pulling a rope round his neck. “I wonder if they really fought with Kett?” he mused. “I heard that most of his supporters fought until they were cut down. Very few of the rebels survived.”

  Joan just shrugged. “Norwich is a long way off for the likes of us. I've never been that far. Do you know what happened to the man they beat up? Or why they did it?” Joan asked.

  “George said he's in St Margaret's, gravely ill. I don't know any more than that.”

  “Do you think they're involved with the murder?” she asked.

  Thomas considered this. Then he said: “There's no reason to think so. The Eastcheap man was killed with a meat cleaver. It could have been done in anger, but it's not the same as a beating with fists.” He drank his ale, and suppressed an urge to shudder. It was past its best, and very sour. He continued: “But I'll follow it up. It's not as if I have anything else to go on.” He paused. “Are the brothers' things still in your upstairs room?”

  Joan pressed her lips together, then replied: “They've paid for a week. Whatever they've left can stay there until then, then it goes on the midden and good riddance.”

  “May I see where they slept?” Asked Thomas.

  “There's not much to see, but if you like...” Joan let him to a passage, and stepped lithely up a narrow, dark staircase. Thomas followed more slowly. At the top there were two small bedrooms, separated by a heavy, leather patchwork screen that hung from the ceiling. In each was a straw-filled mattress.

  Thomas peered toward the bedrooms. “Do you have any children, Goody Warter?”

  Joan frowned, and sighed. “Not any more.” Thomas looked at her, and nodded sympathetically. The City's churchyards were full of tiny graves -- these days many babies did not survive their first year. Measles and the sweating sickness carried of half of those that did. Households near the Thames seemed to be particularly at risk. Of course, it was not just children -- sweating sickness had claimed his father, his cousin William and his cousin's wife all within a couple of years. Thomas was always amazed by the fortitude that parents showed, even after burying their fifth or sixth child.

  In the brothers' room Thomas found the usual desultory personal effects of an incomer: rough clothes, a couple of cheap, crudely-made iron table knives, a jar containing some unidentifiable white medicinal cream. Rummaging under a pile of foul, stained undergarment, Thomas found a belt purse of full of money -- rather a lot of money, Thomas thought, for two vagrants. He shook it gently, as Joan's eyes widened. He threw it to her.

  “What should I do with that?” She asked.

  “Tell the constable. If they hang, it goes to the King. He's short of a few shillings, I understand.” Thomas surprised himself by winking at her. “I wouldn't spend it, if you value your soul -- Heaven knows where they got it.”

  Thomas upended the rest of the room's contents, and made a further unexpected find: in another leather bag was a penny chapbook entitled The Wanton Widow of Bath. Thomas flicked through it and held it up for Joan Warter to see. “Looks as if the Wilkes brothers are reading men, or at least one of them is.” He muttered to himself. “That's going to annoy George.” She took the book from him gently, and flicked through its thin pages, frowning. “I recognize the signs for pounds, shillings and pence, and a few words. That's about as far as my education goes.” She handed the book back to Thomas. “What is it?”

  “A tawdry tale that probably doesn't live up to the promise of its title. Printers in London are turning them out by the hundred, in between runs of gospels and prayer-books. They do a brisk trade with young men at court, I understand.” He scratched his head. “Would you have expected the Wilkes lads to be readers?”

  Joan shrugged. “Perhaps they get someone to read it to them? Perhaps they just stole it?”

  Thomas nodded, but the little book looked well thumbed. He passed it back to Joan. “I'm sure you can find a use for it in the privy. That's about all it's worth.”

  Thomas returned to his search. He found little of interest among the other clothes and person items, but when he lifted the mattress, he froze. “God's wounds!” he swore. “That's not good. No, not at all good. Damn!” He reached under it and drew out a silver crucifix somewhat longer than his hand. He shook his head.“That's really a long way from good.”

  Joan gasped. The crucifix was of exquisite craftsmanship. Despite its size, every detail of the crucified figure was clear. Above the head was a large read stone: a ruby, perhaps -- not that Thomas had ever seen a ruby close up. Above the stone the conventional inscription I.N.R.I., Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum, was etched into the metal. Thomas handed it to Joan.

  “Saints preserve us!” she breathed, as she took it gingerly. “Wherever did this come from?” Light reflected from the figure as she turned it in her hands, which shook slightly.

  “Well, you know how things are these days. Since Protector Somerset and his successor, Warwick, have told us so forcefully what we all think of the Romish religion, nobody would openly display such a thing. The only people who could afford something like it would be too worried about their positions, if not their lives.”

  Joan held it up to her face. “I've never seen anything like this. It's beautiful.”

  Thomas retrieved the artefact from her gently. “It's a graven image, an idol; a snare to tempt the weak mind to damnation.” He shrugged. “Apparently.” He looked at it and frowned. “You're right though -- it is beautiful. I'd better take this, although I'm sure I have no idea what to do with it.” He grinned. “I don't know anybody who's lost one, do you?”

  Joan frowned at his joke, and looked suddenly much older. “Do you think they stole it?”

  “I don't suppose that Archbishop Cranmer gave it to them as a reward for their services to religion. By the Rood, aye, of course they stole it. I doubt it's the only thing they stole. Most likely they couldn't sell this -- nobody around here would touch it. I'll discuss it with the constable. We'll need to handle this carefully.” Thomas carefully tucked the cross into his doublet. Do you want me to write you a receipt?” Joan shrugged helplessly, and shook her head.

  “Well, thank you for your time,” Thomas said. “I've learned all I wanted. And some things I didn't want.”

  “Will you arrest Tom?” Joan asked.

  “That's up to the constable,” Thomas replied, “but I suspect not. Try not to worry about him.” Thomas wondered whether Joan's interest in Francis was entirely that of an alehouse keeper in her customer. Evidently she intuited his thoughts,
because she blushed slightly.

  “Nay, Master Whyte,” she smiled. “Forsooth, Tom's interests are elsewhere, and I am very happily married.”

  “Oh, really? Tell me.”

  “Fie! I couldn't. It's none of my business.” The slight uplift of her voice made it plain to Thomas that she was ready to be persuaded.

  “I won't tell,” Thomas said. “Honestly. It might help him if I knew.”

  Joan spoke as she led Thomas back down the stairs. “Well, it's not really a secret in the Mermaid, at least. He's courting Rose Lovell from Philpot Lane. Her father is dead against her marrying someone from outside his parish, so they have to meet secretly after dark. He told me he's saving money so they can run away together.”

  “Well, well!” Thomas smiled. “That explains a great deal.” He couldn't help asking: “What's she like, this Rose? Is she a giant like Tom?”

  Joan smiled. “Nay, in fact she's smaller than me. But she has Tom wrapped around her little finger.”

  Thomas smiled back. “Well, thank you, Goody Warter. And sorry again about the shock. Fare thee well.” He raised his cap and left the alehouse.

  Wednesday evening, May 17, 1550

  Thomas arrived back at the Whyte Hart at about five o'clock, just in time to help feed the guests, and then the guests' horses. On the whole, he preferred feeding the horses. They ate whatever was put in front of them without complaint, and left no mess that couldn't be cleaned up with a shovel. They didn't get drunk and have to be helped to bed, or make improper suggestions to the girls. The inn could not afford to employ a full-time stable groom, so the job of feeding and scraping down the horses fell to whoever had time. Thomas took some trouble to ensure it was usually him.

  This evening there was only one horse in the stable apart from the inn's own grey nag, Harry: a magnificent chestnut gelding. Thomas shook his head and clucked irritably when he saw that the horse's owner had left his mount tacked up. The horse was stamping and shaking his head irritably.

  “That's no way to treat a noble animal, is it, old boy?” He patted the horse's neck while he held out a handful of carrot pieces he had pilfered from the kitchen. He looked across the stable, where his own horse looked at him impassively. “Don't worry, Harry, old fellow, I've got some for you, too.”

  Thomas removed the chestnut's saddle and bridle, and stacked them neatly away, then filled up the stable's drinking troughs with clean water from a barrel. It was a warm evening, and Thomas removed his cap and doublet and rolled up the sleeves of his smock, before getting down to the serious business of raking the straw out. As he was engrossed in his task, he sang to himself in a tuneless baritone growl. He knew he shouldn't -- George always described his singing voice as something that made people's ears bleed, and animals fall down dead in the street. After a few minutes, Katherine walked over to him carrying a tray. “Good e'en Tom. I thought you could do with some supper. It must be hungry work.”

  “What, mucking out?”

  She grinned. “No, that singing. Nothing that sounds so pained can be easy.”

  Thomas scowled at her, but suddenly realized how hungry he was -- he had not gotten around to eating the food that Joan Warter had offered him at the Mermaid. Considering the quality of the ale, that may have been fortunate.

  “You're a marvel, Katt, even if you don't appreciate my musical talents. Just let me tidy up.” He nodded at the tray. “You're joining me, aren't you?” Thomas quickly raked the old straw into a heap, and spread some fresh in the stable stalls, and they sat down on a bench with the tray between them. On the tray was bread, cheese, some cold meat, and a bottle of the inn's own beer. Beer -- brewed with ale and bitter hops -- was an innovation and still not very popular in London, but Thomas had high hopes for it, and high prices.

  “So how now, Katt?” He asked as he tore into the bread. “Anything interesting happened?”

  Katherine shrugged. “The usual -- one disaster after another.” Then she smiled. “But the inn's still standing and no bailiffs have been around, so I guess we've finished the day ahead.” She paused, then looking straight ahead she said in a neutral voice: “Oh, and Geoffrey called around.”

  Thomas stopped eating and looked at Katherine with a grin. She blushed slightly.

  “Oh?” He prompted, grinning “Go on.”

  “He asked if I wanted to have dinner with him and his family on Sunday, after church.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Straight-faced, she replied: “I told him he'd have to ask you, of course, as my guardian. I believe that's the customary etiquette.”

  They looked at each other, then laughed. After a moment their laughter died, and Thomas said: “Katt, seriously, you're eighteen. I know you don't like to talk about it, but we ought to be thinking about your wedding.”

  Katherine pulled a face and said nothing.

  “Geoffrey is a decent enough fellow,” Thomas continued doggedly. “And he knows the inn trade like the back of his hand. He could be head of the Guild of Innholders one day.”

  Thomas and Katherine both considered Geoffrey Sumner, keeper of the Black Eagle tavern. He had been married before, but his wife had died, leaving no children. A serious, diligent man, Sumner was modestly wealthy, and respected in the parish, if not particularly well liked. He had known Katherine since she was a child.

  Katherine sighed; she was a practical woman. “I know. You're right, Uncle -- sorry Cousin -- Tom. If I have to marry anybody, it might as well be somebody who isn't just after my share of the Hart. But given a choice, I wouldn't bother, you know that.”

  “You know I'm just thinking about your future.” Thomas said, quietly. “If anything happened to me, you'd be in an awkward position.” Thomas did not need to point out why -- they were both aware how precarious her legal position was. Thomas' grandfather had willed the inn jointly to his sons Samuel and Henry, Thomas' father and uncle respectively. Henry had died shortly after Samuel, passing his share to his only surviving child William, Thomas' older cousin. However, William and his wife had both died shortly after Samuel, while Thomas was in France with Wallop's militia, leaving only one daughter, Katherine. Aged only 15, Katherine had buried both her parents and run the inn competently until Thomas had returned from the wars. He hadn't expected to become an innkeeper -- in fact, he had joined the militia when his father died partly with a view to avoiding such a future -- but he felt duty bound to support the family business, now that he and Katherine were all the family that was left.

  As far as Thomas was concerned, Katherine had inherited William's half of the business. But her father had never made a will and, even if he had, it was questionable whether a court would respect it. Independent, unmarried women with property made people uncomfortable; at least, it made men uncomfortable. A widow who continued her husband's business might be accepted, with some reluctance, but it was almost unheard of for an unmarried woman to be accepted as a guild member, and this was a prerequisite to running any kind of business in the city. Katherine knew that her only hope of real future security was to marry a man who would respect her ownership of the Hart -- the inn was more than her business, it was her family home.

  “What do you think, Tom?” asked Katherine, looking evenly at him. “Do you wish me to marry Geoffrey? It might as well be him as anybody else.”

  “You weren't planning on running away with some other man, were you?”

  “Thomas!” Katherine exclaimed. Thomas grinned and held up his hands in a calming gesture; he briefly told her what Joan Warter had said about Big Tom Francis and his clandestine meetings with Rose. Katherine laughed.

  Thomas continued: “As for what I wish, I just want you to be happy, Katt. You know that.”

  “I'm happy now,” she retorted. “I don't need a man in my bed to make me happy. Don't look at me like that, Tom! What does a married woman have to look forward to? Half a lifetime of pregnancy and then death in childbirth before forty summers. And, in any case, what about you? You'
re never going to find a woman to marry if you spend all your evenings out here fussing over the nags.”

  “I'm already married,” replied Thomas, glumly. “I'm married to the Hart. It doesn't leave a lot of time for anything else.”

  “Oh, I don't know,” Katherine replied, raising an eyebrow. “You managed to tear yourself away from your all-demanding mistress for most of the day today.”

  “Did you mind?” Thomas asked her. “There's money in it, and I need to keep on good terms with the sheriffs, particularly if we're going to start offering entertainment more often. You know what Master Turke thinks of mummers and minstrels and such like.”

  “I can cope,” she replied. “So long as nobody is ill and we only have a handful of guests.”

  “I'm glad you said that,” Thomas admitted, looking away uncomfortably, “because I'm going to have to go out again tomorrow.”

  “Oh, anywhere nice?” asked Katherine, frowning slightly.

  “Just to check on George Harwood,” Thomas replied. “He's injured himself in a scuffle with a thief.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He'll be fine so long as Mary doesn't insist on doctoring him too much. Can you keep a secret?”

  Thomas got up and rummaged about in a pile of hay. He brought out the silver crucifix he had found at the Mermaid. “I need to ask George what to do with this.”

  Katherine started at it, aghast. “I don't even want to know, do I?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Perhaps not.”

  “Is that a safe place to hide it?”

  Thomas stared into the distance. Eventually, he replied: “In a way, it would be easiest for everybody if it gets stolen. I did consider tossing it into the river.” He sighed, and put it back into the hay. “But I couldn't.”

  They finished their supper in silence. As they tidied away, Thomas said: “It won't do any harm for you to see Geoffrey on Sunday. You need some time away from the Hart. It needn't amount to a betrothal. You'll enjoy it.”

  Katherine shrugged. “I suppose you're right. Can I leave you in charge for an afternoon without setting anything on fire?” She grinned.

  “Now, now, Katt. It wasn't my fault Harry kicked over the oil lamp.”

  “The place stank of burning straw for days. You're lucky we've still got a stable.”

  Thomas squeezed her shoulder. “We're lucky we've still got you to keep an eye on things here, Katt.” He sighed, glumly. “Things might not run so smoothly when you have a husband to distract you.”

  Katherine winked at him. “Perhaps I'll just marry you, Tom, and have done with!”

  Thomas' jaw dropped, and he stood up abruptly, scattering the tray and its remaining contents. For several seconds he appeared unable to speak. Then he stuttered: “Don't say things like that, girl, even in jest!” Then more gently: “We'll both end up in the stocks. People already gossip, you know.”

  “I hadn't noticed,” Katherine lied. She had overheard many pointed remarks about her unmarried state -- which was not entirely unusual at her age -- and her well-known unwillingness to remedy it, which was. Thomas and Katherine lived under the same roof, effectively as master and mistress of a substantial household. Such a thing would have been unthinkable but for the fact that they had great-grandparents in common. They had the same family name, and would not have been considered eligible marriage partners: legally and socially, any relationship between them would be incest. Nevertheless, such things did happen, and before London became so fiercely protestant, couples in such a position had been known to bribe the Church authorities for a special licence to marry. All this meant that the goings on in the Whyte Hart were a subject of lively debate in the neighbourhood.

  Katherine sniffed. “Anyway, people can say what they damned well like, so long as they pay their bills.”

  Thomas shrugged, and sat down again. “I'm sorry -- I know you're only joking, but...”

  Katherine looked at him, and opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. They both looked away, and sat in silence for a while, then both spoke at once.

  “I...” “We...”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Thomas sighed, and stood up to retrieve his doublet and cap. “Just be civil to Master Sumner, and make sure people see you together.” He hesitated. “But not alone together, because... well, you know how it is. I suppose you should take one of the girls along for decency's sake, but I can't imagine anybody thinking that Geoffrey was a threat to your honour.”

  She blushed slightly. “I'll think about it. We won't be alone, anyway. Don't be too late back tomorrow,” Katherine warned. “Master Beauchamp is coming round to discuss the arrangements for next week. Look poor and scruffy.” She looked him up and down. “Not that I need to tell you that.”

  Thursday morning, May 18, 1550

  After breakfast, Thomas helped Walter 'Gaffer' Shawe in the inn's cellar for an hour. The men rolled out the empty barrels and rolled in the new ones, turning them upright on the stillage rack. Gaffer Shawe could gauge the state of the ale just by the sound it made when he tapped on the barrel -- or so he claimed -- but he was getting too old to heave full casks around single-handed. Ale was delivered from the brewery in a partially fermented state, and each barrel needed regular attention to ensure that the drink was clear and did not go sour.

  A good ale would remain drinkable for only about two weeks, and a whole barrel could be lost if the cellar was not carefully managed. In earlier times the inn had brewed its own ale for the guests, but the increase in passing trade meant they only had the capacity to brew the fancy stuff like hopped beer these days. The ale for day-to-day consumption by the guests was carted in from Langridge's, a tavern that had opportunistically branched out into commercial brewing, and now supplied half of the reputable inns in the City. The inn still brewed a small amount of regular ale, because Langridge's brew was far to strong for consumption by anybody who needed to remain reasonably sober. London's water was far from clean, and it was well known that people who drank more ale than water suffered fewer fluxes of the bowels. Consequently, weak 'small' ale -- made from the second or third pressing of the brewer's mash -- was the staple drink of children and working adults, at least during the day.

  Walter vented the new barrels, and checked which needed to brought into service and which had to be slowed; a variety of wooden pegs was used to control the entry of air into the barrels, and regulate the speed of fermentation.

  After hauling out the empty casks, on impulse Thomas returned to the cellar and picked up a bottle of applejack, which he concealed at the bottom of a bag of apples. Selling exotic drinks like applejack was another of Thomas' innovations. He had learned about applejack on the ship back from France, which was crewed by sailors from Devon. It was made by leaving strong cider to freeze and then scraping the ice off. This process could be repeated several times, and the drink got stronger each time. Applejack was rare in London because there were few large apple orchards, and it fetched a good price in the inn whenever he could persuade anybody to try it. Customers who tried it usually liked it and wanted to try some more; after trying a few cupfuls they didn't try very much else for some time.

  Thomas also found in the cellar a grubby linen cloth to wrap the silver cross in. He retrieved the object from under the hay in the stable, stared at it for a while, wrapped it reluctantly but securely, and set off along Gracechurch Street.

  The sun was shining and the sky clear; it promised to be a fine Spring day. When Thomas got to the constable's shop, he was surprised to find George up and about, nagging the apprentices as usual. Thomas strolled over to the back of the shop and put the bag down on the table. George looked at it quizzically.

  “A get-well present,” said Thomas. George limped over and felt the bag.

  “Apples?” He asked. Then, knowing Thomas as he did, he rummaged in the bag until he felt something solid. “Ah.” He smiled, as he lifted the small, dark bottle out. He uncorked it a
nd sniffed the contents. “Small cups or large?” Thomas held his hand up with his thumb and finger half an inch apart.

  “We had a hard winter last year. I skimmed the cider about six times. There's about half a gallon's worth in that bottle. Don't drink much if your plans for the day include standing up or speaking.”

  “Mary's always telling me I need more fruit,” George grinned. “She'll be pleased you brought some round.” He disappeared into another room and came back with two small metal cups. Thomas gathered up the sack of apples and the men strolled through the shop into the tiny back yard -- a patch of muddy ground about twenty feet square, bordered by buildings on three sides and a high wooden fence on the fourth. In one corner a few straggly herbs were attempting to grow. The men sat on a bench against the back of the shop, and George made a show of pouring a few drops of applejack into each cup.

  “So,” he said, after taking a sip and nodding appreciatively. “How now?”

  Thomas briefly reported his discussions with Thomas Francis and Joan Warter. Then he continued: “So, for better or worse, Goodman Francis is most likely accounted for. Master Nash thought he saw Francis around the murder site after dark, but probably he -- Francis -- was just sneaking out of his shack to visit his lady friend. He lives behind the butcher's yard, only a few minutes from the where the body was found.”

  George mused for a moment. “It's an odd coincidence, though, the Wilkes brothers knowing Big Tom. I didn't know where they were staying before we arrested them -- they were chased into my parish by the hue-and-cry. Even if I had known, I wouldn't have connected them with Big Tom -- I don't know why he and his workmates drink at an alehouse outside their own parish. Have you got the cross with you?”

  Thomas extracted it from his doublet and unwrapped it. George stared. Thomas said: “I was rather hoping you'd know what to do with it. I can't keep it -- I don't have any official standing.”

  George frowned. “I can lock it up in the shop, but it's hardly safe -- either for me or the cross. I wonder how much it's worth?”

  “Right now? An arm and a leg, I would think.” he replied glumly, then shuddered. “If not a head.”

  George said: “The metal alone is probably worth more than my shop.” Then he mused: “Do you think this has anything to do with the murder?”

  “God's blood!” exclaimed Thomas. “We don't need that kind of complication. Where are the Wilkes brothers now?”

  “In the Poultry compter, waiting to find out whether they'll be tried for battery or manslaughter, depending on what happens to Chilton. Do you want to speak to them?”

  “It can't hurt, although I doubt there's any connection with the Eastcheap murder. But will the warder let me in?”

  “Oh, he'll let you in all right. It's getting him to let you out that will be the problem.”

  Thomas chose to interpret this as a joke, although the corruption and acquisitiveness of London's gaolers was not particularly amusing. That one of them might hold visitors to ransom was not entirely beyond credibility.

  “I'll send out to the alderman's clerk to write you a letter,” said George. “We're acting for the Sheriff -- it will be fine, I think. I should go myself.” He stretched his swollen leg. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  George poured some more applejack into the cups. The men sipped their drinks in silence for a while. Then Thomas said: “I did notice something else that was odd. When I mentioned the murder to Joan Warter at the Mermaid, she startled, as if she'd been stung.”

  “I wonder if she knows more than she's letting on? You said the cross was found in one of her bedrooms after all, and both Francis and the Wilkes brothers were there at times, aye?”

  Thomas reflected. “She seemed a decent enough woman. Nice smile.” George looked at him oddly. “Rather jumpy, though, as if she's expecting somebody to hit her. I wonder if it's her husband? Somewhat melancholic, I thought.”

  “Did you speak to her husband? Does he seem the type to make a wife jittery?”

  “I didn't, so I don't know,” admitted Thomas. “I'm sorry to say I can't even remember his name. I don't even know if she told me. Nay, wait -- Henry, she said. But I didn't see much point in bothering him. I only went to the alehouse because I couldn't think of anything else to do.”

  “What should we do next?” asked George. “And by, 'we', of course, I mean...”

  “Me.” sighed Thomas. “I don't know. Honestly. We only had one slight suspect, and now it turns out he has an alibi. I suppose I should check with this Rose, if I can do it without upsetting her father.”

  “I could ask Mary to do it,” said George. If either of us turn up at his house, it's going to look official.”

  “Fine,” agreed Thomas. “I'll talk to the Wilkes brothers, if you don't get around to doing it first. But I doubt they have any connection to the murder -- this murder, anyway.” He thought for a moment. “I'm not going to be able to do it today -- I have innkeeper business to see to.”

  “I'm sure Katherine can manage perfectly well without you.” Grinned George. “Better, perhaps.”

  “I know, but I have to pretend do my bit. The guests like to think a man runs the place, even though Katt does most of the real work. You know how it is.”

  “How is your delightful niece, anyway?” Grinned George.

  “Cousin.” replied Thomas. “Or something.” He recalled their conversation yesterday. “Still not keen on the idea of marriage.”

  “Is there a dearth of worthy menfolk in your ward?”

  “It's not that. There's no shortage of interest, even though I can't offer much of a dowry. She just scares them all away. Understandably enough, in most cases. She knows that whomever she marries will become my business partner, whether he likes it or not, and she will become an obedient and submissive wife.” Both men chuckled at the thought of this.

  “Oh, she'll meet the right man some day,” George commented airily. “She's only eighteen, isn't she? Plenty of time.”

  Thomas nodded. “She's seeing Goodman Sumner on Sunday. I hope she'll take some sort of interest, even if it's just to stop the neighbours making pointed remarks to her.”

  “What, that miserable old devil?” replied George, raising his eyebrows. “You'll be lucky. He's older than you, isn't he?

  “What are you saying? I'm in my prime!” Thomas retorted. “Geoffrey Sumner has been married before, I agree. But he was a good husband, and he's a good man. And he's not too bad-looking from certain angles, with the light right behind him.”

  “But as cheerless as a wet October fast day,” complained George.

  Thomas grinned. “Oh, Katt will cheer him up, given a chance.”

  “Maybe,” agreed George. “Or wring his neck. Now if I were ten years younger and not married...”

  “If you were ten years younger and unmarried, I'd advise Katherine to keep well away from you, you old rogue! Here, have another drink.” Thomas thought for a moment, then slapped his head. “Damn! I knew there was something else I had to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “At least one of the Wilkes brothers can read.”

  “By the Cross!” George cursed. “Are you sure? How do you know?”

  Thomas explained about The Wanton Widow of Bath.

  “Well, if they're going to try for benefit of clergy, I'll see them tonsured and kneeling on the courtroom floor. Then I'll make them read the Apocalypse in Latin. We'll see who can damned well read and who damned well can't.”

  Thursday afternoon, May 18, 1550

  Back at the Whyte Hart, Thomas found Katherine seated in the tap room with a rotund, flamboyantly-dressed man in his fifties. He had a neatly trimmed triangular beard and a long, pointed moustache, and small, bright eyes. On the bench in front of him was a pewter ale tankard containing only froth. When Thomas entered, the man stood up, smiled broadly, and extended his hand. “Well met, Master Whyte.”

  They shook hands. “Well met indeed, Master Beauchamp. I trust Katherine is looking after you
well?”

  “Oh, indeed she is,” boomed Beauchamp, in a deep, sing-song voice. He grinned. “She's been entertaining me with sad tales of your establishment's grievous financial misfortunes.” He picked up his empty tankard and looked meaningfully at it. “Also, she's been letting me try your most interesting beer. Made with hops, apparently?”

  “Aye.” Thomas took the hint and picked up the tankard; he refilled it from the jug, and put the full tankard down on the table. “It has an interesting taste, don't you think?” he said, “And it keeps very well compared to ordinary malt ale.”

  Beauchamp nodded and swigged half the tankard in one draught. “Fine stuff. Now, where were we?”

  Katherine answered: “We were discussing why you feel you have to treble your already exorbitant fees.”

  “Ah, my dear lady,” Beauchamp intoned, smiling. “Times are hard for a travelling company. The common folk love us, as ever.” He scowled. “But the authorities aren't so keen.” He gave Thomas a level stare.

  Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Don't look at me like that, Rowland. I'm not 'the authorities' any more.” He paused. “Not that I ever had much authority, as you well know.”

  “As you will, Tom.” Beauchamp raised his tankard in a mock salute. “But you were a fine and honourable constable -- all the cut-purses said so.” He scowled. “Not like this new fellow, I understand.”

  “Master Savill?”

  “Is that his name? He's a desiccated old dog's pizzle whatever his name is. I understand he even supported Sheriff Turke's attempt to close down the stews in Southgate.” He drank, then pulled a face. “But what's a healthy, single man going to do with his evenings now?”

  Thomas grinned at him. “Spend more time with your girls, perhaps?”

  “Master Whyte, for shame!” Beauchamp pretended shock. “My girls are as chaste as the holy sisters!” He managed to maintain his composure for a few seconds, and then roared with laughter. Then he looked at Katherine. “But, my dear, I fear such lewd talk is not for such delicate ears.”

  “Nay, indeed, Master Beauchamp,” confirmed Katherine. “Perhaps I should attend to my embroidery.” She made no move to do so, merely raising an eyebrow at him.

  “Be that as it may,” continued Beauchamp with a shrug, “there are many who would run us out of town.” He scowled. “Your man Savill and Master Turke to name but two. And all we bring is a few hours harmless fun -- mumming, acrobatics, singing and dancing.”

  “Not every travelling company is as high-minded and abstemious as you,” said Thomas, smiling. “Some, as you know, are little more than a diversion for pick-pockets and cut-purses.”

  “So sad, so sad” agreed Beauchamp. “Bringing a noble profession into disrepute. The ancient Greeks invented theatre, you know.”

  “I'd bet the ancient Greeks didn't sing your songs about randy roosters and merry milkmaids.”

  Beauchamp waived his objections away. “Be that as it may, I believe that travelling players are here to stay...” He reflected on this last sentence, then finished weakly: “...so to speak. People want what we have to offer. Their lives are so drab, so hard. A few hours light relief -- is that too much to ask?”

  Katherine interrupted: “And the other kind of relief after the show, if your girls aren't too tired?” Both men look at her, eyes wide. She smiled.

  “Well, anyway,” stuttered Beauchamp, momentarily caught off balance, “the fact is that the Corporation does not like us, and it's getting harder to get engagements.”

  Thomas nodded. “It's true that Master Judde and some of the other aldermen would happily close you down. But some are on your side.”

  “Judde?” asked Beauchamp. “I don't think I know that gentleman, do I?”

  “You soon will: Sir Andrew Judde, the new Lord Mayor. I don't really know him, but George -- Constable Harwood -- has dealings with him. Master Judde is alderman of Bridge ward, where George's parish is,” he explained. “To be honest, the Corporation see travelling companies as causes of disorder. Which, in some cases, they are.” He grinned. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  “No offence taken, old fellow,” Beauchamp grinned back.

  Thomas continued: “There's always been a bit of tension about public entertainers in London. You'll know, of course, that the City is partly self-governing. There's always scope for arguing about jurisdiction. The Corporation is responsible for law and order, and the aldermen mostly think that travelling entertainers are little more than vagabonds, if not plague carriers. But the King and the Court have a lot of leisure time to fill when they're in residence. They can't hunt at night, after all. The Old King -- God rest his soul -- loved music and dancing, despite his many faults. The court encouraged actors and performers and, to some extent, still does.” Thomas got up and poured drinks for himself and Katherine. Beauchamp had unexpectedly covered his tankard with his hand when Thomas looked in it. When Thomas came back to the table, he continued: “The plain fact is, whether the City officials tolerate you or not depends on whether they think it's more profitable to suck up to the Corporation or the Court at that particular time.”

  Beauchamp finished his drink, and became uncharacteristically serious. “I appreciate your candour, Tom. But in the end I have to feed and house my company. We've had to increase our prices because we only get half the engagements we used to, and we don't get paid for half of those we do get.” He sighed. “Those whoresons in Woburn threw us out after three days, before we could even collect our fees.” He looked at Katherine, somewhat abashed, and added: “Begging your pardon, Mistress Katherine.”

  She shrugged. “For all that, Master Beauchamp, the Whyte Hart can't pay you two shillings a night. It's not that we don't want do. We just can't. As it is, Cousin Tom is taking on the Sheriff's chores again to make extra money. He's out confronting murderous butchers all day so we can put bread on the table.”

  Thomas grinned. “It wasn't that bad. It seems there never really was all that much risk of my coming home in a meat pie.”

  Katherine frowned. “Not this time, maybe. But who knows what will happen next time?”

  Thomas looked into his tankard and was surprised to find it empty. He stood up. “More beer?” He asked. Katherine looked in her tankard and shook her head. Beauchamp looked briefly as if fighting an inner battle, then thrust his tankard out at arm's length and grinned. “Perhaps we could come to some arrangement.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tom, you're still friendly with Sheriff York, I take it?”

  “Hardly friends, Rowland. I don't move in those circles. He's a Government official and a confidante of the King; I'm an innkeeper. He comes in for a drink from time to time, usually when he wants a favour that he can't ask anyone official to do.”

  “Would you say that he is the Corporation's man or the King's?”

  Thomas thought about this. “He was the Old King's man, no question. He's kept up good relations with the Protectorate -- all of its various factions. The new king had dinner at his house in Walbrook last month. The whole Council often meets there. Why?”

  “You could put in a good word for us. If we could get an engagement at a royal dinner -- even a private one -- it could be worth ten weeks of performing on benches propped up on ale casks.” He added: “Present company excepted.”

  Thomas shrugged. “No offence taken, old fellow.”

  Beauchamp leaned back in his chair and spread his hands on the table. Talking to the ceiling, he continued. “What we need is patronage. Only companies that are associated with influential households are safe from persecution. I have such great plans, you know.” He spread his arms as if to indicate how great they were. “Real drama, like the ancients had. Specially written plays, performed on grand stages. Music composed for the event. Choirs! Poetry!” Then he sighed. “The tale of St George, and Robin Hood, and so on, well, they're old hat.”

  “I should steer clear of Robin Hood, if I were you,” interrupted Thomas. “You'll probably en
d up in the Tower -- the Council thinks it's seditious. You'd probably get away with it if you change it so that Robin Hood gets hanged at the end.”

  “Really? Well, it hardly matters. Today's audiences want something more... something contemporary; more thought-provoking, anyway.”

  “And that's what you're going to offer Sir John?” asked Thomas. “I think he's more of a merry milkmaids man, to be honest.”

  “Nay, of course not,” admitted Beauchamp. “Not yet. But I'm trying to make the traditional plays more sophisticated -- not as slapstick. Jokes that don't always involve somebody's cock.” Catching Katherine's look, he added: “Or hen, for that matter. The other things will come later.”

  “Why not now?” asked Katherine.

  “Because right now Englishmen think that a man dressed as a woman sticking his arse in another man's face is the pinnacle of comedy, that's why. We won't change that overnight, but given the support of a wealthy man with the King's ear, we might make a start.”

  Thomas considered this. “I don't think I have as much influence as you seem to think. But if you could drop your fee to, say...” He looked at the ceiling. “Oh, one shilling a night, then maybe...”

  “One and sixpence, and not a penny less.” retorted Beauchamp immediately.

  Katherine interrupted. “One shilling a night, and a keg of our best hopped beer?”

  Beauchamp signed. “My dear, you drive a hard bargain. One shilling a night, ale and beds for the company, and a keg of your delightful brew.”

  Katherine looked at Thomas, who shrugged. She said: “Done.”

  Thomas said: “When can we expect you?”

  Beauchamp replied. “We're at the Black Eagle Monday and Tuesday. We could give you the rest of the week, if you like.”

  “Splendid,” replied Thomas. “We'll get some planks on ale casks ready for you in the courtyard. If we really push the boat out, we could throw some old stable rugs on top.”

  “Ah, a palace fit for the great kings of the orient!” boomed Beauchamp. “Ahem. Just my little joke. Your stables are cleaner that Lord Russell's dining hall.”

  “They should be, the amount of time Tom spends out there,” laughed Katherine. “Will you stay to dinner, Master Beauchamp? We will be having pork roasted with asparagus.”

  “I would be delighted, Mistress Katherine.”

  “How is your Bridget, by the way? Will she join us?” asked Thomas.

  Beauchamp shook his large head, and sighed. “Alas, the travelling life was not for her. I should have known better -- it's a hard life for a woman of refinement.”

  “What happened?” asked Katherine.

  “She went back to her father,” sighed Beauchamp. “She said she wanted to live in a house, with silk cushions and such fripperies. Can't say I blame her.” He stood up. “At my age, I could do with a few more silk cushions myself.” He bowed. “I'll take my leave until dinner. I have a few business matters to attend to. Fare ye well.”

  When he had left, Thomas turned to Katherine, and mused: “If Master Beauchamp's company can put up their prices, I wonder if we can charge more for admission?”

  “I've been thinking about that,” replied Katherine. “We could try to make the event more up-market, you know? If Master Beauchamp is trying to make his show more refined, can't we do the same?”

  “In what way?”

  “Charge a bit more, but provide seats. Keep the rowdies out. Have the girls walk around selling food, rather than just slopping out ale from buckets. We could sell seats on the balconies around the courtyard for a higher price. They're out of the weather, as well.”

  Thomas thought about this. “We'd have to let the folks that are staying in those rooms use the balconies without payment, though. We can hardly black out their windows for a week.”

  “Aye,” replied Katherine, “but we could sell the other balcony rooms.”

  “It's worth a try,” Thomas agreed. “If we sell food, can we get enough for, say, a hundred people?”

  Katherine replied: “Depends what it is. We could send Gaffer down with the cart to the pie bakery in New Fish Street before we open. They could certainly have a hundred fish pies ready for us, and they'd keep warm stacked around our hearth for a while. It would be cheaper and quicker than trying to cook a hundred meals in our own kitchen.”

  “So, rather than just charging a penny to stand in the courtyard like we did last year, we could charge tuppence to sit, and another tuppence for a pie and some bread or something?” Thomas grinned “I like the sound of that. And fourpence for a balcony seat .”

  “Sixpence,” Katherine suggested, firmly. “But for that price we'd have to include proper refreshments.”

  “We'd have to get some more staff in for the evenings. Or pay the girls a bit extra” He paused. “It's going to be murder, isn't it?”

  Katherine shrugged. “It's going to be hard work, for sure. But it could be good for us.”

  “It will certainly keep us in the Sheriffs' good books, if we can run a civilized event. I mean, if we can show that public entertainment doesn't have to be a rowdy, drunken affair, I won't have to have an argument with Master Turke every time a travelling company visits.”

  With that optimistic thought in mind, they strolled off to the kitchen to help get dinner ready.

  Friday morning, May 19, 1550

  Just after ten o'clock, Thomas was in the dining room of the Whyte Hart, helping the girls tidy up after breakfast -- or, as he saw it, tidying the dining room while the girls watched. While he was stacking plates, a boy of about twelve years ran in, red-faced and out of breath.

  “Are you Master Whyte?” the boy asked.

  “I am. And you are?”

  “Bob. I'm Master Harwood's dogsbody.” The boy struggled to breath and talk at the same time.

  “You look half done in, Bob. Mary, prithee get this young fellow a drink. Now, what's this about, Bob? Take your time.”

  The boy waited for his breathing to calm.

  “Master Harwood sends his compliments, Master Whyte, and wonders if you could join him at St Stephen's, if you're not too busy.”

  “St Stephens? In Walbrook?”

  “Aye, that's the one.”

  “That's a long way out of his parish -- did he say why he wanted me?”

  “He just said 'constable business',” replied bob, with a shrug. “He looked very agitated, Master. I think somebody's been found dead -- a toff.”

  Mary brought in a cup of small ale, which the boy drained in one gulp. He wiped his mouth on his hand, and continued: “He had a row with a very rude man who came to the shop, and then he went off to see Master Sheriff. Mistress Harwood is very upset.”

  “Very well, Bob.” Thomas gave the boy a small coin. “Here's something for your trouble. Please run back and tell George that I'll be with him as soon as I can.”

  The boy shook his head, but pocketed the coin anyway. “He said I wasn't to come back to him -- I got chores.”

  “So how will he know I'm coming?”

  Bob grinned. “He must have known you wouldn't be able to keep away.”

  Remembering the discomforts of yesterday's weather, Thomas put on his cloak before leaving for Walbrook. But the day was surprisingly warm, and he was sweating by the time he got to St Stephen's church half an hour later. He found George Harwood pacing up and down in the churchyard.

  “Looks like you're trying to save the gravedigger a job, Jack!” Thomas called. He pointed at the furrow the constable's boots had left in the grass. “I'm glad to see your leg's better, anyway.”

  George smiled weakly. “Thank Heavens you could come, Tom. Things have gone mad!”

  Thomas looked his friend up and down; George's eyes were bloodshot, and his face pale and puffy.

  “You look terrible, Jack. What's going on?”

  George sighed, and walked over to Thomas. He sat down on the stone wall of the churchyard. “All the constables in the ward have been up all night, organizing a sear
ch for a man who beat his wife to death. A worthless shitbag called Allard.”

  “Not Roger Allard?”

  George looked around sharply. “You know him?”

  “Nay, not at all -- I heard his name mentioned yesterday. At the Mermaid, I think. Apparently his friends call him Black Roger”

  George scowled. “He hasn't got any friends. But that's the man, by the sound of it.”

  “Why the nickname? Is he a Moor?”

  “Nay. Black is the colour of his soul, I imagine, not his skin. I've been expecting him to do it for months. His whole parish is in turmoil.”

  “Which parish is it?”

  “St Andrew Hubbard; Philpot Lane, to be exact. A low street, essentially a slum. In principle, it's not my responsibility, if that's what you're wondering. But you know how it is. Their constable couldn't find a pig in a sty.” He paused, and looked up at Thomas. “But that's not why I called you.” He shrugged helplessly. “I should be back in the parish helping with the search, but instead I've been handed another suspicious death to investigate. As you can see, not even one from my own ward, let alone my own parish. The Sheriff must really like me.” He spat.

  Thomas sat down beside him on the wall, and said. “Tell me.”

  George Harwood had finally reached his bed when it was already starting to get light. He hadn't noticed when Mary rose to begin getting the shop ready, but he was woken abruptly by a heavy banging on the door downstairs at about nine o'clock. He staggered out of bed and peered blearily out of the bedroom window, expecting to see one of his watchmen with news of the night's search for Roger Allard. Instead, he saw the stout figure of Stephen Caldwell, beadle of Walbrook ward, banging his stick heavily on the cobbles. Caldwell looked angry and frustrated as Mary let him into the shop.

  George smiled to himself, and took his time dressing. As a result Caldwell was red-faced with rage by the time he got downstairs. The apprentices were already at work in the shop, and looking at him warily. Mary Harwood was fiddling with some boxes nervously. George waved to the men cheerfully, then walk over to the Beadle. “Good day, Master Caldwell,” he said politely. “I trust it finds you well?”

  Caldwell glowered at him. “No it does not, Harwood,” he spat. “And spending half my morning standing outside this benighted hovel makes it even worse. Do you people always sleep until midday?” The apprentices looked up sharply, and one made a show of testing the sharpness of a bodkin. George looked at him and shook his head. He considered telling Caldwell about the activities of the previous night, and then decided not to. He just shrugged instead.

  “Well, since you've got nothing to do,” leered Caldwell, sarcastically, “I'm to tell you that the Sheriff has a job for you. In Walbrook.”

  “Why me?” asked George, reasonably. “It's your ward. Put your own constables on it.”

  “Damned if I will. I looked into it and told the alderman there isn't a case,” Caldwell grumbled, “and he agreed.”

  “Looked into what?”

  “Look, it's perfectly simple, man. Sir Richard Long's son died during the night. Palpitations of the heart. Tragic and all that, of course. But not at all mysterious. The family called the priest and the priest sent a message to the alderman, and he asked me to speak to the family. It was perfectly obvious to me that the boy died of natural causes, and the family agreed.”

  Caldwell turned away from George as if inspecting the merchandise on display, and finding it substandard. Speaking to the ceiling, he continued: “It turned out that the Sheriff got involved. It seems that the Sheriff did not trust my judgement or the Alderman's, so he's sent for you.” Caldwell sneered. “I can't imagine why.”

  “Perhaps, Master Caldwell, Sheriff York knows that I'm not in Sir Richard's pocket?”

  “How dare you!” Caldwell partially raised his stick but, looking around the room at the glowering youths, decided that the odds were not in his favour.

  “Who found the son's body?” asked George.

  “I'm not answering your damned questions!” growled Caldwell. “Go and see the Sheriff yourself. He's in his Walbrook house today.” He looked around. “Now, I've got proper work to do. I've wasted enough time with you and your wretched household.” With that, he stormed out of the house.

  “And did you see the Sheriff?” asked Thomas.

  George nodded. “It seems that Doctor Meredith -- he's the rector of St Stephen's -- sent a man to Caldwell and suggested he summon the King's coroner. But the family were dead against it, and Caldwell wouldn't go against them, so Meredith spoke directly to the sheriff instead.”

  “What did the rector say?”

  “Nothing in particular, as I understand it -- just that it was odd that a fit and healthy young man should succumb so suddenly to illness, with no warning.”

  Thomas screwed up his mouth. “Sweating sickness doesn't give much warning,” he said. “I should know.”

  “Aye, but you'll also know that victims are very ill for the short time it takes them to pass away. That didn't seem to be the case here.” George paused. “But at present we have no idea how young Peter died, apart from one priest's vague opinion that it was unnatural.”

  Thomas shuffled uncomfortably on the stone wall. “By 'unnatural', do you mean that the rector thought that there might be...” he scowled. “Supernatural involvement?”

  “You're talking about witchcraft? In truth, I don't know.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps the Sheriff took that meaning from Doctor Meredith.”

  Thomas nodded. “Perhaps that's why he's so interested in these events. Interested enough to get you involved, I mean. He must know it will cause even more ill-will between your ward and Master Caldwell's”

  “I imagine it's just that Sheriff York doesn't trust Caldwell any more than I do, Tom. I can't imagine there's more to it than that. Not only that -- I suspect he doesn't like Sir Richard very much either. They're almost neighbours, and they've had arguments about land.” George cleared his throat and spat. A well-dressed woman leading two plump children sniffed in distaste as she walked past. “Personally, I wouldn't give change from a farthing for either of them.”

  “But why you? I can understand why the Sheriff wants to involve somebody from outside the ward, but why you in particular?”

  George sighed. “It's not me he wants, it's you. He only asked me because he knew I'd ask you.”

  “Fie! He could at least have the decency to ask me himself.”

  “You'd have said no. He knows you're trying to avoid getting dragged into his dirty work these days.”

  “I hope you said no on my behalf?”

  George looked at his feet. Then he said quietly: “Sorry, Tom, I've told the sheriff that you'll at least take a look, for your usual consideration. Wait...” He held up a hand to fend of Thomas' objection. Thomas closed his mouth into a deep frown. George continued: “I know. I know you don't want to. But if you can't help, he'll badger me into doing it. He can put pressure on me that he can't on you. And I just can't do it -- I'm up to my neck in watch business as it is. I'm getting a beating from Mary, and the business is being held together by my apprentices.” George smiled apologetically. “It's probably only a ten-minute job, anyway. The young fool probably drank himself to death.”

  “Jack, if it's a ten-minute job, why haven't you bloody dealt with it yourself? You know I've already got one of the sheriff's horrible cases, and it's going nowhere.”

  “Aye. But it's just possible that the cases are connected.”

  “Really?” asked Thomas. He raised his eyebrows. “How do you make that out?”

  George grinned. “Not really. I just said that to encourage you.” He yawned, and looked at the shadow of the church spire to guess the time. “I'll help as much as I can, but I've been up all night and, as I said, I've got a search to organize.”

  “Who is this Allard fellow, anyway?” asked Thomas.

  George spat again. “A piece of festering turd from the very bottom of the midden
.” He paused, then said slowly, as if realizing something: “He's a butcher, as it happens.”

  There was an uneasy silence; the men looked at one another.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Thomas, eventually. “We've got a dead man, apparently killed with a butcher's cleaver. We've got a dead woman, apparently killed by her husband, a butcher. And we've got a missing butcher.”

  “That's about right.” George shuffled uneasily. “It's worth thinking about.” He stretched, and rubbed his red eyes. “Anyway, if you want to see the body of Peter Long before he's buried, you'll need to do it today.”

  “Surely the Sheriff will insist on a coroner now?”

  “Not unless Caldwell agrees. The sheriff won't overrule the beadle and the family on this, even if he legally can. They're probably laying out the body as we speak.”

  “Where is he? Here?”

  “Aye. Sorry, Tom, I'll have to leave you to it. I only came here in case you couldn't make it. I need to see how the men are getting on looking for Allard; and I want to look at his wife's body this afternoon, if I get time.”

  “Where is she?”

  “St Margaret's. Another burial expense for the parish, I imagine. I don't suppose her worthless husband will be able to pay the funeral costs, even if we find the bastard. Personally, I think he's half way to the Welsh Marches by now. I know I would be, in his shoes.”

  As they were speaking, two middle-aged women approached the church, carrying bundles of linen.

  “I'd better get moving,” said Thomas, nodding in their direction.

  “Aye,” agreed George, looking around. “Shall we meet at St Margaret's this afternoon? One o'clock?”

  George pulled a face. “If we must. It's bad enough examining men's dead bodies. It's even worse when it's women.”

  George nodded. “I'll have the midwife along for the sake of decorum.”

  The women approaching the church had indeed come to lay out the body of Peter Long. With some difficulty, Thomas convinced them of the need to examine the body before it was sewn into the shroud, although they were only prepared to wait fifteen minutes. They had been given strict instructions, they said, by the late boy's father to have him ready for immediate burial. Thomas followed the women into the church; they sat on one of the pews and talked quietly, casting occasional suspicious glances in his direction.

  The interior of St Stephen's was spacious, and brightly lit by many large windows. Thomas found himself regretting the loss of the stained-glass images they would previously have housed, as he did those of his own parish church. He walked towards the high, vaulted chancel, and found a man in ecclesiastical robes sitting in a high-backed chair at a desk in a small room off the transept. “Are you Doctor Meredith, the rector?” he asked politely.

  The man smiled broadly. “It's the wretched surplice that gives me away, isn't it?”

  Thomas grinned back. “My name is Thomas Whyte. The sheriff has sent me to look at the body of Peter Long.” He paused, and added: “Well, the sheriff has sent somebody to send me to look. I'm not from this parish.”

  “I thought I didn't recognize you, Master Whyte.” He stood up, and the men shook hands. Thomas looked up at Meredith, who stood at least two heads taller than him. Thomas could not judge the priest's age -- he was thin, but not gaunt; his face was smooth and unlined, but his beard and what could be seen of his hair was greying.

  “Nay, I live in Cornhill,” Thomas continued, “in the parish of St Peter's. I believe that it was the Sheriff's idea to have the death investigated by someone outside your parish.”

  Meredith nodded. “Sir John is a sensible fellow. I was hoping the he would take some sort of action. Normally, of course, this would be a case for a coroner's jury.” He gestured to Thomas to sit down in one of the other chairs, then sat himself.

  Thomas leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. Meredith's last comment has been phrased as a statement, but Thomas appreciated that it had really been a question. He nodded. “Sir John seems to prefer private agents, rather than Crown officials, for sensitive cases.”

  “You've worked for him before?”

  “Occasionally. It's a long story.”

  Meredith grinned slightly. “A story that will have to wait, in the present circumstances.”

  Thomas nodded. “I understand the beadle did not view Richard's death as suspicious?”

  Meredith picked up the quill from the table, and fiddled with the feathers thoughtfully. “Maybe Master Caldwell sees many healthy young men die suddenly for no apparent reason? I confess that I'm more familiar with such tragedies having a discernible reason.”

  “I was told that Peter suffered from a heart problem. Could that not have been the reason?”

  “I minor one, I understand. Occasional palpitations of the heart, since childhood. I am not a physician, of course, and it's certainly possible that his condition killed him suddenly. It's really more the atmosphere in the house that makes me doubt it.”

  “The Sheriff said that you described the death as 'unnatural'. What did you mean by that?”

  The priest rolled the quill between his finger and thumb as he thought about this. “Only that I think Sir Richard knows more about the death that he was prepared to say, and that the house felt very closed up, almost... oppressive.” He looked at Thomas. “I didn't mean supernatural although, of course, such influences can't be ruled out.”

  Thomas frowned slightly. “Witchcraft and devilry are outside my remit, I'm afraid.”

  “Surely you don't deny that such things are a real threat to God-fearing men?” Meredith looked at Thomas appraisingly.

  Thomas scratched his head as he considered the question. “I don't deny the plain teaching of Scripture, of course. However, my experience is that men have enough wickedness of their own to commit murder, in the right circumstances, without needing to invoke diabolical influences.”

  Thomas noticed Meredith's grin, and realized that he had passed a test of some sort. The priest continued: “I've known Sir Richard for many years -- he is one of my parishioners, of course -- in principle, at least.”

  “In principle?” Thomas interrupted.

  The priest sighed. “He's not very diligent in his church attendance. Not at St Stephen's, anyway.

  “Anyway, my point is that I can tell when he's being dishonest.” He added ruefully: “I've had plenty of practice, listening to his excuses.”

  “And is he being dishonest about his son?”

  “I believe he is.” Noticing Thomas's look, the priest went on hurriedly: “I'm not suggesting for a moment that he is in any way responsible for his son's death. They were very close, and he is obviously distraught. But, talking to him, I get the impression I often get when a man really needs to make confession. One recognises the signs, after a few decades in the cassock.”

  Thomas thought about this, and then said: “And when he does, you won't be able to talk about it?”

  “If he does.” Meredith sighed. “Since I last heard his confession before the Old King died, I'll have to postpone all my other duties for about a week if he ever feels the need. Please understand me: I'm not accusing him of deliberate wrongdoing. I think perhaps he knows who killed his son, and is scared of him. Whatever the reason, there's an uncomfortable, stifling air in the house.”

  “What did Sir Richard tell you had happened?”

  “He told me that one of the servants had found Peter dead in bed this morning. It seems that Peter had looked unwell, and gone to his bed early -- before supper, even. I did not challenge Sir Richard's account, of course. None of the servants who were present contradicted him, anyway. But I did suggest that he ought to involve the Sheriff, since he only lives a few minutes' walk away.”

  The priest stood up and walked towards the door. In the doorway, he turned and said: “But you'd better see for yourself -- his family want him buried tomorrow morning.”

  Thomas rose from the comfortable chair with some reluctance, a
nd was led to the end of the transept, through a heavy oak door, and down a flight of stone steps to the crypt. This one was much larger than St Margaret's -- Thomas guessed it to be about a hundred feet long -- and the men did not need candles, as a pale light entered through narrow windows in the walls near the ceiling. The crypt was cool and dry, and was clearly kept clean. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor as they walked over to a wooden table where the body lay, covered with a linen sheet. Meredith mumbled a prayer as he pulled the sheet away, and folded it neatly.

  What Thomas saw was the dead body of an athletic-looking young man, probably under twenty years of age. He looked calm and peaceful and, despite careful inspection, Thomas could find no sign of illness or disease. Nor was there any obvious serious injury.

  He looked at Meredith, who shook his head sadly. “You can see why somebody might suspect witchcraft, can't you? A healthy young man dies suddenly, in bed, without warning and with no sign of harm or illness.”

  Thomas turned back to the body. After a while he noticed a pair of partly-healed, faint scratches in the skin of the left cheek, running from just under the eye to the top lip.

  “That's interesting,” he muttered, “but it's hard to see clearly.” Thomas looked around the crypt, and noticed a patch of light on the floor, where the Sun's rays slanted across from a high window. Meredith quickly realized what Thomas was thinking, and between them the two men dragged the table, and the body on it, a few yards across the floor to the light. When Thomas looked closely at the face in the light, he could see what could have been other, lighter scratches in the same area. Meredith bent over to look as well. Thomas and the priest exchanged glances. Then Meredith shrugged, and said: “I saw the scratches yesterday, but I didn't look closely. I thought he'd been a bit careless with the razor.”

  “Could be,” Thomas agreed. “Then again...” He walked over to the priest, and mimed slapping him around the face, fingers curled.

  Meredith nodded thoughtfully. “He'd been in a fight?”

  “Maybe.” Thomas looked at the body again. “What do you know about this young man?” He paused, and looked back at the priest. “That you're allowed to tell me, of course.”

  “I hardly knew him, in truth. The whole family attends services just often enough to keep on the right side of the law. Fie! Perhaps not even that much. Neither Sir Richard nor any of his sons has held any parish office -- not in my time, at least. So far as I can tell, Peter was a polite, decent fellow on his own. He could be loud and coarse in the company of other young men, but that's hardly unusual.”

  “You mentioned other sons?”

  “Peter had two older brothers, Edmund and Ralph. I think that, like many younger sons of wealthy men, he didn't take a lot of interest in his father's business.”

  “What is his business?”

  “Sir Richard is a merchant with a lot of overseas interests, particularly in Spain and France. He's done very well for himself -- his own father was a tanner, or something of that sort. The older brothers are also very active in the mercantile trade. Young Peter was...” Meredith chose his words carefully. “Peter was more active in the tavern trade, if you see what I mean -- particularly that part of it that involves gaming. Not that you heard that from me, of course.”

  Thomas nodded. In addition to the financial hazard, public gambling was technically illegal in the City. “What did his father think of that?”

  “Oh, I think Peter was Sir Richard's favourite, despite his faults -- faults which his father understands all too well, I suspect”

  “Did Peter get along with his brothers?”

  The priest thought about this. “I don't know, now that you mention it. I hardly ever saw them together.” He covered the body up. “So what do you think?”

  Thomas shrugged. “He almost looks like he's going to wake up. If it's disease, it's the one I want to carry me off when my time comes.”

  “That's what I thought,” agreed Meredith. “I'm used to burying people, but they usually look more...” He thought for a moment.

  “More dead?” Thomas offered. The priest shrugged.

  “When you first saw him, did he look like this? Any signs of blood, or vomit?”

  “None. Of course, the family might have cleaned him up before they called on me.” He thought for a moment. “But I doubt it. The household was in turmoil.”

  Thomas nodded. He did have a suspicion how the young man had died, but he didn't intend to discuss it with anybody he didn't know well.

  Friday afternoon, May 19, 1550

  As Thomas pushed through the thronging crowd in New Fish Street towards St Margaret's, he met George and a short, sturdy, middle-aged woman whom George introduced as Goodwife Joyce Baker, a midwife. George had to shout to be heard over the barking of the fish sellers and the shouts of their customers. The three of them elbowed their way through the crowd into the churchyard without speaking. As they walked into the churchyard, the midwife grumbled: “I saw Jane Allard into the world. Now I'll have to see her out of it.” In St Margaret's, as in most parishes, midwives prepared bodies for burial, as well as attending at births.

  “She was born in this parish?” Thomas asked.

  “Nay -- ten minutes away in St George's. Family moved away after she married that no-good husband of hers. Funny lass; but then so was her mother.”

  George replied, gruffly: “You can see the no-good husband out of the world as well, if we get our hands on him.”

  Goodwife Baker frowned. “Are you so sure her husband killed her, Master George? I know he's a good-for-nothing layabout, but all the same...”

  George shrugged, and pulled a sour face. “We know he's beaten her badly several times in the past.”

  The group stopped at the church porch. The midwife said: “A man's entitled to chastise his wife, for better or worse. So scripture says, at any rate. Doesn't make him a killer.”

  “We're not talking about lawful correction, Goody Baker.” George replied. “He's an evil-tempered, violent man. Even his own workmates are scared of him. The neighbours say they heard him shouting at her last Saturday night.”

  “Was that when she was killed?” asked Thomas.

  “Sorry, Tom -- I forgot I haven't told you much about the murder. We don't know for sure when she was killed,” admitted George. “She'd been dead a while when her neighbours found her body last night. It could well have been last Saturday when she was killed.”

  “How did they know she was dead?” asked Thomas.

  George sniffed a couple of times, and screwed up his face. “She wasn't killed in the last couple of days, and her neighbours heard rowing in her house Saturday night, so I'm assuming it was between Saturday and Wednesday.” George paused for a moment. “Then again, the disturbance last Saturday could just have been another row -- I'm told that they rowed non-stop whenever her husband was at home.”

  “Which wasn't very often,” added Goodwife Baker, darkly.

  Thomas looked at her, eyebrows raised. The woman stared coolly back at him. “Word gets around, in my job.”

  “Another woman?” asked Thomas.

  The midwife sighed. “It's not my place to say, I'm sure.”

  George explained: “Roger Allard has something of a reputation for bothering women, but I've never heard anything formally -- no actual complaints, not from any woman in my parish, anyway. I understand that Jane -- his wife -- didn't see much of him, but I suspect that suited her well enough. They weren't a very social couple, according to the neighbours. I think they didn't like her very much, and were scared of the husband. It's bizarre that a married woman could be murdered in her own home, and her body not found for nearly a week, but it's not entirely surprising in this case. The neighbours are raising a stink now, but I think it's mostly out of guilt for not helping her, or even noticing the poor woman was dead.”

  Thomas nodded. “I did wonder about that. Did you say he's a butcher, the husband?”

  “Aye, I did,” replied G
eorge. “If you're wondering whether he knew Big Tom, I would say he must have done -- they both worked for Master Abraham.” George paused, then continued: “Although from what I've heard, 'worked' might be a generous description where Allard is concerned.”

  Thomas opened the church door. “If you're reasonably sure her husband killed her, what are we looking for?”

  “Confirmation,” replied George grimly. “I'm reluctant to send a man to the gallows just because he's a worthless work-shy bastard, begging your pardon Goody Baker.”

  The midwife sniffed. “I've heard worse words from women in labour. Usually describing their husbands.”

  The constable scratched his face thoughtfully, and then said: “I do have one reason to wonder whether the husband is entirely to blame. When I was talking to the Allard's neighbours, I spoke to a night-soil man in the neighbourhood.”

  “Lucky you, Master George,” interjected the midwife with a sniff.

  “Aye. He said he was shovelling out a tavern privy in Philpot Lane Saturday night, and he saw two strangers out after curfew.”

  “Men?” asked Thomas.

  George nodded, and added: “he didn't recognize either of them. One man had a limp, he said, as if from a leg injury. The were dressed unremarkably, and presumably from outside the parish.”

  “Incomers?” asked Thomas.

  George shrugged, then said: “Who knows? They could be from another parish, but that's no reason for them to be in the streets after curfew.”

  “What time was this?” asked Thomas.

  “Fully dark, so some time after nine. The night-soil man thought it was nearly midnight, but I don't know how knew that.”

  “By how full his cart was?” asked Thomas.

  George grimaced. “I'm pleased to say that I'm not well-informed on the working practices of the night-soil trade.”

  The vicar met them as they approached the chancel of the church. Initially he looked even more weary and morose than usual, but cheered up when he recognized the midwife. He smiled broadly. “How now, Goody Baker? Have you come to brighten up our crypt again?”

  The midwife sniffed. “Never mind your crypt, Master Reynold -- this whole place is a cheerless as a tomb lately.” She began bustling around, tidying up some flowers that were drooping in a vase in an alcove.

  “It is a cheerless world, Goody Baker,” sighed the Vicar, his smile fading. “The church is just a reflection of the parish it serves.”

  “Nonsense,” replied the midwife in a businesslike voice, finishing with the flowers and inspecting the dusty candlesticks on the communion table critically. “You're just a grumpy old man, Vicar.” She blew some dust off a candlestick, then grinned at him lasciviously. “You should take advantage of the new laws and get married, like other priests have. This place could do with more feminine influence.”

  The vicar shuddered. “The very idea!” He took the candlestick from her gently and replaced it on the table. “I'll get used to a vernacular liturgy if I have to; I'll even ignore the desecration of the church if I have no choice,” he nodded at the headless carvings of figures on the columns along the aisle, “but a married clergy? God have mercy on us!”

  George and Thomas exchanged glances. Beresford was hardly the only clergyman to have accepted the Protestant reforms only with reluctance. Some had not accepted them at all, and had paid for their recalcitrance with their livings, if not their lives.. Overzealous reformers had done their best to rid London's churches of anything that could pass for idolatry -- statues of saints had had their heads knocked off, stained glass windows had been smashed, and silverware melted down. Many Londoners who approved of the reforms in general had been shocked by the brutality and heavy-handedness with which they had been implemented. Even George, as protestant a man who ever cursed the Pope, had misgivings about destroying art treasures.

  The priest passed around candles, and they lit them from the large chancel candle, before filing down the stone staircase. There were now two bodies in the cold crypt -- the unknown, mutilated man from Tuesday had been sewn into a burial shroud and moved into an alcove. The wooden bench was now occupied by the body of a young woman. As they approached the covered body, Midwife Baker's mouth drew into a tight line. She carefully removed the linen cloth to woman's waist, and shook her head. “The poor girl.”

  Jane Allard had been in her early twenties, but looked twenty years older. Extensive bruises discoloured her face and neck, and further bruises marked her arms, particularly at the wrists, and stomach area. Most strikingly, the head was turned at an unnatural angle. The midwife gently felt the dead woman's neck, while rotating the head, while the men held candles. Eventually she stepped back. “Strangled?” It was not really a question.

  Thomas stepped forward and felt the woman's neck himself. He nodded. “There's a small bone in the neck which is usually broken during strangulation.” He looked the dead woman up and down. “But whether the strangling or the beating killed her, I don't know.”

  George asked the midwife carefully: “Can you tell us anything about...” he nodded at the body, “lower down?”

  The woman looked at him with her eyes screwed up. “If you mean, did the killer rape her, why don't you just say so?”

  George shrugged and looked miserable. The midwife sighed. “She's been dead for several days, Master George, maybe longer. It's often not easy to tell even if a woman was raped recently. In this case, it will be nigh-on impossible.”

  The men self-consciously looked away, while the midwife lifted the rest of the cloth. Eventually she replaced the sheet and said: “She has no visible bruising below the waist. That doesn't prove anything, of course, and it's too late to look for more intimate wounds on the poor girl.”

  Thomas frowned. “But the bruises on her arms suggest that somebody tried to hold her still and she struggled, wouldn't you say?”

  “Is there any way to tell whether all the injuries come from the same assault?” asked George.

  Thomas shrugged. “The bruises on her wrists look about the same age as the ones on her face and stomach. They're the right colour. But look...” he held his candle over the dead woman's torso. “There are older bruises on her arms and chest as well -- some almost completely healed.”

  The midwife shook her head sadly -- the implication that Jane Allard had been routinely beaten did not come as a surprise. She said to George: “Will you catch him?”

  George said: “We'll do our best, but unless he's hiding out locally and somebody gives him away, I think it's unlikely.” As they walked back to the steps, he added: “By the Cross! I've little doubt that he'll end up on some gallows somewhere, sooner or later.”

  Nobody spoke as the priest led George, Thomas and Midwife Baker back into the chancel of the church, and along the nave to the main door. The constable hesitated before leaving. “Master Beresford, do you have any news about the injured man, Robert Chilton? The fellow who was beaten senseless?”

  The priest shook his heady. “His family sent some men to take him home on Tuesday. He was still unconscious at the time. I heard from one of the servants that he has only woken long enough to take a drink -- he still hasn't said anything. The doctor thinks he will live, but his recovery will be protracted and probably incomplete. Have you questioned the men who assaulted him?”

  Thomas answered: “No -- I meant to see them today, but I was overtaken by events. We still don't know the reason for the attack, if there even was one.”

  “Young Robert was a wealthy man -- could it just have been robbery?” asked Beresford.

  “Perhaps. Did he have money in his purse when he came here?”

  The priest shook his head helplessly. “I'm afraid I don't have a clue. I wouldn't have thought to look.”

  The midwife interrupted: “Master Reynold, I'll do the laying out tomorrow, if I may. Goody Claybrook is due any time now -- it's bad luck attending a birth after handling a corpse.”

  “Of course,” the priest replied, with a
sigh. “The living take precedence over the dead. In any case, Goodwife Allard is from St Andrew's parish, isn't she? Her own neighbours might want to make funeral arrangements of their own. You might not have a job to do after all.”

  The midwife nodded at the men politely, and bustled out of the church.

  George and Thomas left the churchyard and strolled up New Fish Street towards Gracechurch Street. The weather had turned cold and dark, and Thomas pulled his cloak around his shoulders. The smell of hot food being prepared in the cook-shops was suddenly appealing. “Fish pie?” suggested George. Friday was a fish day, and cook-shops were not supposed to sell cooked meats. Despite regular inspections, the law was widely abused, but George didn't think that a parish constable should openly flaunt it. Never one to refuse a hot pie, whatever it was filled with, Thomas nodded. George handed over a small coin and was given two large, steaming pies, wrapped in paper. The men chewed reflectively as they walked. Eventually, Thomas said: “Two dead bodies in as many days.”

  George shook his head. “Three. Don't forget Peter Long.”

  Thomas struggled to swallow a piece of pie that was burning his throat, then replied: “Indeed. The priest was right to be suspicious -- I doubt he died of any common disease, despite what his father said. The priest told me that Peter Long suffered from a minor heart ailment from childhood, but doubted that it would have killed him. He could have been suffocated, but there was no sign of struggle.” He paused to wipe fish sauce off his face. “I have a nasty feeling he was poisoned.”

  George almost choked on his pie. “Poisoned? With what?”

  Thomas wiped pie gravy from his chin. “When I was a constable, a woman in my ward accidentally killed her husband when she measured out his daily dose of tincture of opium. He was suffering from a wasting sickness, and took opium to manage the pain. Usually he measured it out himself, but on that particular day he was too unwell. I'm told that a kitchen spoonful of the stuff would kill most men.” Thomas took another bite of his pie, then continued: “I was struck at the time by how peaceful the dead man looked. I'm told that a large opium overdose is just like falling asleep.”

  “How long does it take to act?” asked George.

  “Minutes,” Thomas replied.

  “God's teeth!”

  The men ate what was left of their pies in silence, then George asked: “Is this tincture of opium easy to obtain?”

  “If you know where to go. It's not widely used in England, but some apothecaries sell it. They're supposed to check that purchasers are well-intentioned, and to keep a record of sales. It's expensive, but not ruinously so.”

  George mused: “We need to see Sir Richard, but he's not going to take kindly to your suggesting that somebody poisoned his son. When is he to be buried? Soon, I imagine?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” agreed Thomas with a scowl. “The family are acting like he was a plague victim. They can't wait to get him in the ground.”

  “Then I suspect that a good time to speak to the father would be immediately after the burial, Tom. During the wake, if possible.”

  Thomas looked him wide-eyed. “You're a hard man, Jack. Is that really necessary?”

  George shrugged. “From what you say, he's already lied to his parish priest. It would be good to question him when he's off-guard. Shall we meet at his house at two o'clock?”

  “If we must,” replied Thomas glumly. “The priest said the father and son were very close. It's going to be uncomfortable.”

  George nodded. “Just console yourself with the money you'll get from Sheriff York.”

  Thomas grimaced slightly at this, then said: “Should you not inform Master Caldwell? The death happened in his ward, and it's not as if you're in pursuit of a criminal.”

  The constable scowled. “I'll tell him out of courtesy, but he's made it quite clear that he's not going to get involved. I'll send young Bob round this evening.”

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, then Thomas suddenly remembered something. “The night-soil man you talked to -- he said he saw two men near the Allard house on the night Goody Jane was probably killed.”

  “That's right,” George confirmed. “Two strangers, one with a limp.”

  “Does either of the Wilkes brothers have a limp?”

  George considered this. “Not that I remember. But I suppose it could have been a sprain or something that has since healed. Why? Do you think there's a connection?”

  “Not really,” admitted Thomas. “But it might explain why the night-soil man didn't recognize the men he saw. And we know that the brothers are violent and involved in more than one crime.”

  “It's worth following up,” George agreed, “but I still think the husband is more likely, particularly as he's disappeared. All the same, even if Robert Chilton lives, the Wilkes boys deserve a severe whipping.”

  Thomas nodded. If Chilton died, the brothers might still be able to claim benefit of clergy, despite the constable's attempts to make the test hard for them. If he lived, they certainly would, even with Chilton's father's influence. They would probably get away with a penance.