Read Butchery: A Mystery of Tudor London Page 4

  Part 3: The tavern of despair

  “The wraiths of murdered hopes and loves

  Come whispering at the door,

  Come creeping through the weeping mist

  That drapes the barren moor;

  But we within have turned the key

  'Gainst Hope and Love and Care,

  Where Wit keeps tryst with Folly, at

  The Tavern of Despair.”

  -- Donald Marquis, The tavern of despair

  Thursday morning, May 24, 1550

  Thomas spent the morning wondering how he could question Henry Warter without asking him outright if he had killed Black Roger. Once asked, he only had to deny it, and from then on he would be on his guard. Thomas had scant enough reason to suspect Warter in the first place. In the end, Thomas reasoned that his best approach would be to confront Warter suddenly with the murder weapon, to see whether he reacted in shock. It was a stinker of a plan; he knew that -- but he couldn't think of a better one. He remembered that the cleaver was still in the crypt at St Margaret's, so he set off to the church to reclaim it. He took with him a sturdy leather bag in which to conceal the cleaver, reasoning that carrying a large, edged weapon through New Fish Street -- at least one that wasn't clearly used in fish processing -- might arouse unwanted interest.

  Yesterday's warm weather had met up with today's cold, and left a dense fog. The streets were dark, and the fog deadened the usual street noises. In the street, carts suddenly appeared out of nowhere without warning, scattering people in their path. Horses were nervous, and people seemed unusually short-tempered when Thomas bumped into them. However, more by luck than anything to his credit, Thomas arrived without incident in New Fish Street, and made his way through the market stalls and the piles of fishing paraphernalia to St Margaret's. The weather was not keeping fish buyers away -- it just made them grouchy.

  In this weather the church seemed even more dour than usual. Tendrils of fog wound around the headstones and monuments in the small churchyard, and Thomas noticed for the first time that, unusually, the churchyard was predominantly to the north of the building, where it would mostly be in shadow. Even in London, where space was short, churches were usually built at the northern end of their grounds, leaving the churchyard to get the best of the sunlight. Thomas wondered idly whether this unusual location contributed to the aura of neglect in the churchyard. At the other end of the churchyard the sexton, wrapped in a heavy, woollen cloak, was filling in a fresh grave. When he looked up, Thomas nodded to him politely, but the sexton only stared at him and returned to his work. Thomas shrugged and walked through the headstones to the church door. It was locked.

  Rather surprised, Thomas ambled back to the sexton. “Goodman Greene, isn't it?”

  The man thrust his spade into the earth pile, and straightened up. He looked sourly at Thomas, and said curtly: “Aye. What is it you're wanting?”

  “To see the vicar, if he's here; to get something you're keeping safe in the crypt if he isn't.”

  At the mention of the crypt, the sexton looked startled, but Thomas reassured him. “It's all right -- what I want is something related to a murder investigation. A meat cleaver. I'm not interested in the contents of Master Beresford's secret tunnel, if that's what you're thinking.”

  Greene stared at Thomas with his heavy eyebrows narrowed. His face was coarse, wrinkled, and dark-skinned, and covered with a thick stubble that fell short of deserving to be called a beard. Thomas could see him trying to work out how much he knew, and what he himself should admit to. Finally he said: “Oh. So you know about that, do you?”

  “You needn't worry -- I won't tell anybody unless I have no choice. I take it that the vicar is not in the church?”

  “That he isn't. He's in his house, ill, poor fellow.” The sexton pointed at a nearby house with the handle of his spade.

  “Oh? Nothing serious, I hope?” Asked Thomas.

  Greene shrugged. “He's an old man, and he works his fingers to the bone. I think he's just taken a bit of a chill from this fog. He came in to take service this morning, but he was shaking and sweating something terrible.”

  At the mention of sweating, Thomas's head jerked around.

  “Oh, don't worry,” the sexton chuckled nastily. “It's not that kind of sweating. At least, I don't think so. He wasn't feverish, just exhausted, poor old fellow. Or so it seemed to me, not that I'm a physician or anything.”

  Thomas reflected that the sexton was probably older than the 'poor old fellow,' he referred to, but he looked more robust. The sexton continued: “Did you want to see him?” Thomas wondered whether he ought to see the vicar out of courtesy, but then asked himself how confident he was that the sexton would recognize a contagious fever if he saw one. Thomas told himself that it wasn't merely fear of illness that explained why he felt so reluctant to enter the vicar's house -- but he did not entirely convince himself.

  “Nay, I'm really in a bit of a hurry, and I don't want to disturb him. Could you let me into the church?” He probably didn't convince the sexton, either, who looked at him longer than Thomas felt comfortable with, and shrugged. “As you will.”

  He rummaged under his cloak and drew out a bunch of large, rusty keys that was tied to his belt. He walked unhurriedly to the church door, unlocked it, and held it open as he waved Thomas in. With the door shut, the church was dark except for two small candles at the chancel end, but it had been dark enough outside for it not to take long for the men's eyes to adjust to the gloom. The sexton led the way to the chancel, and handed Thomas a candle. He took the other himself and walked carefully down the stone steps to the crypt.

  This time the crypt was empty, and Thomas suddenly realised why the sexton had been digging. “Have you buried the two people you had down here?”

  The sexton nodded. “Aye, one of them, anyway. The man. Wasn't much of a send-off -- just the vicar and myself. It's odd hearing a funeral service said for a person with no name. Still, we couldn't leave him down here much longer. He was starting to get rather --” Greene scratched his head, as if trying to think of the right word.

  “Prominent?” Thomas hazarded.

  “Aye.” The sexton nodded. “I was going to say 'stinky', but your way of putting it is nicer.”

  “And the woman? Goody Allard?”

  “Some folks from St Andrew's came and collected her, a couple of days ago. She was already pretty -- prominent -- when she arrived, so we weren't sorry to lose her.”

  “When was that?”

  The sexton scratched under his cap as he thought. “Monday night.”

  Thomas wondered whether he and Katherine had stirred up enough guilt among Jane Allard's neighbours during their visit on Monday, to coax them into doing this last, small service for her. He made a mental note to tell Katherine when he saw her next.

  Thomas walked over to the alcoves and was relieved to see the cleaver still in its place. He dropped it carefully into the leather bag, while the sexton looked on impassively. As the men walked back to the stairs, the sexton nodded at the bag. “Does this mean you know who killed him? Did you find out who that cleaver belongs to?”

  Thomas sighed. “I wish I could say so, but I'm just guessing, to be honest. I won't tell you, if you don't mind, in case I make a complete ass of myself.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Back in the church, the men replaced the candles, and walked back outside. In the churchyard, the sexton shuffled uncomfortably. Finally, he said: “If you know about Master Beresford's little secret, you'll know about the missing cross, I suppose?” He looked at his feet nervously.

  “I know about it.” Thomas replied, cautiously.

  Greene hesitated again. “Don't get me wrong, Master Whyte -- I've no more time for Popery than the next Londoner. But that cross was the vicar's pride and joy. He's not been the same since it was taken. He's put up with a lot over the last ten years, but I think losing the cross knocked all the stuffing out of him. Do you have any idea what happene
d to it?”

  “Thomas looked around nervously. “I do, and I know where it is.”

  The sexton look up suddenly, his eyes alight. “You do? Lord be praised! Does Master Beresford know?”

  “He does. He also knows why we can't easily let him have it back. I must be mad even to be having this discussion with you.”

  Greene sighed. “What will happen to it now?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Damned if I know.”

  Thursday afternoon, May 24, 1550

  After taking advantage of being in the Eastcheap area to carry out a few chores for the inn -- paying butchers' bills, mostly -- Thomas walked along Little Eastcheap and turned into St Georges Lane. The fog had cleared, but left a blanket of grey cloud. Thomas wondered how the evening's show would fare if it poured with rain, and whether he could rig up some sort of shelter in the courtyard. In the end, he resigned himself to trusting to luck -- after all, anything he built would most likely fall down in the first puff of wind; rain, although unpleasant, would not crack anybody's skull.

  A ragged-looking man was sitting on one of the benches outside the Mermaid, huddled in a threadbare cloak. When he saw Thomas he sidled away without speaking, leaving a wooden mug on the bench. Thomas picked it up and pulled a face as he sniffed the ale dregs. Then he pushed open the door and walked in. The alehouse was no warmer or more cheerful than it had been on his last visit. Joan Warter was sitting on a stool in the corner, sewing. She looked up and smiled slightly as she recognize Thomas. He lifted his cap and smiled back.

  “Goody Warter, good day. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need to ask you some more questions.”

  She nodded, but asked: “Did you find out where the --” She looked around nervously, even though the room was empty “-- cross came from?”

  Thomas hesitated, but reasoned that discussing it would not compromise his position any further. After all, she had seen him take the cross. “The Wilkes brothers -- the men who were staying with you -- stole it. From a church, I suppose you won't be surprised to hear that. I don't really want to say any more -- it's a bit sensitive, you might say.”

  She nodded. “I can see why that might be. Where is it now?”

  “Constable Harwood from St Margaret's has it hidden away, while he decides what to do with it. The situation is complicated.”

  “I can imagine.” Joan replied. She put down her sewing and stood up. “None of my business, anyway, thank Heaven.”

  At that moment, a man walked into the room from the passageway that led to the back yard. He nodded politely at Thomas, and took the ale mug from him. “More?” he asked, waving it.

  “Actually, it's not mine. I was just being a good neighbour and bringing it in from outside.” The man nodded and turned to place the mug on the counter. He walked stiffly, and was obviously in some discomfort. Joan walked over to him and took the mug. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Why don't you sit down, Harry?” To Thomas she said: “This is my husband, Henry.”

  Thomas nodded. “I'm Thomas Whyte, Goodman Warter. I'm investigating a murder on the Sheriff's orders. I've been here before, but I spoke to your wife.” Warter was a thin, almost emaciated man of average height. He had a sparse beard, and a lined face; Thomas found it impossible to judge his age, but if he was about the same as Joan he couldn't be more than thirty. He wondered whether Warter would be capable of murdering a man with a meat cleaver. He was not an obviously muscular man, but he wouldn't have survived long as an alehouse keeper in this part of the City -- or a butcher, for that matter -- without a hard edge. Warter patted his wife's hand and smiled at her, then sat down carefully on a bench beside the table.

  Uncertain how to start, Thomas asked him: “I understand you used to be a butcher, Goodman Warter?”

  Warter looked at him frankly, and grinned. “That's right, and please call me Henry. Or Harry. Everybody else does. Why do you ask, Master Whyte? Sit down, if you like.”

  “Thomas. Thank you.” As he sat opposite Warter and put the leather bag on the floor by his feet, Thomas wondered whether it was wise to be on friendly terms with a man he was shortly going to have to accuse of murder; but he felt he couldn't help admiring the man's quiet courtesy and obvious regard for his wife. “I just wondered how well you know Roger Allard.”

  Warter's glanced flicked to his wife, who was facing away from him. She turned around, and looked momentarily uneasy. Warter shrugged and replied: “I used to work with him, but he didn't live in this parish. When we took over the Mermaid from Joan's brother, I thought I'd seen the last of him. Of all the butchers, to be honest.” He chuckled quietly. “But bugger me if they didn't follow me here. Some of the lads I see more of now, than when I was at the yard.”

  “Why did you leave Abraham's?”

  “Oh, various reasons. Mostly I'd had enough of pigs' guts. And my back gives me a bit of gyp these days.”

  Thomas nodded sympathetically; 'a bit of gyp' was clearly an understatement.

  Joan Warter came over and sat beside her husband. He continued: “I'm happy enough to see the lads, of course. We do a good trade, and it's good to have people around who you know.”

  He looked briefly at Joan, who nodded, and bit her lower lip: “Things were too quiet after...”

  She stopped. Warter finished the sentence for her: “After our Katie died.” He sighed. “She was our first child; our only child, since the Lord hasn't blessed us with any more.”

  Thomas shuffled uncomfortably, uncertain how to respond to such an admission. He steered the conversation back to something less emotionally charged.

  “Were you even glad to see Roger Allard?”

  There was a pause. Warter replied, more forcefully: “Look, Thomas, Black Roger was a bastard -- lazy, aggressive, conceited, vulgar...”

  Joan interrupted: “And those were his best features.” The Warters both smiled, but without much humour.

  “You both said 'was',” Thomas said quietly, trying not to sound accusatory. “He was a bastard.”

  “Well, I've not seen him for a while -- weeks. I assumed you were asking about him for a reason.”

  Thomas nodded. “To be honest, I don't know where he is, whether he's alive or dead. But a man was murdered in Eastcheap about two weeks ago, about the same time Allard was last seen. The dead man is unrecognisable, but about the same age and build as Allard. It's possible that Allard beat his wife to death --”

  Joan Warter took a sharp, hissing breath and coughed. The two men looked at her. “Sorry,” she said. “It's not a surprise but it's a -- well, it is a kind of surprise, if you see what I mean.”

  Thomas nodded, and continued: “If he did kill her, and isn't in the Welsh Marches by now, it's possible that one of his friends or workmates is hiding him. I'll talk to anybody I can find who knew him.”

  Warter waved his arms widely and grinned, inviting Thomas to consider his surroundings. “If he's hiding in this place, he'll have to be in small pieces.”

  Thomas sighed. “I'm sorry to have to ask you this, Harry, but -- do you own a meat cleaver?”

  Warter was silent for a moment, then he said: “Sure I do. It's around somewhere. I didn't expect to need it again, but it's amazing how it sobers people up, when I want to get the place closed of an evening.”

  Thomas looked down at the coarse wooden table; he had noticed the scattered deep gashes before. Clearly the cleaver had been employed as an attention-getter on a number of occasions. He looked at Warter, who shrugged unapologetically. “It's a rough area, and we get a rough crowd.”

  “Not gentlemen, then?”

  Warter screwed up his face. “Hah! The gentlemen are the worst.”

  Thomas scratched his head under his cap, then said: “May I see this cleaver?”

  For the first time, Warter looked uncomfortable. He took a long time to answer, and then said: “You can, if you can find it. I'm not sure where it is.”

  “I'm not in any hurry.”

  “You might not be. I am -- we'll
start getting customers soon. I need to see to the ale, get a fire started --” He looked out of the small front window. “Although we might get away without a fire tonight, it being summer and all. If you can believe it.” As if to counter his pessimism, a beam of sunlight broke through the window, suddenly lighting the dim interior for the first time. Thomas sighed with relief -- perhaps they'd get through the evening without a downpour after all.

  Thomas leaned down and opened the bag by his feet. The cleaver was concealed from the Warters by the table top, so Thomas was able to swing it up and bring the cutting edge down hard on the table top, as he imagined Warter doing to pacify unruly customers. Joan Warter's reaction was predictable, but it's intensity surprised Thomas. She put her hands to her face and shrieked. Warter gave Thomas an angry stare, and put his arms around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed.

  The cleaver was, to be fair, a gruesome sight. The edge was still bloodstained, but two weeks in St Margaret's damp crypt had allowed the rust to do its worst to the cheap iron, and the whole blade now appeared blood-red.

  Warter turned to Thomas and glared. “God's wounds! What the hell did you do that for? Don't you think she has enough to put up with?” Joan lifted her head and rubbed her face, her sobs turning to sniffs. Eventually she said: “You might as well tell him, Harry. He's obviously figured it out anyway.”

  Warter looked at Thomas and then back at Joan, uncertain what to say. Thomas said nothing -- he was far from certain that he had figured it out, but he wasn't going to discourage the Warters from thinking that he had. Finally Joan moved away from her husband, who leaned over and easily lifted the cleaver free of the table. He looked at it, and laid it down gently on its side. He said: “All right -- I'll tell you.”

  “Wait.” Joan interrupted. “I don't want to go through it all again. I'll see to the ale.”

  “But --” Thomas called after her, but she had already left.

  Warter watched her back, the turned back to Thomas. “Not talk for women. I'll get us a drink.”

  “Let me.” Thomas replied, but Warter waved him down, saying: “Don't worry, I'm not a cripple yet.” He went to the barrel and filled a pitcher, which he brought to the table with two leather mugs. He filled these and passed one to Thomas. Thomas took a sip, and found that it had not improved since his last visit. He resisted the urge to grimace as he took a swig. Warter sat on the edge of the table, and fidgeted with the cleaver, as if deep in thought. Then he started to tell the story.

  “It was about two weeks ago -- I can't remember the exact day -- just after the curfew bell had rung. All the other lads had gone, apart from Black Roger. I think they'd got pissed off with him, to be honest. He'd been shouting and swearing all night -- by this time he must have been blind drunk. I told him it was time to go home, that I was tired and wanted my bed. He started complaining -- about the ale being too old, about Joan being rude to him, about how we'd stolen money from him, of all things.”

  Warter took a mouthful of his drink. “That was a lie, of course. He never had any money to steal in the first place -- he'd been cadging drinks off his workmates all night. No alehouse keeper with any brains would be stupid enough to rob a customer, anyway. Word like that gets around.”

  Thomas nodded. “Indeed. It's better to rob your customers a little bit every day, rather than all at once. That's what I've always found.”

  Warter grinned without much humour, and continued: “Then, with no warning, he got up suddenly and pushed me over. Our cash box was over on the counter there. We normally keep it out of sight, but we were waiting to count up for the night. Anyway, he grabbed the cash box, shouted some gibberish about how it would make up for what we stole, and then ran off down St George's Street.

  “Was this typical behaviour from Allard?”

  Warter thought about it. “Actually, no. Not really. He's bad, but not usually that bad.”

  What did you do then?”

  “What could I do? I grabbed the cleaver -- I'm not sure why -- and ran off after him. I guess I should have raised the hue and cry -- he'd just blatantly robbed me, after all. But for some reason, I didn't. When I caught up with him we were in Eastcheap. It was nearly dark and there was nobody about; nobody I could see anyway.” Thomas nodded -- people out after curfew often had good reason not to want to be noticed.

  Warter continued: “Suddenly he turned and attacked me. He was like a madman, shouting and raving. He punched me in the face, and then in the side of the neck -- almost knocked me senseless. I realized he was going to kill me if I didn't defend myself.

  “Well, when I managed to get back on my feet, I swung the cleaver at him. It slowed him down, but not enough to stop him. He was so drunk I don't think he even felt it -- I think it just made him even more mad. I had to hit him with the cleaver about a dozen times before I knocked him down.”

  Warter paused for a while.

  “I knew he was dead. I'd almost cut his head off. At first I felt guilty about it. Then --” He looked at Thomas. “Then I felt relieved.” He continued defiantly. “He was a poor excuse for a man, and the world is a better place without him.”

  “What did you do with the body?”

  “I dragged it into an alleyway, and covered it up with old crates. I'm not sure why -- I half planned to come back when it was completely dark and drag the body to the river, but I never did. When I got back here I was exhausted. I just fell asleep sitting at the table.”

  Thomas asked quietly: “What did you do with the bloodstained clothes, Harry?”

  “What? Oh, I washed them out. I might be wearing them now, for all I know.”

  Thomas looked at the coarse suede jerkin that Warter was wearing. It was certainly stained, although some of the marks might have been there for years.

  “So you hid the body and came back here. Did you tell Joan about it?”

  “Of course. She would have guessed, anyway.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “She was relieved as well. She doesn't -- didn't -- like Allard any more than I did.”

  The men were quiet for a long time. Eventually Thomas said non-committally: “Self-defence.”

  Warter looked hard at him, then nodded. “What will happen to me now?”

  Thomas shrugged. “That depends on whether you're telling the truth or not.”

  “Of course it's the truth!” Warter exploded. “I've said I killed him, haven't I? Why would I make that up?”

  “Why indeed?” Thomas mused, almost to himself.

  Thomas carefully took another sip from his ale, and stared into the mug. Eventually he looked up. “It's a nice story, Harry. Shame it's just a story.”

  “But --”

  Thomas held up a hand. “You might have killed him. But not the way you said. Oh, I'm prepared to believe that you hid Allard's body in Eastcheap -- I've suspected the Eastcheap body was Allard for some time. But, I don't think your back condition would have allowed you to chase Allard half-way across the City. You can scarcely walk.”

  “I have good days and bad days. In fact, some days I'm quite nimble.”

  Thomas looked at him doubtfully. “Nimble enough to wield a heavy meat cleaver against a murderously deranged butcher?”

  Warter shrugged.

  “Then there's the problem of the blood. With Allard's injuries he must have bled like a pig with its throat slit. You couldn't have washed the blood out and worn the clothes again. We didn't find much blood at the scene of the crime -- a least where you said the crime took place.”

  Warter said nothing.

  “But I don't think he was killed there, blood or no blood. Look, when I examined Allard's body, he had abrasions on his back, particularly around his shoulder blades. He'd been dragged along the ground.”

  “Well, I told you I dragged him into the alleyway.”

  “Nay, Allard was dragged far enough to wear right through his clothes. It wasn't just a few yards. Hundreds of yards, at least, I would guess.”


  Thomas looked evenly at Warter, who look back and said nothing. Thomas continued: “Why don't you tell me what really happened? What is it that Joan didn't want to hear?”

  At that moment, Joan herself half-entered the room. “What didn't he want me to hear?” She looked uneasily between Thomas and her husband. The men look around at her. Thomas said: “Harry has just told me a remarkable story. Shame it's not true.”

  “What?” Joan look at her husband, face screwed up. “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth,” Warter protested. “I chased Allard to Eastcheap and killed him in a fight.”

  “But --”

  Henry Warter stared at her. “That is what happened, isn't it, Joan?”

  Joan looked around again, and stuttered: “Aye. But --”

  Thomas sighed. “No it isn't. Allard wasn't killed in a fight. He was already dead when his body was mutilated with the cleaver.”

  Joan and Henry Warter looked at each other. Henry said: “How can you be sure about that?”

  “As soon as a person is dead, his blood settles. If you cut a dead body, it won't bleed much, even if it's still warm. That's why there wasn't a great puddle on the cobbles in Eastcheap, and why you can still wear the same clothes you had on that night.” Going out on a limb, Thomas asked: “Do you have tincture of opium in the house?”

  At this, Joan slumped onto a chair and started to cry. Warter got off the tabletop uncomfortably and walked over to her. Between her sobs, she said: “Tell him. The truth this time.”

  “But --”

  Joan look intently at her husband. “I know why you didn't but, honestly, it will be better out in the open.” She wiped her face on her apron, and led her husband by the hand to the bench where Thomas was waiting. She sat down, and tried to compose herself, then took a deep breath. “I poisoned him. I put Harry's medicine into Allard's ale when he was drunk, and he swigged it right down.” She exhaled heavily in a sigh, then continued: “There, I've said it.”

  “When was this?” Thomas asked.

  “I'm not sure. Two weeks ago. It was a fish day -- must have been a Friday or Saturday.”

  Thomas said: “Tell me everything.”

  Joan took a swig of ale. “It was late in the evening -- the curfew bell had just rung. Most of the customers left the house promptly, and Harry was out at the cock-fights. Roger Allard was the last man in -- he'd scared off most of the other customers again, so there weren't all that many by curfew -- and he was rolling drunk. I offered him a mug of ale on the house, which he couldn't refuse, even though he'd already had too much.

  “What he didn't realize is that I'd put half a bottle of Harry's medicine into the mug. By the time Harry got back, Roger was unconscious.” She looked up at Thomas. “Or dead.”

  Thomas nodded. “Then what happened?”

  He was looking at Joan, but Henry replied: “I wanted to make sure he was dead.”

  Thomas asked: “When did you find out about Allard?”

  “As soon as I got back from the cock-pit -- not long after curfew. When I got in, Roger was laying face down on the bench in a pile of vomit. Joan was was just sitting there, watching him.”

  She nodded. “It seemed so easy, killing him. But when I had, I I didn't know what to do.

  Henry continued: “ So I got my cleaver and, well, you've seen the body.”

  “You tried to hack his head off?”

  “Something like that.”

  Thomas sighed and looked into his ale mug. He was surprised to find that, despite its sour taste, he had drunk it all. He wondered whether the taste would have concealed the tincture of opium, which he remembered was truly foul; but if Allard was as drunk as the Warters claim, he guessed it was possible.

  “I still don't really understand why Allard was so mutilated. The neck injury alone would have killed him, surely.”

  Warter shrugged. “I wanted to be really, really sure, and I had this idea that if he was covered with wounds, it would look as if he'd been attacked by a madman.”

  “So when you'd desecrated his dead body -- and he would undoubtedly have been dead -- you tried to hide it?”

  “I was going to drag him to the river and throw him in with the rest of the turds.”

  “You did that on your own?”

  The Warters exchanged glances. Thomas looked from one to the other. Finally Henry Warter said: “Nay, Joan helped. As you've noticed, I'm not up to much manual labour these days. As I said, I wanted to get him to the river, but a midden would have done. Any place not too near here.”

  “Wasn't it a long way around? Couldn't you just have dragged him down St George's Lane? It would be all downhill as well.”

  Warter should his head. “You can't get to the river from St George's lane -- not without climbing over a gate, anyway. I didn't fancy dragging a corpse over a gate and, in any case, the watchmen on the bridge gate would most likely have seen us. I thought it would be easier to cut across New Fish Street between the houses, and get to Old Swan Lane, which is a narrow alley that leads right down to the water. Do you know it?”

  Thomas nodded. “Aye, it starts in Eastcheap, near Nash's chandler's.”

  Warter continued. “When we got to Old Swan Lane we could hear people talking nearer the river, so I thought it would be easier to dump him in Eastcheap. I thought if I left the cleaver it would like like one of the butchers had killed him.”

  “You had the cleaver with you?”

  “Aye. I planned to dispose of it with the body -- I'm not sure why. I guess I just didn't want it around the house any more.”

  Thomas scratched his head. “Well, I admire your guts, if not your good sense. I wouldn't have wanted to drag a dead man half a mile through the City, even at night. Whatever possessed you to do such a reckless thing?”

  “To be honest, I wasn't thinking very clearly by this point.”

  Thomas stood up and paced around the table irritably. “So, you lied to me originally, to protect Joan, who really killed Allard. Now, I'm sorry to say, Harry, I think you're still not telling the truth. Not all of it, anyway.” He leaned on the table. “What you've told me is enough to get Joan hanged, perhaps both of you. Why on Earth did you kill Warter, anyway?”

  He was speaking to Henry, but Joan answered. She had a fixed, intent expression on her face. “I hated him. He was an evil, worthless wretch. Killing him was like killing a rat, or a rabid dog. And --” She looked at her husband, who reached over and took her hand. Joan sighed and looked down, shaking her head. “We were scared of him, that's the long and short of it. We both were.” Her husband nodded ruefully in agreement. Joan continued: “We never knew what he was going to do. We didn't like him coming here. I don't like being in the house alone with him when Harry was out.”

  Henry Warter looked at Thomas. “I don't mind admitting that I was afraid of him, Thomas. And he was always too interested in Joan. He kept --” He shuddered “He kept touching her, and making vulgar comments.”

  Thomas interrupted: “Isn't that an occupational hazard for an alehouse keeper's wife?”

  “To some extent,” Warter agreed, “but Allard took real pleasure in it. He was always at it. I think partly he did it to get at me, although I can't think why. I never did anything to him.”

  “Did you ever discuss killing him? Make plans?”

  Henry was about to answer, but Joan interrupted. “Of course not! It's just --” Her voice tailed off. “It seemed like a good opportunity, that's all.”

  Thomas sat back down and looked up at the ceiling. “Look, Harry, Joan -- it's murder. However you look at it, you killed him, deliberately and in full knowledge of your actions.”

  Warter nodded glumly. Then he said quietly: “Only one of us has to hang. I'll say I killed him and hid the body myself. Joan doesn't have to be involved.”

  Joan looked at him sharply, and said: “The hell you will, Henry Warter. I killed him. I meant to do it, and I'm glad I did.” She looked at Thomas defiantly. “Harry's d
one nothing to be ashamed off.”

  “Apart from conspiring to conceal a murder,” Thomas replied. “And desecrating a corpse.” He sighed. “Come on, Joan. Tell me why you really killed him. I'm really not convinced by this story about cleaning up the City. None of things you told me about him add up to a motive to murder. You must have been terrified of something.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally Joan said in a small voice: “He raped me.”

  Thomas stared, mouth open.

  Joan half stood, leaning over the table towards Thomas. “Are you happy now?” she shouted. The tendons in her neck stood out, and a vein throbbed in her scalp. Henry moved to calm her, but she shook him off. “He raped me. Right here in this room. On the floor.” She slapped the palms of her hands on the tabletop. “Are you satisfied?” She slumped down, put her face in her hands and wept.

  Thomas looked at Henry Warter, who would not meet his eye. Thomas could understand why; it was a husband's duty to protect his wife from this kind of attack, and the fact that he had not sought bloody revenge on the rapist would not earn him much respect. At the very least, convention dictated that he ought to have compounded his wife's pain and disgrace with a beating. Henry said:“It was while I was away, seeing to my brother. He's very ill, poor John. I was away for a couple of days. Allard must have know I wouldn't be back that night.”

  “When was this?”

  Neither answered for a long time. Then Joan wiped her face and said: “A couple of nights before I killed him. Wednesday, I suppose.”

  “What time?”

  “Just after curfew.”

  “When did you tell Harry?”

  “The next day, when he came back. He knew something was wrong, straight away.”

  “Of course I bloody well did!” He explained to Thomas: “She was hiding in a corner, clothes torn, rocking back and forth and crying. Even a clot like me can tell that this is a sign a woman isn't entirely happy. I think she'd been there all night.” Joan nodded. “It took a while for her to tell me, as you can imagine.”

  Joan said nothing.

  “When I found out, I thought about killing him.”

  Thomas nodded, unsurprised. “But you didn't. Why?”

  “If he'd come here that night, I might have done, but he didn't. I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to show his face here again. I don't even know how he though he'd get away with it in the first place.”

  Joan interrupted. “Black Roger told me that if I told Harry, he would take against me. That he'd beat me and send me away.” She looked at her husband. “Luckily, I knew Harry better than he did.”

  Warter smiled at her, and said: “I wasn't really sure what to do.”

  “I can see why you wouldn't want to raise a hue and cry, in the circumstances; but could you not even have told the constable? Allard would have hanged, for sure.”

  “Only if Joan was prepared to go to in front of a judge. I wouldn't have wanted her to go through that. Can you imagine what the rest of the parish would think?”

  Thomas nodded -- he could imagine only too well.

  “The next day Joan seemed better. She even complained about me fussing over her. It was as if she had put the whole thing out of her mind. I didn't want to leave her alone in the house, but she packed me off to the cock-fight in the evening. I wasn't sure, but I needed some time out of the house to think about what I was going to do. She said she'd have to get used to going on as normal, and Allard wouldn't be stupid enough to come back, after what he'd done.”

  Thomas looked at Joan. “But all the time you were planning to kill Allard, and you wanted Harry out of the way so he wouldn't get the blame?”

  Joan shook her head. “I wasn't planning to kill him. I was thinking about killing myself.”

  Henry Warter look at her abruptly. She continued: “I'm sorry, Harry, but it's true. You have no idea how I felt, what it was like.” She put her face in her hands again.

  Thomas waited for her to compose herself, then prompted: “But you didn't.”

  She shrugged. “Harry couldn't manage without me.” Joan grinned weakly at her husband, “In any event, it's a mortal sin. I reckoned that however bad I felt, Hell would be worse.” She shuddered.“What I didn't tell Harry -- at least not straight away -- was that Roger Allard was intending Wednesday's... event to be repeated. He didn't expect me to tell Harry, as I said, and he thought he could just do whatever he liked.” She paused. “But I was still surprised when he turned up on Friday night.”

  “What happened?”

  “He spent the whole night leering at me; making rude remarks about me to the other customers. They must have realized something peculiar was going on, which is why they left early. Anyway, I told Allard that Harry knew what he'd done, and that if he had any sense he'd keep away.”

  “How did Allard take that news?”

  She scowled. “He didn't give a damn. He just laughed. He said terrible things, about me, but mostly about Harry --”

  Thomas asked gently: “What sort of things?”

  “Oh, all sort of things. He said that if Harry had been a proper man he'd already have tried to kill him. He said that deep down I'd enjoyed being raped; that it's what I always wanted. Worst of all --” She broke off, and started to sob again.

  “Take your time,” Thomas said.

  Eventually she said: “Worst of all, he said that Harry couldn't give me a baby; that little Katie had been weak because Harry was a weak man -- that was why she died.” She stared at Thomas. “That's when I decided to kill him.”

  Thomas looked from one to the other, trying to figure out how much of this Henry already knew; not all of it, for sure. But Henry's face was inscrutable.

  Joan fell silent. Henry continued: “When I got home, Joan told me what had happened. I saw Allard lying across the table there, and I decided to finish the job she'd started. We dragged him into the back yard, and laid him on his back. I was going to slit his throat, but when I saw him lying there, I just lost control. I got the cleaver, and I hit him with it until he was just a bloody mess. I just couldn't stop myself. Joan had to drag me off him in the end.”

  “You're sure this was on Friday night, the week before last?”

  Warter looked up in surprise. “Quite sure. Why?”

  “Because if you killed him on Friday, he couldn't have killed his wife, as everybody thinks. We know her neighbours spoke to her on the Saturday. Quite frankly, I preferred your original story. If you'd really killed Allard in self-defence, nobody would even bother to prosecute you. But, as it is, you killed him in cold blood. I can quite understand why, but it's still murder.”

  “What will happen to us?” Asked Joan. “Will you tell the constable?”

  “If I tell the constable, he will have to prosecute you. You know the law -- it's the duty of the parish to prosecute felonies that take place within their boundaries. If he doesn't....”

  “And when we hang, he'll get half our property,” said Warter sourly.

  “If he knows, and does nothing, he could end up dancing the hemp jig himelf.” This was true -- there was no shortage of common informers who would be happy with a half of George's business in return for a couple of days at the quarter sessions.

  Warter looked at Thomas stiffly. “What do you stand to gain out of this, Thomas, if you don't mind me asking?” Joan nodded in support of her husband.

  “The Sheriff is paying me a fee for my services. He wants the mystery corpse in Eastcheap cleared up, and the killer made public. At present, the butchers are getting the blame, and people are assuming that the victim is an incomer from the country. Lots of people want the butchers cut down to size.” He shuddered when he realized how inappropriate his phrasing was. “So to speak. If it turns out that the victim was himself a butcher, that might defuse the situation somewhat.” He sighed. “But I don't see how I can tell Sir John with any conviction that the victim was Allard, without telling him I know who killed him.”

  “
You don't stand to gain personally, if I hang?” Warter persisted.

  “Not a penny from the Sheriff. Of course, if I decided to prosecute you myself, I could end up with --” He looked around the room. “-- with half the value of whatever your interest in this establishment is.” Thomas frowned. “Pardon me for saying so, but I doubt it will allow me to buy Hampton Court.”

  Warter chuckled. “It's mortgaged to the rafters, anyway. We only own the clothes on our backs and a few sticks of furniture.”

  Thomas nodded. “In truth, I fear I'll have enough to answer for on Judgement Day as it is, without sending decent people to the gallows over Roger Allard's worthless life.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  Thomas sighed, and shrugged expansively. “Damned if I know. Do you have family in France or Spain at all?” He grinned, but he wasn't entirely joking.

  Warter frowned. “I can hardly run away, when I've got my sick brother and his family to look after.”

  “What ails your brother?”

  “A fever. He's been unable to work for the last four weeks. He was working in the tannery down on Thames Street until then.” By way of explanation, he added: “Bill used to be a butcher, like me, like our father; but when the new tannery started up they offered good rates to men who were handy with knife a and didn't mind hard work.” He sighed. “But it's heavy work, and day rates. At any rate, the foreman won't allow anybody to work who's sick. Hardly surprising -- the air's foul and the men are crushed in like fish in a bilge. Any kind of sickness would go around like gossip.”

  Thomas nodded. Hot, foetid air contributed to the spread of disease; this was uncontestable, although nobody knew why.

  “All the same, you'll be no use to your brother if you're rotting in Newgate, or worse,” Thomas protested. Then he sighed, and stood up. “I'll have to think about it. In the meantime, it would be easiest for everybody if you quietly disappeared.”

  “But --” Warter started.

  Thomas held up his hand. “I know. Just think about it, that's all. And now, good day.”

  Thursday evening, May 24, 1550

  Arriving back at the Whyte Hart, Thomas found the courtyard in as much chaos as yesterday. He was pleased to note that the Sheriff's henchmen had been drafted into carrying planks for the seating; in fact, one of them was carrying them, while the other was leaning against his pikestaff, supervising. Katherine and Agnes were bossing other women around, and the entertainers of Beauchamp's company, in various states of undress, were sitting on barrels and enjoying the evening sun. A cart from Langridge's brewery was standing in the courtyard, and Gaffer Shawe was directing the unloading of four barrels of ale. Thomas was relieved that the gloom of earlier in the day had lifted, and it was promising to be a fine evening.

  Katherine waved happily at Thomas when she saw him. She looked rosy-cheeked and cheerful; Thomas reflected that having people to order about agreed with her. Feeling somewhat superfluous, Thomas decided that it would be a good opportunity to see to the horses. With Beauchamp's company's three old nags in residence, the stables were a greater source of work than usual. However, after he had picked his way through the crowd in the courtyard, he found that the stables had been tended to: the straw was fresh and all the horses had been groomed and given fresh fodder. Thomas walked over to Harry's stall, and patted the old horse on the neck. Harry nickered softly and pushed his muzzle into Thomas's belly. Thomas chuckled. “Still peckish, old man? Don't worry, I'm sure we've got some apples or something in the kitchen. Did one of Beauchamp's rogues muck out your stall?” He looked at the horse quizzically, but received no answer. “I'll take that as a yes, old fellow. I guess they can't be all bad, then.” He chucked to himself and stroked the old horse's mane before leaving the stables.

  The kitchen was as busy as the courtyard when he got there, and Thomas apologised to various women, some of whom he knew and some he didn't, as he rummaged around in the cupboards for horse treats. He had just found the bag of carrots when Katherine walked in.

  “How now, Cousin Tom?” She asked cheerfully.

  Thomas dug out a carrot and looked at it critically; happily, Harry was not a fussy eater, even by the low standards of horses. “All the better for being home, Katt, even if it is like Bethl'em madhouse. And yourself?”

  Katherine dragged a stool out from under a bench with her foot and slumped down on it. “Exhausted. I'll be glad when Beauchamp's players have slunk off to fleece their next victim, and we can get back to normal.”

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  She grinned at him. “Oh, I shouldn't think so. Everything's going fine at the moment -- no need for you to spoil it.”

  Thomas stuck his tongue out. “You know, I was thinking --”

  “Steady on Tom, don't overdo it.”

  Thomas pantomimed slapping her with the carrot and she ducked obediently.

  “As I was saying, I was thinking -- the Sheriff's personal balcony will be free tonight. We could keep an eye on things from up there, rather than hanging around at the back of the courtyard. That's where the most comfortable seats are, anyway.”

  Katherine looked at him. “By 'keep any eye on things,' do you really mean 'sit on padded armchairs with a jug of the decent wine while other people work?'” She paused. “If so, count me in.” She stood up. “Now, I'd better get the pie cart organized. If you're going to the stables, bring Harry out, would you?” Thomas saluted her with the carrot and set off obediently.

  By the time the show started, the courtyard was pleasingly full again. Thomas and Katherine were on the balcony, sitting on two of the inn's few plush chairs, with their feet up on padded stools, a jug of wine on the low table between them.

  “So,” Thomas asked in a hushed voice. “Did you understand the play last night?”

  Katherine leaned over and whispered back: “Of course. It's about a man who... well, he's the brother of... It starts off in ancient Greece, or is it Rome? Anyway, these two brothers...” She paused. “Nay, not a word. Funny though. It was good to see Sir John getting lampooned like that.”

  Thomas nodded. “He took it well, didn't he? Makes a change from the usual bladder-on-a-stick mummery, anyway.”

  “Ssh! They're starting.”

  As they had yesterday, the lutenist and the rest of the band walked up to the stage from the kitchen, playing their instruments. Just as they were ramping up the tempo, there was a commotion from the middle of the audience. Two well-dressed young men were shouting and pushing the people around them. Other audience members were hissing at them and grumbling. The troublemakers started pushing their way towards the stage, against the resistance of people around them. The musicians faltered, and looked at one another uncertainly.

  Thomas leaned over the balcony rail and stared down at the disturbance. “Well, I'll be damned!” He looked at Katherine. “It's that young shit-eater Gerard. Of all the bloody cheek -- who let him in?” She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. Thomas sighed. “I'd better get down there and sort it out.” He climbed over the chairs to the balcony door. “Don't drink all the wine, girl!” Katherine grinned and waved her cup.

  By the time he got down to the courtyard, the Sheriff's men, helped by others in the audience, had already taken hold of the two troublemakers and dragged them to the gate. The jugglers came on stage, and the audience settled back down. Thomas pushed through the crowd to the gate, just in time to hear Gerard giving his captor the familiar “Do you know who my father is?” speech. From the volume and tone of his speech, Thomas guess that Gerard had drunk more ale that was good for him. He looked and sounded rather different from the way he had yesterday in his father's house. From his dress there was no mistaking his father's money, although Thomas doubted his station in society entitled him to the gold and silver rings that dominated his hands. He was wearing a fashionable, embroidered blue doublet with a ruff showing at the neck, dark red knee breeches, silk hose and black, gleaming shoes. However, Thomas's attention was i
nexorably drawn to the extravagant, padded codpiece, which he stared at for a few seconds, then laughed until tears ran down his face. Gerard and his companion regarded him coldly. Eventually, Thomas wiped his eyes and said: “What the hell do you keep in there, Samuel? Your bible?”

  Gerard sneered. “That's Master Gerard to you, fellow. Whyte, isn't it?” He stared at Thomas as if he was having some difficulty focussing, and shrugged his captor's hands from his arms.

  Thomas scowled at him. “Master, my ballocks! For all your fancy clothes, Samuel, you're no more a 'master' than my cart-horse. Oh, and that's Master Whyte to you, since you're standing on my land.”

  Gerard raised an eyebrow. “So this is your flea-pit, is it? I might have guessed.”

  Thomas looked at the other young man, who had been silent throughout this exchange. “Who's your friend, Samuel? Doesn't say much, does he? Or does he have to ask your permission to speak?”

  “My name is --”

  “It's none of your business who he is.” Gerard interrupted the other man, who looked at him irritably. “Now leave us alone -- we want to watch the show.” Gerard folded his arms petulantly. Thomas reflected again on how different Gerard's demeanour was, under the influence of a few cups of strong ale.

  “You can watch, but you're not getting any closer to the stage than this. I'm not sure what you're after, but I don't want you disturbing the show again.”

  “That's bloody outrageous -- we've paid good money for this, and we want our seats.”

  Thomas fished in his belt purse and brought out a couple of coins, which he threw on the ground at Gerard's feet. “There, that's a full refund. Now piss off.”

  He turned his back on Gerard and started to walk away. Gerard lunged forwards and inexpertly threw a drunken, wild punch at Thomas's head. The Sherrif's men noticed, and started forward. Unfortunately for Thomas the blow, which ordinarily might have glanced off him, was given added impetus by the weight of jewellery on Gerard's hand. A gold ring hit Thomas on the temple, and he fell to the ground in a daze. As Gerard started towards him, Thomas recovered his senses just enough to sweep his legs around, knocking the other man's legs out from under him. Gerard landed flat on his back, knocking his breath from his body. The Sheriff's men dragged him to his feet and propelled him roughly through the gate. Gerard's companion looked around uncertainly, but in the end decided to follow Gerard out of the inn. Thomas staggered to his feet, and walked over to Gerard, who was posing belligerently just outside the gate. “Just go home,” he said quietly.

  Gerard stared blearily and pointed vaguely at the ground. “This isn't your land, Master Whyte. This is the King's highway. I'll stand here if I want.”

  Thomas shrugged. “As you will, fellow. You can stay there until you shit your breeches, for all I care. So long as you don't set a foot in my yard.” Rubbing his head, he walked away.

  The players were not easily disturbed, it turned out, and the performance was in full swing by the time Thomas got back to the kitchen. Some of Beauchamp's company were waiting just inside the kitchen door for their turn on stage. They clustered around him sympathetically but unhelpfully, until Agnes Shawe bustled over, elbowing them out of the way. She took up a candle and held it up to examine the wound on Thomas's head, clucking irritably. “I don't know, Young Thomas -- it's a good job you've inherited your father's thick skull. He was always getting himself into scrapes, as well.” She pulled him over to a bench and sat him down. Thomas wondered what he was doing in the kitchen, and then he wondered what all the noise was. He touched his sore head, and wondered why his hand came away wet. He had a vague memory that something was going on at the inn, and that he ought to be doing something. Then the world span, and darkness came.

  Friday morning, May 25, 1550

  Thomas awoke in his tiny bedroom in the inn, with a pounding headache. He touched his head cautiously, and noticed that it was bandaged. He had no memory of coming to bed, but he was undressed to his shirt and under-breeches. It was fully light, so he guessed that the morning was well advanced. Thomas looked up at the small window, just as a bright shaft of sunlight burst into the room. He winced, and turned his head suddenly, which made the headache worse.

  He sat up carefully, and waited for the spinning to subside. Then he stood gingerly and tottered in the direction of the door. He got half way before the door burst open, and Katherine pushed him back in the direction of the bed. She looked tired, and her eyes were red.

  “What are you doing up?” She asked him sternly.

  “I don't know,” Thomas replied. “I'm not entirely sure what I was doing down.”

  “You're recovering from a serious head injury. Don't you remember?”

  Thomas stared at her blankly. “I remember watching the show yesterday...” He hesitated. “Well, part of it.” He looked confused.

  Katherine reminded him of his scuffle with Gerard, and added: “The sheriff's men told me that the cowardly bastard hit you from behind.”

  Thomas groaned. “I don't remember, but I can't say I'm surprised, from what I know of him.” He looked down at his clothes, or the lack of them, nervously, then looked at Katherine, who grinned.

  “Agnes and I got you into bed. You could hardly sleep in your boots.”

  “But --”

  “Aye? What?” Katherine stared at him frankly.

  “Nothing,” Thomas replied sheepishly. He sat back down on the bed and felt around his bandage. “How bad is it? Do I have a big lump on my head?”

  “Aye -- your great fat nose.”

  Thomas smiled weakly. Katherine continued: “Aye, wondrous large, like a goose egg. And you've lost some blood.” Thomas sighed and felt around his head gingerly.

  Katherine came over to him and held his head still while she looked all around it. “Be thankful you have. Agnes says that head injuries are most grievous if they don't swell or bleed on the outside, because that means they're bleeding on the inside.” She stepped back and looked at him. “And when they bleed on the inside, the injured person always dies.”

  They stared at each other without saying anything for what seemed a long time. Then Katherine sighed and shook her head. A tear started to form in the corner of her eye, but she wiped it away angrily. Thomas said softly: “I'm sorry, Katt. When this business is over, I'll go back to being an innkeeper.”

  Katherine shrugged. “You were hit from behind by a young fool who had drunk too much strong ale. That's exactly the kind of risk you face every day as an innkeeper. Indeed, I almost think you'd be safer investigating murders.” She sighed. “Well, I can't stand around here all day -- one of us has to run the inn. Nay, don't try to act brave -- just stay there and be looked after. We don't want you to scare the guests away, by walking around looking like a corpse that's just been dragged out of the Thames.”

  Thomas scowled. “Is it really that bad? Where's the mirror?”

  “You don't want to look in a mirror just now, Tom, honestly you don't. I'll send Agnes up to change your bandage.” She looked him up and down and grinned. “You might want to put some hose on first.”

  Friday afternoon, May 25, 1550

  After one of the maids had brought him some thin soup for dinner, Thomas struggled into the rest of his clothes, and made a determined effort to get back to work. He rummaged around in his chest until he found a small, metal mirror, and steeled himself for the worst. His reflection was even worse that he expected -- his face was deathly white, with dark rings around his eyes, while the top of his head was covered with a bloodstained bandage. With the mirror in one hand, he carefully unwound the bandage with the other. He was somewhat relieved that he couldn't see the injury, which was at the back of his head, but he could feel it well enough. He dipped the bandage into a basin of water, then wiped the back of his head with it. Thomas was relieved that no new blood came away on it. He did his best to clean the injury, then washed and wrung out the bandage. Putting on his cap presented something of a problem, but eventually he managed to
get it into a reasonably comfortable position. He looked again in the mirror, but realized that he couldn't do much to improve his appearance -- he would just have to keep out of the way of the guests.

  As Thomas tottered down the narrow stairs to the tap room, white-knuckled hands at the rail, he overheard voices -- George Harwood talking to Katherine. He guessed they were talking about him, as they suddenly became quiet when he entered the room. Katherine scowled at him. “What are you doing down here? There's no need to risk your health any more than you've already managed to -- we're getting along perfectly well.

  Thomas nodded. “I'm sure you are, but I'm feeling much better.” It was true -- the headache had eased, and he could stand and walk without feeling the world spinning. Katherine looked at him uncertainly. “You don't look any better.” She looked at George. “What do you think, Master Harwood?”

  George walked over to Thomas looked him up and down. “I think he looks terrible. But he's not exactly an oil painting even at his best, is he?”

  Thomas grinned and walked over to a bench, where he sat down heavily. He said to George: “I take it Katt's told you the sordid story? I don't remember much of it myself.”

  “Aye. I'll have that young bast -- that young villain in the compter before the day's out.”

  Thomas shook his head. “I'm pretty sure he's guilty of more than just taking a drunken swipe at me. You know how influential his father is -- we don't want to put him on guard until we've got enough information to send young Samuel straight to Newgate.”

  George nodded uncertainly. “All right, but I don't want him getting away with this. Do you know where he went after you had your set-to?”

  Thomas looked at Katherine, who shrugged. “According to the Sheriff's men, he and his friend loitered around outside the inn gate for about an hour, keeping out of reach, then wandered off to an alehouse. They didn't tell me which one.”

  George nodded. “Aye, sounds about right. Well, we'll get him in the end, one way or the other.” He sat down on the bench opposite Thomas. “Actually, I came to see you about something else.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you remember telling me how the Wilkes brothers attacked Vicar Beresford and stole the silver cross? Um...” He looked at Katherine.

  “It's all right, Katt knows. At least, she knows a bit.”

  George looked sheepish, but continued: “Was the attack responsible for that bruise on his head? Did he say?”

  “Aye, that's what he said. He told me he remembered seeing something coming towards his head, but he didn't say what it was, if he even knew. Why do you ask?”

  “Because the Vicar is dead. He died early this morning.”

  Thomas looked at George, uncertain how to react. Eventually he just said: “I see. How did he die? Do you know?”

  “His curate found him dead in bed, or so he said. I understand Master Beresford had been ill with a fever.”

  “That's what I heard, as well,” replied Thomas. He reported the conversation he had had with Goodman Greene, the sexton, yesterday.

  “Did you see the Vicar yourself?” George asked.

  Thomas shuffled uncomfortably. “Nay -- but I ought to have done.”

  George nodded. “Indeed, it would have been the Christian thing to do.” He looked at Thomas sadly. “You know the story of the Samaritan. And a reliable witness who could confirm his condition at the time would help right now.”

  “Why so?” Thomas asked. “Is there some doubt about how he died?”

  “The curate -- Master Grey -- says he saw the Vicar last night, and he was acting very strangely. It seems he was very confused, and had difficulty speaking. Part of his face would not move, and he complained of headaches. I spoke to a physician this morning, and he confirmed that these are common symptoms of an severe head injury.”

  Thomas felt his own head nervously. “But the Vicar was attacked by the Wilkes boys about two weeks ago.”

  George nodded.“I'm told that it can take that long for the effects of a head injury to show themselves.”

  Katherine leaned over and gently lifted Thomas's cap off his head, inspecting the bump critically. “That's why I'm glad your head is as swollen as it is.”

  “Stop fussing, girl,” Thomas grumbled, as he gingerly replaced his cap. Then he said: “So it looks as if the Wilkes brothers could be guilty of murder, as well as manslaughter if Peter Chilton dies.”

  George slapped his head. “Damn!” He looked at Katherine. “Sorry.”

  “So you should be,” she replied sternly, “using that kind of language in front of ladies. Damn what, anyway?”

  He grinned. “Damn my poor memory. I forgot to tell you, Tom -- Peter Chilton is much recovered. That's what I heard from his parish constable, anyway. His parents are very relieved, as you can imagine.”

  Thomas nodded. “Well, that is some good news, anyway.”

  “Aye,” George replied, “and since poor Master Beresford has died, the Wilkes brothers will certainly hang -- so long as they get a proper trial and don't manage to wriggle out of it by pleading benefit of clergy.”

  “Surely that's for a jury to decide? We can't be certain that the Wilkes brothers are responsible for the Vicar's death.”

  “Tom, you said yourself that they beat him unconscious and left him untended. If their beating didn't kill him, it's only by luck, not any virtue of theirs.”

  Katherine interrupted. “Thomas is right, Master Harwood.” The men looked at her. “I know it's not my business, but even scoundrels are entitled to a fair trial -- I've heard you say so yourself.”

  George scowled. “I wasn't talking about the Wilkes brothers at the time. I was talking about other scoundrels.” Then he sighed. “Look, so long as they do get a proper trial, I shall have to be satisfied. But that's not my concern -- my worry is that if we can't bring up the stolen cross, I don't see how we can stop them pleading benefit of clergy and getting away without a trial at all.”

  Thomas thought about this, then said: “Why can we not mention the cross now? The only person who stood to be harmed by revealing that information was Master Beresford, and he's dead. Sad, of course, but --”

  “Tom, we can't!” George moaned. His face sank. “It will drag his reputation through the dirt. Other people will be dragged in it with him. Vicar Beresford was well-respected, despite his dubious religious views.”

  “Surely nobody who knows him will be very surprised by his Catholic sympathies?”

  “They might be surprised to hear them discussed in the marketplace by fish gutters. You know that the priest represents the parish -- his parishioners aren't going to be happy at all.”

  The men thought in silence for a while. Then Thomas said: “So we need to find another way to stop the Wilkes brothers pleading benefit of clergy, and then we need to put enough information in front of the jury that they can be decently tried.”

  “And then decently hanged,” said George, grimly. Katherine frowned at him, but George ignored her.

  Thomas said: “This would hardly be the first time that justice has been subverted by the misuse of benefit of clergy. I know you don't like it -- I'm sure aldermen and sheriffs don't like it either -- but it is the law.”

  “It's not the first time, nay,” replied George, “but I've rarely come across two men less deserving of clemency than those two. I'm not suggesting anything unlawful -- I'm sure if they are fairly tried they'll get their just deserts.”

  “Well,” Thomas mused, almost to himself, “there's also the fact that they are, by their own admission, rebels. They boasted about how they fought alongside Kett in Norwich.”

  “Of course!” replied George. “Why didn't I think of that? If the Sheriff hears about that, he'll be sure to put his weight behind a regular trial, if only to get rid of them.”

  Thomas scratched his face and frowned. “I can't say I'm entirely comfortable about that, George; in any case, the King decided not to act against any surviving members of Kett's band,
didn't he?”

  “Aye, so I believe. They probably can't be tried for their part in supporting Kett, but they can be tried for murdering the Vicar, with the Sheriff's influence to ensure that they actually are tried. It would suit the Sheriff, and it would suit me.”

  “Does the Sheriff have that much influence? I mean, this would be a felony trial at the Quarter Sessions by the King's Bench, not with his cronies at the Guildhall. I suspect it would take the King's intervention to overcome the Church's privilege.”

  Katherine interrupted them, frowning deeply. “Why would the Church want to protect two thugs who might have murdered one of its ministers?”

  “Aye, hard to credit, isn't it?” Thomas replied. “I doubt the Church cares a damn about the Wilkes brothers, but it cares deeply about its legal privileges being upheld. The Church -- and this was in the days before the split from Rome -- wrested the right to try its own clergymen from Henry, second of that name, after he got in a pickle for having Thomas Beckett murdered. They've been clinging on to that right for three hundred years. That's one thing that the Old Religion and the New have in common -- both are willing to see thieves and murderers go unpunished, just to maintain their status.” Thomas caught George's sour look. “Sorry, Katt -- George and I have had this discussion before.”

  “More than once,” George agreed. “And things are getting better, now we don't have the influence of Rome to worry about. In principle, anyway. I don't know, to be honest, whether the Sheriff has the King's ear on matters of this sort, but I'll suggest it to him. There's nothing to lose.”

  Both men considered this. Then Thomas continued, almost as an afterthought: “If you're seeing the Sheriff, you might want to tell him that we know who the mystery corpse is.”

  “We're saying it's Roger Allard?”

  “I know it's Roger Allard,” replied Thomas, “and I know who killed him.”

  “Good work Tom! Who? When did you find out?”

  Thomas shuffled uncomfortably. “I'd rather not say.” George raised his eyebrows suspiciously. Thomas continued, thoughtfully: “Do you think that the Sheriff will be satisfied with knowing that I have incontestable evidence that the killing was not political, and that the killer will not strike again?”

  George frowned. “I don't know. I'm not sure I'm convinced myself, so I can't imagine the Sheriff will be. Will you at least tell me what you know?”

  “I would be happy to, but what if the Sheriff asks you outright? Will you be happy to lie to him?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. George said: “Tom, who are you protecting?” He looked at Katherine enquiringly.

  “Don't ask Katt, Jack -- that's not fair. She probably has some idea, but I only found out for sure myself yesterday. It's not that I don't want to tell you -- I just don't want to put you in the position of having to lie. I know it gripes your conscience to flaunt the Ninth Commandment. I'm certain that if you knew what I know, you'd feel as I do. The person who killed Roger Allard does not deserve to hang.”

  George waved his arms in frustration. “Tom, nobody deserves to hang for killing Black Roger -- we should mint a special coin with his killer's face on. His birthday should become a feast day.” George sighed. “Look, you're always telling me that the Sheriff is a decent fellow, despite my natural sense that he's a scoundrel. If that's so, he'll understand, surely, if the situation is a clear as you say?”

  “That depends on whether he follows his conscience or the law. Look, Jack, I'll tell you after you've spoken to the Sheriff, I promise. Then, if he insists on having somebody stand trial, fair enough.”

  George scowled. “And in the meantime, you'll be able to warn whoever you're protecting, and give him a running start?”

  “Something like that, aye.”

  George looked at him for a while, then shook his head. “Very well, Tom, I'll see what he says. Then I'll be expecting straight answers. If anybody finds out that you're protecting a murder, you'll be in the dung. If it gets out that I knew you were, and I did nothing about it, I'll be right in the dung with you.”

  Friday evening, May 25, 1550

  Thomas did what he could to help get the courtyard ready for Beauchamp's final performance, but in his state of health he wasn't a lot of use. Eventually Katherine sent him away to sit down, after issuing a stern instruction to avoid wine or any other strong drink, which was known to increase the danger associated with head injuries. Thomas nodded glumly, and wandered through the bustling inn up to the balcony, where he thought he could at least oversee operations. He noticed that the room whose balcony was next to the one he and Katherine had taken over was now occupied by guests. Looking around, he could see other signs of occupancy in the inn. He sighed -- normally the proprietor was expected to be on hand to greet new guests, and visitors expected that to be a man. Presumably Katherine had taken care of it whilst he was incapacitated, as she had taken care of everything else. Thomas hoped she hadn't delegated the job to Gaffer; the fact that the inn still had guests suggested that she probably hadn't.

  Thomas pulled one of the padded chairs over to the balcony rail and sat down, resting his aching head against the wooden spindles. For a while he luxuriated in the rare sensation of being able to watch other people hard at work, while having nothing to do himself; then tiredness and the effects of his injury overcame him, and he slept.

  When Thomas awoke, he was confused by the passage of time. The shadows had suddenly lengthened, and an audience had already assembled for the show in the courtyard. The girls were passing around snacks and collecting money, and the Sheriff's men were trying to hold back a fair-sized crowd of people who had been unable to fit into the courtyard. Thomas guessed he had been asleep for a couple of hours. The evening was calm and cloudy, and not very warm. He debated fetching a jacket, then decided not to bother. More than cold, he was thirsty. The jug of wine and cups were still in their places from the previous night, forgotten in the confusion. Thomas looked at the jug longingly and licked his lips. He had almost decided that one cup couldn't hurt, when Katherine walked onto the balcony carrying two tankards. Thomas took one and looked into it disdainfully.

  “Small ale,” confirmed Katherine. “Nothing stronger for you until we know that your head is mended.”

  Thomas groaned. “That could be weeks!”

  Katherine sniffed. “It will do you good, Tom. Indeed, you drink altogether too much strong ale.”

  Thomas scowled. “Aye, Mama,” he grumbled. He sipped his ale reflectively, staring into the middle distance. Katherine pulled another chair next to his and sat down, looking approvingly at the crowd in the courtyard. “We should have good takings again tonight.”

  Thomas nodded as he put his tankard down on the table. “How did we do last night?”

  “To be honest, I don't know. What with one thing and another, we haven't had chance to count up yet. Still, the cash box felt pretty heavy.”

  “It's getting pretty crowded down there,” Thomas said, scratching his head doubtfully. “I hope the Sheriff's men can keep a lid on things if the audience gets rowdy. I ought to be down there in case there's trouble.”

  Katherine raised an eyebrow. “And what will you do, Tom? Attack a drunkard's fist with your head again?” Thomas scowled, but did not argue. He sank back into his chair and watched the build-up to the performance.

  There was a slow drum-beat, and the audience began to quieten. As usual, the first of the company into the yard were the musicians -- the lute player, the piper, and the drummer. Tonight, however, the lute playing was nowhere near as self-assured. Thomas craned his head over the balcony.

  “That's odd,” he said. “It's a different lute girl. I wonder what's happened to what’s-her-name?”

  Katherine looked over the balcony herself. “Meg -- Meg Swithin, I think.”

  “Have you seen her today?”

  Katherine shook her head. “I haven't really been looking but, now you mention it, she wasn't around for dinner. I do hope she's all rig
ht.”

  Thomas shrugged and sat back down. “Probably just eaten something dodgy. She'll be holed up in the privies if that's the case.”

  Katherine grimaced at the thought; even in a clean and well-run inn, fluxes of the bowels were not uncommon. If one guest suffered such a disturbance, it was very likely that before long many of the others would, too. Since the dung-cart only came round once a night, that was never a happy state of affairs. “I'll ask after her after the show. I'm sure she's fine.”

  “It's a shame,” Thomas mused. “She's a better musician by far than this other girl.”

  “And much prettier, too,” Katherine grinned.

  Thomas shrugged innocently. “Can't say I noticed.”

  “That drunken lout Gerard and his friend certainly noticed.”

  Thomas nodded. “I can't help being surprised by how different he is after a few ales. From what I've seen, he's always a smug, supercilious bastard; but away from the drink I don't think he'd be so overtly pig-headed.”

  “That's true of a lot of men, though, isn't it?” Katherine asked.

  Thomas looked at her coolly. “And women.” He paused. “Not this man, anyway. Two cups of wine and I fall asleep.”

  “You're getting old, Cousin Tom,” Katherine chuckled. “No stamina any more.” She frowned, suddenly. “Now that I think about it, I haven't seen any of Beauchamp's gang around much all day.”

  “Perhaps they've all been getting familiar with the privies? What did we have for dinner last night?”

  Katherine shrugged. “Well, I'm all right. You look -- I was going to say 'fine', but, you know.”

  Thomas touched his head carefully. “Aye, I know,” he replied.

  “I guess they've all been holed up in their room, practising or something,” Katherine suggested.

  Thomas raised his eyebrows. “They practice? God's wounds!”

  At that moment the jugglers ran onto the stage, throwing clubs and balls. Thomas and Katherine watched in silence for a while. Whatever their faults, it was evident that Beauchamp's troop did practice. Eventually all but one of the jugglers left the stage, and the band fell silent. The remaining juggler, a young man, removed his hat, to reveal an almost bald head. He then took off his jacket and doublet, still in complete silence, until he was standing in a short-sleeved smock, hose and boots. Somebody handed him a burning torch, which he held in one hand for a moment. The flickering light reflected from the perspiration on his bare arms. The drum started a slow beat, while the audience sat or stood completely rapt.

  Suddenly, the man held the torch in front of his face, and exhaled an orange plume of flame over the heads of the people nearest the stage. The audience shrieked; even Thomas, who had seen this trick before, gasped. He looked at Katherine, who was watching the young man attentively.

  “How the Hell does he do that?” He asked, shaking his head. Katherine looked away from the man after what Thomas thought was an overly long time, and said: “It's cornflour. He keeps it in a leather pouch on his belt -- look.”

  As Thomas watched, the man squeezed the contents of a pouch into his mouth, then blew another three gouts of flame over the audience, which shrieked again.

  “I didn't realize cornflour was so flammable.”

  Katherine gave him a scathing look. “Why do you think we keep it in an outbuilding? To make life easier for the rats?”

  Thomas sniffed; he began to formulate a sarcastic reply, but found that he didn't have the energy. Instead he asked: “Why does he have no hair?” Short hair was in fashion this year, but baldness was not.

  Katherine shouted to him over the applause: “He shaves it off, otherwise it gets burned off. If you look at his face closely, you'll notice he's got no eyebrows, either.”

  “Is that why he has to strip off, as well? So he doesn't set his clothes on fire?”

  Katherine laughed, and blushed slightly. “To be honest, I think he does that because he likes to. He does have fine shoulders, doesn't he?”

  “You seem to know a lot about this young fellow,” Thomas said, grinning.

  Katherine looked away. “It's difficult to avoid getting to know people who are living under your roof and getting under your feet in the kitchen all day.” She looked at Thomas. “Unless you've gone and got yourself knocked brainless, of course.”

  “Speaking of fine physiques -- have you heard anything from Geoffrey Sumner lately?”

  Katherine giggled.

  “What's funny?”

  “Oh, I was just imagining Geoffrey juggling and breathing fire.”

  They both savoured the absurdity of this image for a minute. Then Katherine said: “No, in fact, it's odd -- I was rather expecting him to have spoken to you by now, if he was going to.”

  Thomas thought about this. “Perhaps he's run away with a milkmaid?”

  “Thomas!” Katherine exclaimed. “That's no way to talk about a man you were thinking of as a potential son-in-law only last week.”

  Thomas chuckled to himself. “Much as I respect Geoffrey, I find it difficult to take him seriously a lot of the time.”

  Katherine nodded. “That's probably because he takes himself so seriously. Hush -- here comes Master Beauchamp.”

  Thomas reached for his ale and took another mouthful, as Beauchamp started his speech. It wasn't long before the audience was laughing vigorously, but Thomas thought that there was something odd about Roland's performance. He seemed distracted, and appeared almost to forget his lines. When the young man playing his wife came on stage, Thomas realized it was the fire-breather, now with rouged cheeks and a long wig poking out from under a bonnet. He, too, seemed uneasy. Whatever the problem was, the audience seemed not to notice. Thomas relaxed and, within minutes, he was asleep with his tankard propped on his belly. Katherine looked over and rescued the tankard just before it fell. She shook Thomas gently until he roused. “Eh?” he said, shaking his head. He sighed. “I must have just closed my eyes a moment there.”

  Katherine grinned. “For about half an hour, I think. Get off to your bed. I'll tidy up later.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, Cousin Tom, you're not going to be a lot of help in your state, are you?” She looked at him sternly, then grinned. Thomas started to object, but she patted his shoulder like a child. “Go on, Tom, off with you.” Thomas decided that objection was pointless and, in fact, he was feeling rather fuddled. He pulled himself out of his chair with some difficulty, and shambled away.

  After the show was over, Katherine strolled down from the balcony to the courtyard, and watched the audience disperse, just as the curfew bell was ringing. She waved to a few people she recognized, and helped to entice the stragglers to get away home. A few people had indulged rather too freely in the strong ale, and had to be helped on their staggering way with a firm hand from Gaffer and the Sheriff's men. The evening was warm, and by the time most of the visitors had left, members of Beauchamp's company were sitting on the makeshift stage, passing a jug of beer around. Katherine thought they seemed unduly subdued -- they were talking in low voices, and Beauchamp himself looked tired and drawn. Still, he waved to Katherine and smiled. She strolled over to the stage, pausing on the way to tell the few remaining visitors firmly that curfew had rung, and that they better get away before the watch did its rounds.

  There were six people on the stage, including Roland Beauchamp and the fire breather, who Katherine dimly recalled was called Edmund. Edmund was back in men's clothing after his brief appearances on stage as a woman, and was wearing a cloth cap over his bald head. The other four people -- two men and two older women -- Katherine recognized, but could not put names to. There was little sign of the company's usual bawdy humour.

  Beauchamp looked at Katherine. “Good evening, Mistress Katherine. I trust you are well?” Before she could answer, he continued. “How is your patient this evening?”

  Katherine sat down next to him on the edge of the stage. “Thomas is fine, God be thanked. He's still
tired and in some pain, although he won't admit it.”

  “It could have been worse,” Beauchamp nodded. “We've all been worried about him.” The other members of the company nodded in agreement. Beauchamp smiled slightly. “I hope he will soon be well enough to put in a good word for us with Master York, the Sheriff, as he promised.

  Katherine nodded. “I'm sure he will, and the Sheriff certainly seemed to enjoy the show.” She looked around the glum faces. “But I wanted to ask you something, in fact. Where is Meg -- the girl who plays the lute?”

  The company members looked around uneasily at one another. For a while nobody spoke. Eventually, Beauchamp sighed. “Ah, well, there's a sorry situation.” Katherine waited for him to continue. She looked around at the other people on the stage, but none would meet her gaze.

  “Is she unwell?” Katherine insisted; there was more shuffling and looking at the ground. “Tell me!”

  Beauchamp shook his head thoughtfully. “Nay, not unwell. Not unwell as such.”

  “But we haven't seen her all day.”

  Beauchamp bit his lip, uncharacteristically for such a self-confident and decisive character. “Nay, you'd not have.”

  “Tell me!” Katherine repeated, looking almost as if she was going to stamp her foot like a child.

  Beauchamp took a swig of wine from the jug as it came around, and wiped his face on the back of his doublet sleeve. He said: “She had a nasty encounter with a couple of young men after the show last night.”

  “Um --” Katherine replied, unsure what to say. “What happened?”

  Beauchamp pulled a face, but realized that Katherine was not going to let him off the hook. “They came to the inn when everybody else had left after yesterday's show. Well, I should say they came back into the inn.” He looked at Katherine. “It was those two fellows who had the -- disagreement -- with Thomas earlier. One is called Gerard; I'm not sure about the other.” He paused, as if thinking how best to express something unpleasant. “You and Thomas had already gone inside. I was in our room in the inn, getting washed up. If I'd been here, I would have stopped them. You know the way they were trying to get to Meg when they were causing that fuss earlier in the night.” He scowled. “Drunk, of course.”

  Katherine nodded. “It certainly seemed that way.”

  “Anyway --” Beauchamp continued, with a deep sigh. “Anyway, I wasn't around, and there was only these idle fellows keeping an eye on the girls.” He glowered at Edmund, who looked away shame-faced.

  Beauchamp looked back at Katherine. “Mistress Katherine, this isn't a fit subject for a young lady of your station.”

  Katherine rounded on him in surprise. “My station? You mean an innkeeper's orphan?”

  Beauchamp tried a grin, and then thought better of it. “I mean a young woman who is, I would hope, largely unaware of what goes on between men and women; particularly drunk young men and young women who travel the roads with companies like ours.”

  Katherine scowled at him. “I think I've learned something of what goes on between men and women from Thomas in the last couple of weeks.” Beachamp's jaw dropped. Suddenly realizing how her last sentence must have sounded, Katherine giggled childishly, covering her mouth with her hand. She continued hastily. “I mean, from assisting in his investigations.”

  Beauchamp continued to stare, and she blushed. Then he smiled expansively. “Well, I'm sure I knew what you meant, my dear. Nevertheless --”

  “You're going to tell me they raped her, aren't you? And injured her in doing so?” Katherine stared at him.

  Beauchamp would not look at her.

  “Well?”

  “Not raped. Not exactly.” Katherine continued to stare. “Look, Mistress Katherine, I feel most vexed, discussing such matters with an unmarried girl.” He sighed, and looked around the company. Nobody came to his aid. “Well, you know already that the girls in my company are not averse to --” he sought for the right words. “They're happy to supplement the meagre income the company makes by carrying out certain favours for men who attend our performances; particularly wealthy and personable young men.”

  Katherine nodded. She was well aware that this happened; it was one of the reasons the City authorities did not particularly welcome travelling companies of entertainers.

  “Of course, I do not encourage such business arrangements. Still, I do not forbid it.” He chuckled. “I couldn't forbid it, anyway. My 'girls' are adult women; they are all here of their own volition.” He sighed again. “They may, in some cases, have had limited alternatives, but none is here under any compulsion.”

  Beauchamp reached for the wine jug and lifted it, but found it empty. Katherine said: “There's another jug in the kitchen, if anybody wants to get it.” Beachamp nodded at Edmund, who rose obediently and took the empty jug in the direction of the kitchen.

  “''Tis thirsty work, conversation of this kind,” Beauchamp grumbled.

  Katherine nodded; her own mouth was dry too.

  “Anyway, the point I wish to make is that I'm not a pimp,” continued Beauchamp, looking earnestly at Katherine, “whatever some might think. I don't enquire about the girls' activities between shows, and I don't ask them for any money. I doubt they make much, and I suspect that they don't always find these activities entirely irksome.”

  “So what went wrong last night?”

  “Well --” Beauchamp paused again. “There are certain men whose fleshly predilections are rather --” Another pause. “-- unconventional, shall we say?”

  He broke off with some relief when he saw Edmund returning with another jug. Edmund passed it to him, but Beauchamp waved it away. “Ladies first, fellow,” He chided. Edmund handed the jug to Katherine who, after only a slight hesitation, took it and drank deeply. Then she passed it back to Edmund who smiled shyly and passed it around.

  When the jug had made another circuit, Beauchamp continued. “Where was I? Ah, young Master Gerard's little oddity.” he sneered. “if I can so dignify it.” He paused and looked at Katherine. “It seems that Gerard is one of those men who are only aroused by women who resist them. Our girls, as I've said, are generally not unwilling, especially in the right circumstances.”

  Katherine wondered how the women in the present group would respond to such an assessment; they merely looked on impassively.

  Beauchamp continued: “I understand that Gerard wanted Meg to pretend to resist. He wanted to make believe that he had chanced upon her in the stables, and taken her by force. I think she did her best, poor thing, but I believe it's not just the resistance that men of that stripe like, it's the sense of power. Gerard's companion -- we still don't know his name -- held Meg down while Gerard --,” he winced, “-- got to work.”

  Katherine grimaced. Beauchamp looked at her evenly. “I'm sorry my dear, but you did insist. Anyway, it seems that even then he was unable to rise to the occasion, shall we say. So he got angry with Meg, and hit her -- right in the face with his fist. You've seen the mass of rings he wears, so you won't be surprised to hear that our Meg was not a pleasant sight this morning.”

  Katherine sat rigid, mouth open, and for some time was unable to speak. Eventually she whispered, “Poor girl,” which hardly seemed adequate.

  Beauchamp nodded. “If Edmund had not heard her shouts, I don't know how it would have ended. Gerard managed to slap her hard a couple of times before the men got to her and chased him and his friend away. Even then, they had a fight on their hands. It seems that Gerard really didn't want to give up.”

  At this point Edmund interrupted. “A few jabs in the arse with the stable pitchfork got 'im moving, but he were so pissed that he 'ardly felt it, I think.” He looked at his feet. “We should never have let them get away -- we should have sorted them out then and there.”

  Beauchamp shook his head. “And by now you'd be in Newgate. You know the kind of story he'd tell.”

  Edmund looked at him angrily. “Only if he were breathing.”

  Beauchamp sighed, and looked
at Katherine. “You know how it is. If Thomas had still been constable we might have got a fair hearing. This new fellow -- what's is name?”

  “Savill,” Katherine supplied.

  “Aye, that's him. Thomas says that he'd be happy to see us all whipped.

  Katherine nodded reluctantly. “Thomas doesn't think much of him, to be sure.”

  “It's the same all over. People like the shows, but they don't like us very much. I've even heard people say that we spread the plague. Anyway, I doubt that the local justices would be on our side.”

  “Why didn't you tell us?” Asked Katherine, pulling a face. “We would have helped, if we could.”

  Beauchamp shook his head. “We take care of our own problems, Mistress -- we have to; and I didn't want to cause you any more trouble. We knew you had enough worries of your own, with Tom's injury.”

  There was a tense silence. Eventually Katherine broke it by asking: “So what will you do?”

  “We haven't decided. Some of the company are in favour of tying his legs and throwing him in the Thames. For my part, I think I'm too near to meeting my maker to be entirely comfortable with such a plan. But the younger fellows might try it, if I can't talk them out of it.”

  Katherine thought about this. “It seems we have a common enemy, then. Constable Harwood seemed very keen to have Gerard answer for what he did to Tom. After what he did to Meg, he will be even more so.”

  “Well,” Beauchamp mused, “for what it's worth, it turns out that this isn't our first run-in with young Gerard. Although we didn't know who he was before yesterday, one of the other girls told Alice -- ” he nodded at one of the women sitting on the stage, “-- that she had had an encounter with Gerard not so long ago. She got off lightly; it appears that Gerard was on better form that night. He still left her with a black eye, though.”

  “So how is Meg bearing up?” Asked Katherine.

  The woman called Alice answered angrily. “She's distraught, frantic. Apart from wondering whether she'll ever be able to look in a mirror, she's terrified that she might meet him again.”

  “Well,” replied Katherine grimly. “Between us, we'll have to make sure that doesn't happen.”

  Saturday morning, May 26, 1550

  When Thomas awoke on Saturday morning -- nearer the usual time of six o'clock -- he felt much improved. His headache had diminished and, when he felt his head, the pain around the swelling was bearable. The lump was still very much in evidence, however, and Thomas struggled to get his cap to sit level on his head. He dressed and washed carefully, and made his way down to the kitchen, where Katherine and the girls were already at work, preparing breakfast for the guests. The activity in the kitchen confirmed Thomas's impression that more guests were in residence than had been last might.

  Thomas greeted Katherine, who raised an arm coated with flour to wave at him, then returned to her work. The fire was roaring, and the baking oven was hot enough to make the room seem to shimmer; Thomas walked through kitchen door into the courtyard for some fresh air. Already it was light, and threatening later to be hot outside the kitchen as well as inside. Beauchamp's carts were still parked by the stables, empty. Thomas hadn't expected this -- he would have thought that the company be packed up and ready to settle accounts. But perhaps they were only going to the next parish, and would have little to do until evening.

  As he walked back into the kitchen, Katherine waved him over. Without stopping kneading the dough in her hands, she said: “Tom, I need to talk to you about that wretch Gerard some time this morning.”

  “Why? What's he done now?”

  “Not now,” replied Katherine, “I need to get this bread ready.” She looked up. “After breakfast. How are you feeling by the way?”

  By way of answer, Thomas lifted his cap and turned the side of his head towards her. Katherine reached out to touch the swelling, but Thomas ducked away. “Don't get flour in my hair, girl!”

  Katherine sniffed. “If you're feeling better, you could start getting the dining room ready. I've sent the girls down to the market for some meat -- we didn't have time yesterday, and the larder is almost bare.”

  Thomas nodded. “How did the show go last night?”

  “I'll tell you about that after breakfast.”

  Breakfast was a busy affair, with a dozen people around the board in the dining room, and another half-dozen eating in their rooms. Private breakfasting was a nuisance for the inn's staff, but guests paid four times the price compared with eating at the common board, so Thomas did not complain. It was nearly nine o'clock by the time the last guests had left the dining room and all the tidying and washing had been completed. Thomas sat down on a bench in the dining room with a mug of small ale. While he was waiting for Katherine to join him, George Harwood walked in.

  Thomas smiled. “How now, Jack?”

  “How now, yourself, Tom. Your head still on your shoulders, is it?”

  “Aye,” he replied. “Good job there's no brains in there, or I could have been in trouble.”

  George frowned. “Don't jest, Tom -- you could still be in trouble. It will be another week before we know you're out of danger.”

  “Oh, don't be an such an old woman, Jack. 'Twas just a scratch.”

  George looked at him doubtfully. “I know you've got a head like a cannonball, but there's no point taking chances. Anyway, I wanted to discuss with you what we should do about Gerard.”

  At that moment, Katherine walked into the dining room. She poured herself a mug of small ale from the jug, and offered one to George. Seeing his hesitation, Thomas asked: “Or would you prefer something stronger? I can't, of course --.” He pulled a face at Katherine, who stuck her tongue out in response. “-- But there's no reason you shouldn't.”

  “Better not, Tom. I need to keep a straight head.” He walked over to the bench and sat down opposite Thomas. Katherine brought her drink as sat down next to him.

  “As it happens, Katherine has some information about Gerard as well,” Thomas told George. George looked at her, and she nodded. She then recounted the story that Beauchamp had told her the previous night. When she had finished, both men were silent for a long time.

  Eventually George whistled softly. “I always thought he was a scum-bag, but I had no idea he was that depraved.”

  Thomas nodded. “It's not just him, though, is it? At least one other man was with him when he assaulted Meg Swithin. I suspect that his little gang of rich, spoiled wastrels are all just as bad. They pick on prostitutes, or other young women that nobody will take seriously, and treat them as badly as they please.” He scowled. “But Gerard is the worst because, to be sure, he's got such a taste for brutality that he can't perform like a man if the woman is willing. I guess if she's too compliant, he beats her up until she starts to resist.”

  George suddenly looked at Thomas, as realization dawned. “Do you think the same thing happened to Jane Allard?”

  Thomas nodded grimly. “Except that time he went too far, and beat the poor woman to death. It would certainly explain young Peter Long's guilt, if he was involved too, and perhaps his suicide. It seems as if the deaths of Roger and Jane Allard within a few days of each other were just a horrible coincidence. Once I was sure that Allard was the mystery corpse in Eastcheap, it was obvious that he couldn't have killed his wife.”

  “How so?”

  “Because he was already dead. Jane was definitely still alive on the Saturday; Allard was killed on Friday. There's no realistic way he could have killed Jane on Saturday, being dead and all.”

  “You're sure he was killed on Friday?”

  Thomas squirmed slightly, aware that he had not told George what he had learned from the Warters, and that he owed him an explanation. “I'm absolutely positive. The timing was always a bit tight, anyway. There's no way that Allard had only been dead a day or two, even allowing for the rats. Four days is much more believable.”

  “Why four days?”

  “Because Candle Joe put the
wooden boxes out on Friday -- that's the earliest that Allard's body could have been concealed. He could have been dead before that, of course, but my point is that he couldn't have been killed after Saturday.”

  “So what did her neighbours hear on Saturday night?”

  “They heard Gerard and Long beating her up, and her screaming at them to stop.”

  George shuddered. “I'm loath to say it, but I think Gerard would have liked that. But would they not have realized that it wasn't Black Roger's voice?”

  Thomas considered this. “I imagine that one man's bellow of rage and frustration sounds much the same as any other's.” He added quietly: “That's certainly what I remember from the battlefield, anyway.”

  George growled: “I wonder if Long was an enthusiastic participant in the rape, or if he was coerced by Gerard?”

  Thomas drummed his fingers on the bench for a while. “Does it matter? He was an accomplice in Goodwife Allard's murder. Whether he beat her himself, or just held her arms still while Gerard beat her, we might never know. She had bruising on her arms, as if they had been held firmly against her sides while she was standing up. My guess is that Gerard administered the beating while Long restrained her; but for all I know, it could have been the other way around.”

  George spat. “What makes me most angry is the way these rich young fellows think they can do what they please. It's as if they own the place.”

  Thomas replied: “Gerard's father is a big wheel in the Guild of Mercers. The Mercers almost do own the place, as you know. And, so far as the city authorities are concerned, the victims are just prostitutes or other women of suspicious morals.”

  “Like musicians?” Katherine interrupted.

  “Like musicians.” Thomas nodded. “And other entertainers -- or any woman of no fixed household. In the circumstances, I'm surprised that even Sheriff York is willing to antagonize Gerard Senior by picking on his son -- he must have some real dirt on the father.”

  Suddenly Katherine banged her fist on the bench. She was red in the face, almost shaking with outrage. “Master Harwood,” she growled, “Tom -- you've got to bring him to justice. Even if his father does run the city.”

  Thomas and George looked at one another. George said: “I can't just round up a bunch of men and drag young Gerard out of his house and into the compter. Even if I thought I could get away from there with my life -- which is doubtful enough -- it would hardly be legal. I have no jurisdiction in Walbrook, and Master Caldwell is unlikely to do anything that I asked. He'd do the opposite, most likely.”

  “Then speak to the Sheriff!” Katherine shouted. “Do something! Otherwise he'll get away with it, and most likely do it again.”

  George nodded glumly. “It's only the Sheriff who has the authority to act, and lawful access to a body of armed men.” He sighed. “I was meaning to see him anyway, about the Wilkes brothers.”

  “And Roger Allard?” Asked Thomas.

  “As you wish, Tom, but it would make my life easier if you told me everything you know.”

  “I will Jack, I promise,” Thomas replied. “You know why I'm not telling you now.”

  George shrugged. “Have it your way. The Sheriff will be sick of the sight of me, if we carry on like this.” Thomas thought about Beauchamp's carts waiting in the courtyard, and stroked his face thoughtfully.

  Saturday afternoon, May 26, 1550

  By dinner time George Harwood and his staff had finished up their outstanding orders, and George was able to get the shop shut and have a leisurely meal with his household. He had already sent Bob to Walbrook to ask the Sheriff's secretary if the Sir John would see him in the afternoon, but it turned out that the Sheriff was spending the weekend at his residence in the Mint. The Mint -- previously known as Suffolk Place -- was a palatial building some way south of the River. George toyed with the idea of hiring a nag for the afternoon, but decided in the end that the walk would do him good. His swollen leg had almost completely healed, but he hadn't walked far on it since the injury.

  After dinner, George put on a respectable doublet and short cloak, and set off into Gracechurch Street. In New Fish Street the fish markets were still frantically busy -- Saturday was a fish day -- even though the bulk of the day's catch had already been sold. Fishmongers were hawking their wares even more vigorously than they had in the morning, in an attempt to get rid of what fish they had left. In the warm weather fish would not keep for long if not cooked or salted, and the smell was becoming discouraging. At the north gate of the Bridge, George exchanged coarse pleasantries with the watchmen on duty, then strolled between the grand houses that lined the it. Some of these buildings hung out over the river for six feet on each side of the Bridge, to a height of five storeys. It was of ancient construction -- a causeway twenty feet wide, built over twenty massive stone arches. The arches were so stout that between most of them was left only a narrow channel for the waters of the Thames to flow; when the tide was in full flood -- as it was now -- the current through these narrow channels was a torrent. The watermen still had a living to earn and would risk the rapids, rather than rowing the long detour to the wider channel at the far south of the Bridge's span. However, their passengers usually left the boat on one side of the Bridge, then walked around to rejoin it on the other. Sometimes men would gather on the bridge to make bets on which boats would capsize in the treacherous current between the arches, but no such sport was to be had today, and George was spared the burden of pretending to disapprove of it.

  The south gate was decorated with the heads of executed traitors on poles. George was pleased to note that no new heads had been added since his last trip to Southwark, but he didn't hold out much hope that the situation would last. After a further exchange of ribaldry with the watchmen, George was in Southwark. George reflected that, this time last year, he would now have been outside the jurisdiction of the City Corporation. However, the King -- being only too aware that there is a limit to how much his subjects could be taxed before they rebelled -- had sold most of Southwark to the Corporation, effectively making it a part of the City. For all that, Southwark had a different atmosphere to the City to the north of the Bridge, and not altogether a pleasant one.

  The Mint was at the far south of Southwark, almost in the countryside. It was surrounded by a massive limestone wall, which enclosed a courtyard containing an orchard and ornamental gardens. Even from a distance the building was imposing: it was in the style of a classical Greek temple, and as large as one. In the alehouses thereabouts, local people often commented that it was a temple -- one where the King worshipped money. Of course, they made such comments quietly, because of their proximity to the south gate of the Bridge, with its grim reminder of the fate awaiting anybody who mocked the King too loudly. In fact, the Old King had taken ownership of the property in one his notorious house-swaps; on this occasion swapping Norwich Place on the Strand for it. He gave it to Jane Seymour, his ill-fated third wife. When Lady Jane, Henry couldn't bring himself to set foot in the place again, and when the government needed a substantial building for a mint, Suffolk Place had seemed eminently suitable. It was certainly defensible -- the walls of the courtyard alone looked as if they would withstand canon-fire.

  The main entrance to the Mint was a heavy oak double gate about twice as high as a man, with arm-thick, black iron hinges at the top and bottom. Set into this gate was a smaller portal just high enough to admit a man if he crouched. George gave this the constable's knock, and shouted: “Open up, you lazy devils. Some of us have real work to do!” After a few seconds with no response he banged the door again. “Come on, I haven't got all day, you know!”

  There was a scraping noise, and a small hatch opened at head height, to reveal a lumpy, misshapen face. The man growled, then smiled, to reveal a mouth almost innocent of teeth. “Steady on, George,” he moaned. “I'm getting deaf in my old age.” The hatch slammed back and, after more scraping and clanking, the portal swung open. George ducked and put his hand over his h
ead before stepping inside.

  “So you weren't asleep, then, Bill?” he asked the doorkeeper. He looked pointedly at a wooden stool set by the gate. An old cloak was balled up on top of it, so as to make it comfortable; it looked like the seat of a person who meant to spend as much of his working day sitting down as possible.

  The doorkeeper chuckled and screwed up his face. “By my beard, it's boring, this duty.” As if to emphasize the last remark he stroked his chin, where hair grew unevenly and in tufts. Like many men who had served in the militia, he boasted that he still trimmed his beard with his dagger. “Can you blame a fellow if he nods off occasionally?” The doorkeeper took his pike from where he had left it leaning against the wall, and used it to lower himself heavily onto the stool. He cursed, and straightened his left leg painfully. He looked at George, as if suddenly remembering he was there. “Go on through, then, Jack. I take it you're not at the 'ead of an invading 'orde?”

  “What would you do if I was, Bill, limp after me?”

  “Nay, you daft old bastard. I'd leave the bloody door locked.” He shook his head. “I don't know, bloody constables, think they're so swivin' smart. Go on, then.”

  George waved back at the doorkeeper cheerfully as he walked down the paved avenue between the gardens towards the house. He nodded at a few people he recognized in the gardens -- he had been to the Mint before, but not frequently -- and raised his cap politely to those he didn't. The frontage to the house was a stone staircase the entire width of the building, topped by a colonnade of pillars. At the top of the staircase, in front of the main door, more guards leaned on their pikestaffs, or against the columns. They straightened up when they saw a man climbing the stairs, then relaxed again when realized it wasn't somebody important. “Good day, fellows,” George called. Then, when he was close enough to speak without shouting: “Is call-me-Sir John at home?”

  The guards chucked slightly. One of them replied: “If you mean our noble master, the gallant Sheriff, then aye.” The guard nodded in the direction of the garden. “His Sir-ness is in the rose garden.” He paused. “But I'm not sure he'll be able to see you -- there was another fellow with him.”

  “Who?”

  The guard picked his teeth reflectively, then said: “Nobody I recognized. Shady lookin' character, if you ask me.”

  George nodded. “Well, I'll try anyway. God give you good day.” Then he set off back down the steps towards the rose garden.

  The rose garden was an enclosed space about fifty yards square, lined with dense bushes of deep red roses surrounding a lawn. Arches cut through the bushes made entrances to the garden at either end, while a few wooden benches provided seating. In the centre of lawn was an ornamental sundial. George stopped briefly to check the time -- it was nearly three o'clock. As he was examining the instrument, a man dressed in dark clothes hurried past from the other end of the rose garden. He wore a a large felt hat that mostly concealed his face, and what little George could see of his features was nondescript: a tidy beard and bland face. In an age where people shouted out their social standing with their clothing, this man's clothes said nothing at all: black hose and boots, plain grey jacket, and dark blue cloak with a high collar. The man did not greet George or even look directly at him. Remembering what the guard had told him, George guessed that this was the shady-looking character he had alluded to. The Sheriff was known to employ people who wanted their identities kept quiet; their roles were the subject of much alehouse speculation, but little definite was known. George watched the man's disappearing back for a while, then sauntered across the rose garden shaking his head.

  The Sheriff was sitting on a bench in a patch of sunlight looking at some papers, and making occasional notes on a wax tablet; but he rose when he saw George. Mindful of the Sheriff's standing, George raised his cap slightly and bowed. Mindful of the essential equality of all men under God, the bow was as meagre as he could make it, and the cap lifted hardly enough to disturb his hair. The Sheriff gave a thin smile, and sat down again, beckoning George to the bench next to him. George sat down, and said: “Good day, Master Sheriff.”

  “And good day to you, Master Constable,” the Sheriff replied smoothly. He looked in the direction of George's gaze. “I take it you've not come just to admire His Grace's roses?”

  “Indeed not, although they are very splendid roses. Do you think the King will mind if I take a bunch home for my wife?”

  The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. “I take it you noticed the heads over the South Gate as you passed?”

  George chuckled. “I'll take that to be a 'no', then.” He leaned back on the bench and stretched his legs. The Sheriff gathered up his papers and waited for George to come to the point.

  Eventually George said: “We've made some progress -- I thought you might like to know.”

  “Aye, indeed; I'm all in favour of progress,” the Sheriff replied drily.

  “You asked us to follow up on the suicide of Sir Richard Long's son.”

  “Strange as it may sound, Master Harwood, I do remember conversations that took place only a week ago.”

  George scowled slightly, but continued: “We think it very likely that he and another young fellow raped and killed a married woman in Philpot Lane. There is some uncertainty about the rape, but none about the murder.”

  “Philpot Lane,” the Sheriff mused. “I don't think I've had the pleasure.”

  “It's in the parish of St Andrew Hubbard, near Fenchurch Street. Not the kind of district that a fine gentleman such as yourself would be likely to frequent.”

  The Sheriff ignored this jibe, and asked: “How did it come about that this murder raised no hue-and-cry? What about the woman's husband?”

  George sighed. “Her husband was a worthless wretch, who sold his wife's virtue to other men while he was out chasing other women. Not that she had much virtue to begin with, I suspect.”

  “Nevertheless --”

  “He didn't raise a hue-and-cry, or even report the murder to the constables, because he was already dead. The husband was the mystery corpse we found in Eastcheap.”

  “God's wounds! So who was this fellow?”

  “A butcher called Roger Allard. 'Black Roger', on account of his reputation. His workmates had begun to suspect that something untoward had happened to him, but they didn't much care for him, and he wasn't particularly regular in his working habits. So until we pressed them, they didn't take his absence from the workplace very seriously.”

  The Sheriff sat and though about this for a while. Eventually, he said: “You're sure about this?”

  “As sure as I am of anything in this uncertain world. The timings match up; the clothing and the age and build agree. We're sure, yes.”

  The Sheriff regarded George narrowly. “I think I'll need to ask you more about this later -- who killed him, to begin. However, just now, who was the other party to the murder? You said that young Long and another man killed this woman?”

  “Aye.” George shuffled. “That's what I came to see you about. We're fairly sure that his accomplice was Samuel Gerard.” He paused. “In fact, we're fairly sure that Long was the accomplice, and Gerard the instigator. We've spoken to another women whom Gerard mistreated in a similar way. Happily, she got away with a beating and a scare. A bad beating but, it seems, the kind you recover from. It appears that she wasn't the only woman who had unpleasant dealings with Gerard. He gets his jollies from beating women -- he can't get it up any other way.”

  The Sheriff nodded. “His father is a brutish man as well, although I don't know if his tastes run in quite the same direction.”

  George fidgeted with his hands. “To be honest, Sir John, I'm unsure how to proceed. If it were any other man, I'd take some lads and drag him into the compter. But...”

  “But Gerard lives in a house like a castle, surrounded by his father's large band of thuggish retainers?”

  George nodded glumly. “That's about it.”

  The Sheriff stood up, and paced up
and down the garden for a few minutes. George watched him impassively from the bench. Eventually the Sheriff came back to stand in front of him. “Now listen carefully, Master Harwood. You're to take no further action against Gerard. None at all. Is that clear?”

  George looked up at the Sheriff in astonishment. “God's teeth! That isn't at all what I expected. I was rather hoping you'd would get some of your men to back us up when we arrested him.” He stood up, and looked at the Sheriff angrily. “It's not just the murder. Gerard attacked Thomas Whyte and injured him badly.”

  The Sheriff said nothing for a moment, then asked: “Is Thomas all right? Will he recover?”

  “Gerard struck him on the head from behind, with that fist-full of rings he wears. Thomas was unconscious for a while, but he's recovered his wits now and, God willing, he should be fine.”

  The Sheriff nodded. “I understand your feelings, believe me, but I must insist that you leave Gerard to me. I will deal with the family in my own way, and in my own time.”

  On a whim George asked: “Was that fellow who just left here in a hurry and wouldn't look at me part of your dealings with him?”

  The Sheriff frowned. “Constable, don't ask questions to which you don't need to know the answers.” he sighed, then sat down on the bench again. George remained standing, and glowered down at him. The Sheriff said: “Sit down, Master Harwood -- you're making the garden look untidy.”

  George sank back onto the bench, and sat stiffly. The Sheriff sighed. “If it's a matter of your fees, I will pay the full amount to you and Master Whyte that we agreed.”

  George leaned back on the bench, relaxing slightly. “I wasn't thinking of that, although the money will be most welcome. Nevertheless, you're the Sheriff. Of course I shall follow your instructions.” He scowled. “Even though I don't understand at all.”

  “Quite so. Now, about this butcher -- what's his name? Allard?”

  George relaxed eventually, and leaned back on the bench. “Aye. You're going to ask how we're sure that he was the man we found dead in Eastcheap, aren't you?”

  “Well, Constable, I have to say that the circumstances as you've reported them don't make we entirely confident. Well, how are you so sure?”

  George scratched his head. “To be honest, I'm not sure of the details myself. Thomas would not tell me, as he knew I wouldn't lie to you if you asked me outright. Since Thomas is a decent fellow and wouldn't protect a vicious killer, my guess is that Allard was killed in self-defence, and he wants to give his killer a chance to do the right thing and give himself up for trial. But that's just a guess”

  “Self defence?” The Sheriff retorted. “What sort of self-defence requires hacking a man almost to pieces? And Master Whyte thinks -- what? That I will have the man hanged without trial, and his house burned down, if I know who it is?”

  George shrugged, his discomfort plainly visible. The Sheriff took pity on him. “Very well, Constable -- I will speak to him myself. In the meantime...” He leaned back on the bench and stroked his beard for a while. “This news could work out to our advantage. Everyone expected the killer to be a butcher, but if the victim is also a butcher...”

  “The scales balance?” George asked sourly.

  The Sheriff gave him a haughty look. “I would not put it so crudely but, indeed, it will take away the a cause for grievance against the butchers.” He paused, and spoke almost to himself. “Aye, if we present the news carefully, things might work out nicely all around.”

  “Apart from for Allard,” George replied, “although he seems to have got no more than what was coming to him.”

  Briefly, George explained what he and Thomas had discovered about Black Roger Allard and his relationship with his wife and their neighbours.

  “So it seems as if the mystery killer did us a favour,” the Sheriff said. “Nevertheless, the idea that there is a man on the lose who is capable of hacking a butcher almost to pieces is not one that I feel entirely comfortable with.” He fixed George with a cool look. “Even if it was in self-defence. However, thank you for bringing these developments to my attention.” The Sheriff returned to his papers; George nodded, but make no move to leave.

  After a short pause, the Sheriff looked at him. “Master Harwood, I note you're still here. Was there anything else?”

  “There was one other matter. Benefit of clergy has bitten us on the arse again.”

  The Sheriff sighed. “The sooner we get that archaic law consigned to the history books, the better. Who is it this time?”

  “Two young thugs from the Norfolk. I have evidence that they beat and robbed a priest, who may have died of his injuries. They certainly beat another man within an inch of his life.” George told the Sheriff about the Wilkes brothers, and Peter Chilton and Vicar Beresford; as he had agreed with Thomas, he avoided mention of the silver cross or the Vicar's catholic tendencies.

  “And they are literate?” The Sheriff asked.

  “At least one of them is. Properly literate, it seems -- it's not just a case of memorizing the neck verse.”

  The Sheriff nodded glumly. “If we're going to encourage everybody to learn to read -- even plough-boys and labourers -- we've got to stop allowing them to use literacy as a defence to criminal charges.”

  George sighed. “Even wretches like the Wilkes boys are entitled to a fair trial. I'm not trying to deny them justice -- I just want them to stand trial properly, in a proper court with a proper justice and a proper jury and proper witnesses.”

  The Sheriff nodded, but said: “I only have limited influence with the King's Bench. I'm not sure I should be using it to avoid an ancient legal protection; even a damnably stupid one. There's only so many times I can do that, and I can't be sure when I'll really need to. You understand? And the Church will kick up a stink. I know how you feel, and I agree with you, but I'm not sure --”

  “You might be interested to know that the Wilkes brothers boasted about fighting alongside Kett in Norfolk.” George did not think this an adequate reason to condemn a man, but he knew it would rile the Sheriff.

  The Sheriff thought for a while. “Did they now? Well, that does put matters into rather a different light. Where are they now?”

  “In the Poultry Compter.”

  The Sheriff nodded, and made notes on his tablet. “Since I'm in a good humour today, I will use what influence I have to ensure that they are dealt with appropriately.”

  “So we should move them to Newgate, in readiness for the Quarter Sessions?”

  “Newgate? Oh, aye, indeed so. Newgate, aye. In fact, I'll have some of my men do it, tomorrow afternoon, after service.”

  George frowned at the Sheriff's evasiveness. “I'd like to go with them, If you don't mind.”

  The Sheriff looked at George narrowly. “Why, don't you trust my men?”

  “Oh, I trust them well enough to trip over their pikestaffs. But they're still my prisoners, in principle, until the Sessions.” George said stolidly: “It's my duty.”

  The Sheriff shook his head, but said: “Oh, very well. I'll have my men wait for you in Poultry. You can all go to Newgate as a party. Won't that by nice?” He made a further note on his tablet. George craned over to see what it was, but the Sheriff wagged a finger and turned the slate away.

  George grinned. “Thank you -- I'll leave you to the pleasure of the King's roses. Are you sure he can't spare a few? Oh, well. God give you good day, Master Sheriff.”

  Sunday morning, May 27, 1550

  When Thomas woke he was pleased to find that the swelling on his head had almost healed, and he had no headache. He was less pleased find that it was pouring with rain -- he could hear it drumming on the inn roof just above his head. He looked out of the tiny window of his room, and saw that it was still almost dark, although it was past sunrise. Raindrops danced in the puddles that covered the courtyard. Thomas dressed wearily, and walked out into the passageway, calling and banging on doors to make sure everybody else was awake. He needn't have bothered --
when he got to the kitchen he found that he was the last one up, and the inn was already bustling with activity. Katherine came up to him and lifted his cap off. She inspected his head critically, giving the lump a good poking. Thomas bore this stoically until Katherine eventually seemed satisfied. She frowned at him, but said: “I guess your head must be as thick as everybody says it is.” Then she put the cap back on his head, and continued: “So I suppose you might as well make yourself useful, now you're finally back with us.”

  Thomas grinned sheepishly, and wandered off to check that the guests were well supplied with ale and bread in the dining room. The inn seemed unusually quiet, but Thomas reflected that this was probably the result of the absence of Beauchamp's company, who were usually rowdy from sunrise to sunset. However, the weather did have a dampening effect on everybody's mood, and the guests hardly replied when he greeted them.

  After breakfast, Walter Shawe sought him out in the kitchen. “How now, Tom? Are we going to the archery this morning?”

  Thomas frowned and walked over to the door to the courtyard. He opened it and leaned out, looking up at the sky. The rain had eased, but it was still drizzling, and the courtyard was almost under water.

  “It's a good job we didn't put all the planks away after we dismantled the seating, Gaffer. We're going to need to put it down in the courtyard -- we can't expect the guests to wade through a lake to get to their horses.”

  “Could have been worse.” Gaffer replied. “At least the rain held off until Beauchamp's gang had finished fleecing us.”

  Thomas pulled his head back in; his upper body was already slick with drizzle. “True; but I don't fancy their chances of getting much of an audience tonight, wherever they are.” Thomas found a cloth and dried his face. “As for archery, well, I don't think there's any point taking the ale cart. I can't see anybody being in much of a mood for drinking, even if anybody turns up.”

  Katherine walked over to them. She said to Thomas: “You don't need to go to the butts, either, do you?”

  Thomas sighed. “I ought to. George will be there -- he never misses a Sunday. I need to talk to him, and that's where he'll be.”

  Katherine folded her arms and studied Thomas critically. “I know what happens when it rains at archery time. You all crowd into the Goat and fill up with strong ale. Then you come rolling into St Stephen's at half past ten o'clock and fart all the way through the sermon.”

  Thomas and Gaffer looked at one another. Both said at the same time: “She means you.” They both laughed, but Katherine did not join in. She said: “Nothing stronger than small ale for you, Thomas Whyte. And if you feel at all unwell, you're to come home.”

  Thomas nodded, solemnly, and put his hand over his heart in a theatrical manner. “Upon my oath, I shall not drink so much as to make me fart in church.” Seeing Katherine's tight lips, he continued. “Oh, very well. I know you'll worry about me.”

  “Well, somebody has to, Thomas. Heaven knows you don't take much care of yourself.”

  Thomas walked on his own to the archery butts near Wormwood street. He was carrying his bow and arrows for effect but, given the weather, he didn't expect to use them -- a relief to all concerned, he assumed. It had continued to drizzle, although it was warm, and only the keenest archers would risk exposing their equipment to such conditions. Unsurprisingly, at the butts only George and a handful of other men were shooting; a dozen or so others stood in a huddle with their cloaks pulled up to their ears. Thomas stepped onto the grass, and cursed in irritation as his feet sank an inch into the mud, and water seeped into one of his boots through a hole in the stitching.

  George saw Thomas and picked his way carefully over the field to him, his feet kicking up a small spray of water with each step. No leaks in his boots, Thomas imagined grumpily. George's sodden cap flopped over his face; he grinned at Thomas as he pushed it back onto his head with one hand, while resting his bow on his shoulder with the other. “How now, Tom? I'm surprised to see you up and about.”

  “Oh, don't you start, Jack. It's bad enough with Katherine trying to mother me.”

  “Fair enough. Are you shooting, or is that bow just for you to lean on?”

  “Nay, rain like this plays havoc with my arrows. You know how good my aim normally is. I wouldn't want to spoil my record.”

  Both men kept a straight face for a few seconds, before bursting into laughter. Thomas huddled into his cloak, and George stood watching the hardiest of the archers trying, mostly in vain, to hit the target. Rain did, indeed, play havoc with their arrows, and most were falling well short of the butts.

  “Come on, Jack, pack it in and let's go to the Goat.”

  George nodded, and squelched off through the mud to collect his arrows.

  As was to be expected, the Goat was crowded. It was a reasonably salubrious tavern in Bishopsgate Street, ten minute's walk from the butts. In the tap room men stood shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing and telling stories of their archery prowess; bows and arrows lay on the benches and lined up against the wall. The body heat, combined with the wet clothing, made the atmosphere humid and cloying. Thomas and George pushed uncomfortably up to the counter. Thomas brought ale for George and, mindful of his promise to Katherine to keep off the strong ale, a cup of strong wine for himself. The men looked around the room for somewhere to sit. “Over there in the corner,” George shouted over the raucous noise.

  “What?” shouted Thomas. “I can't hear a thing!”

  George shook his head, and pointed. He pulled Thomas by the arm towards a corner of the room, where a small space was being formed by a pair of wooden stools up against the walls. With much use of elbows, and a certain amount of prodding with their bows, the men made their way to the corner, and sat down on the stools. They were in a small calm space, surrounded by a wall of other men's backs. They leaned their bows and arrow bags against the wall.

  Thomas looked around uncertainly. “Can we talk privately here?”

  “Nobody's paying us any attention, are they? They're all boasting about how many hits they would have made if they'd actually been able to shoot.”

  He was right -- at sitting height the conversation in the rest of the room was reduced to a dull buzzing, interspersed with guffaws and groans. Thomas sniffed his wine critically. “God's teeth! How long has this bottle been open?” He scowled, but sipped at the wine again anyway.

  George grinned, and took a long swig of his ale. “It must be hard to be an innkeeper with standards.”

  “It's bloody hard enough to be an innkeeper these days without any, I imagine.” He drank some more, looked around for a place to put his cup, and settled for standing it on the floor between his feet. “Anyway, what news? How did your meeting with the Sheriff go?”

  George pulled a face. “Buggered if I know. I was going to ask if you wanted the good news or the bad news first, but I'll be damned if I can figure out which is which.” He paused, and looked into his nearly-empty tankard. “Can we be bothered to fight our way to the counter again?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Not for more of his so-called wine, anyway. Later maybe.”

  George nodded, and continued: “Well, the most perplexing news is about young Gerard. The Sheriff told me to take no further action.”

  Thomas's eyes widened in surprise. “Surely not?”

  “I don't know what the old sod's playing at. He said we would 'deal with Gerard in his own goof time', or some such nonsense.” George frowned. “I would think that even the Sheriff would think twice about picking a fight with the Gerard family. To be honest, I'm even surprised he went as far as he did. But, you know.” He paused. “He agreed to pay us off in full, by the way; but I'm not sure I'm prepared to let the matter drop. There's still the matter of your injury, and the attack on that young woman at your inn, even if we leave aside Gerard's involvement in the murder of Jane Allard. How is she, by the way? The girl with the lute, I mean.”

  “Meg Swithin? I don't really know, to tell the truth. Beauchamp'
s gang have moved on, and I didn't see her before they left. I'm not even sure where they've gone, to be honest -- I was a bit... distracted. Katherine will know.”

  “Do you think Beauchamp's people will try to settle the score with Gerard?”

  Thomas thought about this for a while, then he said: “I hope not. Or, at least, if they do, that they don't get caught. Their position is precarious enough as it is. I hope Gerard has the good sense to keep out of their sight.”

  George nodded. “I'm not sure 'good sense' is the first thing that comes to mind when thinking about young Master Gerard. What about you?”

  “Me?” He shrugged. “I don't bear young Gerard much ill will on my own account. I've injured my head worse banging it on the stable rafters.”

  George doubted this, but didn't press the matter. “How are you feeling, anyway?”

  “Fine, so long as my cap isn't too tight.”

  “So we leave matters to the Sheriff, who may do nothing? It feels a bit half-arsed.”

  Thomas stroked his chin thoughtfully. “He said he'd deal with Gerard. I know what happens when Sir John deals with somebody.”

  “He goes in one ends of a dark passageway and doesn't come out of the other?”

  “Something of that sort, aye.”

  George nodded. “Fair enough, I suppose.” He looked around. “Crowd seems to be thinning. Must be nearly time for church. I'd better get away in a minute -- I've got to walk back to St Margaret's.”

  Thomas nodded, and stood up. “Come on, then; we can talk and walk.” The men retrieved their bows and joined the line of men pushing towards the door.

  Outside, it has almost stopped raining, and it was warm despite the damp. Thomas and George strolled along Bishopsgate Street.

  “What about the Wilkes brothers?” Thomas asked.

  “Better news on that front. The Sheriff said he'd use his influence with the King's Bench to get them tried properly at the Quarter Sessions. I'm to take them to Newgate.” George looked at Thomas. “Which is where you come in.”

  “Me?”

  “You or, rather, Harry and your cart. Can I borrow them? You know what happens when we have to walk prisoners to Newgate.”

  Thomas nodded glumly. Depending on the popularity of the prisoners, either the guards or the prisoners were jeered and pelted with stones and dung -- sometimes both groups were.

  “I'll gladly lend you Harry and the cart, but I doubt you'll get the old nag moving. He only listens to me, and even then only when there's an apple in it for him.”

  George said nothing, reluctant to involve Thomas in the exercise, particularly in his current condition. Thomas, however, guessed what George didn't say.

  “Do you want me to come as well?” He asked. “It will be easier with more of us, anyway.”

  “Numbers aren't a problem,” George replied. “The Sheriff is lending us some men. He didn't mention nags, though.”

  “When are you going?”

  “This afternoon. Directly after dinner.”

  Thomas nodded. “Katherine won't be happy, but it will only take an hour or so, won't it?”

  George nodded. “We're meeting at the Stone. If the Wilkes boys keep their heads down in the cart, we shouldn't be disturbed much on the way.”

  “Well, Newgate is hardly my favourite place, but it will be good to have the Wilkes business finally settled. By the way, what did you tell the Sheriff about Allard?”

  “I told him you had it all figured out, but he'd have to ask you himself.” George scowled at Thomas. “What with you not telling me any details, and everything.”

  Thomas sighed. “Well, it's not a happy story, but you might as well know now.” He briefly recounted the details of the murder of Black Roger, as told to him by Henry Warter. George was quiet for some time. Finally he said: “You know, I wish you hadn't told me.”

  “Well, you did insist.”

  “Aye, I did, didn't I? Damned fool that I am.” The two men strolled along Wormwood Street glumly. “You're sure they're telling the truth, the Warters?”

  Thomas shrugged, and poked idly at the ground with the end of his bow. “Could you imagine anybody making up something like that? They told me several unconvincing versions first, before they told me that one. It makes a ghastly kind of sense -- the location of Allard's body, the injuries on his back, the lack of blood at the place he was found. It all fits.”

  “I wonder what the Sheriff will make of it?”

  “I'm hoping that with Allard the bastard he was, and the lack of any family or friends to pursue his killers, the Warters will be quietly forgotten.”

  “Tom, they did murder a man in cold blood, and then conspire to conceal the crime. All right, so he was a scum-bag, and he deserved it. But, even so.”

  “If they stand trial, all sorts of things will probably come out -- the illicit silver cross from St Margaret's that you're still hiding, for a start. I take it you're still hiding it?”

  George nodded. He, too, stared at the ground, and kicked the lose stones around. “All the same, justice --”

  “Justice my arse!” Thomas rounded on him “What about justice for the Warters? All they ever did was work and look after sick relatives. No children, no peace, and then along comes that evil good-for-nothing Allard to make their lives a bit worse!” He calmed down slightly. “In any case, there will be justice -- inescapable justice -- and for everybody.” He paused. “Just not necessarily in this life.”

  George grinned at him. “I'm surprised at you -- that sounds like something I might have said.”

  “It was something you said, as it happens.”

  “Well, good luck convincing the Sheriff -- and still getting paid. I'd better trot -- I don't want to be late. By the way -- I forgot to mention: we're burying Master Beresford this evening.”

  “Should I come?”

  George shrugged. “Not your parish, nor your priest. Interesting to see who turns up, though, wouldn't it?”

  Thomas nodded. “You'll be there, of course?”

  “I'm one of the pallbearers. He had no relatives, or even close friends.”

  “Pallbearers? He's having a coffin then?” Burial in a closed coffin was unusual except among the upper classes. Most people were buried in a woollen winding sheet; in fact, Parliament had made the winding sheet compulsory, as a boost to the wool trade; even if a person had done nothing productive in his life, he could still stimulate the economy a little by dying.

  “Seems the least the parish can do. I had to bully the vestrymen a bit, but it's not as if the parish can't afford a wooden box. Of course, since it was my idea, I have to volunteer to carry it. So should I expect you?”

  “I'll think about it. In the meantime, I'll bring Harry and the cart after dinner. Are we meeting at the Stone?”

  “Aye, at the Stone.”

  Sunday afternoon, May 27, 1550

  The Stone was the conventional centre of London, regardless of its geographical position, and anybody with business in the area would instinctively gravitate to it. People came to the Stone to make business deals, settle debts, even to organize marriages. Nobody knew what the Stone was -- what it was made of, or where it had come from. Most people regarded it as a relic from Roman times, but the Parish authorities regarded it primarily as a hazard to traffic. It was positioned right in the middle of the street, but any cart or coach that was careless enough to clip its wheel against the Stone would invariably come off worse.

  When Thomas approached the Stone in the inn's cart, pulled reluctantly by old Harry, he saw that George and a small group of men-at-arms were already assembled outside an alehouse. From the redness of their faces and their raucous laughs, he guess that they had until recently been assembled inside the alehouse. Indeed, one of the men still had a tankard in his hand. George was sitting on a barrel, while the guards leaned nonchalantly on their pikestaffs. They were wearing metal breastplates, but whether this was just for show, or they were really expecting trouble, Thomas was unsu
re. The heavy rain of the morning had dried up, but it was still overcast and cold.

  As he drew up, Thomas recognized amid the group one of the young men who had been sent by the Sheriff to keep order during Beauchamp's show; he thought his name was Roger, or Richard perhaps. Roger-or-Richard gave him a sheepish grin and a half-salute. Thomas waved and climbed down off the cart. He reached up into a sack by the driver's seat, and came down with a handful of oats which he held out to the horse. Thomas patted Harry on the neck while the old nag licked up the oats greedily.

  The men sauntered over, with the oldest -- presumably their sergeant -- at the front. He took off his leather helmet and scowled at the cart. “This the transport, then?” He looked it up and down, and spat. Turning his attention to the horse, he shook his head. “It'd be quicker if the horse rode in the cart and we pulled it.” His men chuckled dutifully and rolled their eyes.

  Thomas stroked Harry's neck. “Well, goodman, I'm glad you offered to pull. Harry's an old horse, and it's a long way to Newgate and back.”

  “Eh?”

  George pushed through to the cart. “That's right, Dick. You didn't think the cart was for you to ride in, did you? It's to keep the prisoners out of sight so we don't all get pelted.” He looked the man called Dick and his colleagues up and down. “Mind you, with you lot dressed like you're going off to war, people will know something's up.” He looked around. “Come on, get that metalwork off and put it in the cart. Who's got the irons?” One of the guards reached down and hefted an armful of chains and manacles out of a heavy sack. “Now we're talking,” said George, with an approving nod. “In the cart with them.” There was a heavy clatter as the man heaved the chains over the cart side, where they slid down and dropped with a metallic rumble. The cart sagged briefly on its axles, then recovered.

  The men-at-arms grumblingly removed their breastplates and shrugged them into the cart. “And your weapons, please,” George nagged. “Until we get to the compter.” He shook his head. “No sense in gathering a crowd if we don't have to.”

  With further complaints, the guards threw their pikes into the cart, which groaned.

  George looked at Thomas. “Is it all right? The lazy devils can carry the irons if it isn't.”

  Thomas shrugged impatiently. “It's had heavier loads. Come on, let's be going -- I've got an inn to run.”

  He took hold of the horse's bridle and tugged, but Harry merely looked at him balefully. Thomas sighed. He walked back to the cart and, reaching up into the bag he found an apple, which he threw to George. “Do the honours, Jack.” George cut the apple into pieces with his belt knife, and coaxed Harry with them. Eventually the old horse got the idea and took up the strain. The party made slow progress along Candlewick Street, with Thomas leading the horse by his bridle, George in front coaxing him with pieces of apple, and the men-at-arms variously ambling and staggering along behind. In this manner, drawing relatively little attention, they arrived eventually at the Poultry Compter, which looked as gloomy and oppressive as it always did.

  When the cart had come to a stop, Dick the sergeant retrieved his pike, ambled over the compter gate, and banged it with the staff. Nothing stirred. A further few minutes of banging, shouting, and cursing roused the warder, who opened a hatch in the gate and poked his misshapen face through it. Seeing the cart and the men-at-arms, he leered toothlessly. “You lads were quick. Just a minute.” There was a clattering of bolts and the gate swung open. Thomas and George looked at one another. “Quick?” Asked Thomas. “Did you tell him we were coming?”

  “Not me,” replied George, shaking his head. “The Sheriff, maybe?”

  Seeing George and Thomas, the warder looked uncertain. “I take it you've come for the Wilkes brothers?” He looked from one to the other.

  “That's right, Goodman Cotton,” George replied. “Are they ready?”

  “As ready as they'll ever be.” The warder ambled up to the cart, and peered in. He looked confused again. “What the Hell are they for?” He nodded at the chains.

  Thomas frowned. “Eh? What would you expect them to be for? For stopping the prisoners hot-footing it away, of course. What else?”

  Cotton took off his cap, and scratched his head, pulling a face. “Do corpses normally need chaining up, in your experience? Only, I've found that they don't move around all that much.” He scowled. “Not until the rats really get stuck in, anyway.”

  “Corpses?” asked George, looking at Thomas. “Are we talking about the same people?”

  Cotton looked from one man to the other again. “It's just that I thought... a bunch of Guildhall fellows and a cart... I thought they'd come for the bodies.”

  “We've come to take then to Newgate, to await trial at the Sessions. Are you telling us that the Wilkes brothers are dead? What... how?” George looked at the warder with his eyebrows furrowed; the warder replaced his cap and spat.

  “We're not entirely sure,” he grinned. “And that's God's honest truth. We -- that's me and Hal -- we're upstairs getting the prisoners' slops ready, and we 'ear a commotion out in the yard. By the time we get down there --would you believe it? The boys are both dead -- beaten black and blue, they was. O'course, none of the other prisoners are saying nothing.”

  Thomas squinted at him. “Did you even ask them?”

  “Now, now, Master Whyte, no need to be like that.” He belched softly. “We questioned them, o'course. Nobody says nothing. It can be like that in a prison, as I'm sure you know.”

  “So what happened?”

  The warder shrugged. “Who knows? They weren't very popular -- always bragging and picking fights with the other prisoners. I'm surprised they lasted as long as they did, to be honest.”

  “Where are the bodies?”

  “Down in the cellar. Do you want to take them?”

  “Take them?” George interrupted them. “Hell, no! They can stay there until they rot, for all I care. I just want to know what's going on.”

  Dick ambled up. “What's up George? I take it we won't be having a nice walk to Newgate this afternoon, after all?”

  George broke off from staring at the warder and looked around. “It would seem not, Dick. I'm sorry to have wasted your time.”

  Dick shrugged. “Not to worry, George. We're getting paid, anyhow. I'm sure we'll enjoy our afternoon in the tavern all the more, knowing the Sheriff is paying us. Isn't that right lads?”

  The other men cheered weakly and started to retrieve their gear from the cart. George and Thomas turned back to the warder. Thomas said: “Tell me the Sheriff wasn't involved in this sorry business somewhere.”

  The warder shuffled uncomfortably. “You don't want to go saying things like that, Master Whyte. A fellow could get into a lot of trouble if 'e starts thinking along them lines.”

  “Only it seemed odd that you were expecting some fellows -- fellows from the Guildhall with a cart.” He persisted. “Just the kind of thing you'd need if you had two dead prisoners ripening in your cellar.”

  The warder pulled himself up to his full height, which was not considerable, and sucked in a breath. “As I said, that's not a profitable line of enquiry.” He pulled a face. “What's the bloody big deal, anyway? The only place they were going to end up if they ever got out of here was Tyburn, danglin' on the end of a rope.”

  George sighed. This was true, of course, and exactly the outcome he himself favoured.

  The warder continued. “All that's happened is the city has been saved the cost of a trial.”

  George kicked at the ground helplessly, for a minute. Then he looked up, and sighed. “Come on Tom, let's get a drink. I need to wash a bad taste out of my mouth.”

  “Hey! what about them bodies?” Cotton grumbled. “Aren't you going to take 'em?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I'd suggest you keep them in the cellar. The coroner will want to see them.”

  “Coroner?” the warder asked, aghast. “Are you out o' your bloody mind? You can't be serious!”

&nb
sp; “Want to bet?”

  The warder looked from Thomas to George, shaking his head. The men look back at him impassively. Then he scurried back through the gate and bolted it behind him, muttering under his breath.

  George looked at Thomas. “You aren't serious, are you?”

  Thomas sighed. “No. Cotton's right, anyway -- they were only going to hang. All the same, I'm quite happy to have him sweat for a bit.”

  “Oh, he'll sweat, all right,” replied George. “It's hard work digging a grave and covering the bodies with lime.”

  Sunday evening, May 27, 1550

  When Thomas arrived at St Margaret's, the funeral service was already in progress. People were pressed shoulder to shoulder in the small churchyard -- more people than the population of the parish could account for. Thomas realized that it wasn't just George Harwood who had appreciated the vicar's decent qualities, and his popularity obviously extended beyond his own parish. Of course, that would have to be the case for him to have come to the notice of influential Catholic recusants like the Long family in Walbrook. Thomas walked quietly through the lychgate and stood at the back of the congregation. He reflected that funerals, like archery practice, were great levellers -- all ranks and stations stood side-by-side in the evening gloom. He looked around for George, and found him at the graveside next to Master Grey, the curate, who was conducting the service. George caught his eye and nodded briefly.

  The wind had picked up, and the curate's words were not easy to hear; but Thomas knew them by heart, as everybody did. Funerals were a regular feature of parish life -- the reforms had changed the language of the service, but it was a rare week for a parish if it did not have at least one funeral. In times of plague, the funerals could be back-to-back, until there was nobody left to conduct services, and then bodies would be thrown into communal pits.

  “We brought nothing into this world, neither may we carry anything out of this world. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Even as it pleaseth the Lord, so cometh things to pass: blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  Thomas looked around the congregation. He saw a few people he recognized, but not many. He had wondered whether any of the Long household would be present, but he saw none of them, or none he could identify. He wondered whether they would be attending a private, Catholic ceremony later, and which priest would be officiating if they were. Although he would admit it to few people, Thomas had little interest in religious reform. He could not help a sneaking admiration for clergymen who risked their lives to uphold a particular religious tradition, but their motives baffled him nonetheless.

  “Man that is borne of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery : he cometh up and is cut down like a flower; he flyeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we be in death; of whom may we seek for succour but of thee, o Lord, which for our sins justly art moved?”

  Thomas wondered idly whether Reynold Beresford's life had been short and full of misery. The scarring on his face had made his age hard to determine, but Thomas doubted his life had been unduly short, by contemporary standards; and although he had been sombre, Thomas doubted whether Beresford had often been miserable. He hadn't seemed a man who had allowed himself much time for introspection.

  Thinking about the vicar turned Thomas's thoughts to Beresford's Catholic sympathies, and what ought to be done with the forbidden articles the vicar had hidden. He wondered whether George had found a way to raise the subject discretely with the curate, and whether Master Grey would be the new incumbent of the parish.

  Grey reached down and scooped up a handful of graveyard soil, which he threw into the grave.

  “I commend thy soul to God the father almighty, and thy body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body, that it may be like to his glorious body, according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.”

  By the time the service finished, it was starting to get dark. Five years ago there would have been ale, and meat roasted over a fire in the churchyard, after the funeral of a priest, but the Protestant authorities had done their best to suppress what they saw as an undignified use of church grounds. While London had adopted the reforms more enthusiastically than other parts of the kingdom, the loss of the church precinct as a place of entertainment was still widely resented.

  As the crowd broke up, George Harwood strolled up to Thomas, in conversation with an older, heavily-built, well-dressed man. Every so often the man rubbed at his neck and rolled his head as if in some discomfort. George nodded at Thomas and introduced the man as Simon Mead, one of the parish churchwardens.

  “I'm pleased to meet you, Master Mead,” Thomas said politely. As Mead rubbed at his neck again, he continued: “Have you done yourself some hurt?”

  Mead chuckled, and shook his head. “Never should have let George bully us into having a closed coffin. Who'd have thought that such a skinny old man would have been so bloody heavy? We're off to the Eagle, to drink a farewell to Master Reynold. Will you join us?”

  “I'm afraid I have my own drinkers to attend to, Master Mead -- I'm an innkeeper.”

  The man nodded, then turned to George. “Are you coming, George?”

  “Aye, in just a few minutes. I just need to have a quick word with Thomas.”

  Mead saluted them politely with a finger to his cap, and walked away through the lychgate.

  When he was out of earshot, Thomas turned to George and whispered: “So the coffin was unexpectedly heavy, was it?”

  George looked at him neutrally. “I couldn't say -- I've had little experience of carrying one. It seemed about the right weight to me.”

  “The right weight for a stick-thin man, a heap of illegal silverware, and a couple of plaster saints, by any chance?”

  George strolled away with his face turned up, whistling softly. Thomas hurried after him. “God's nails, Jack -- you're lucky the coffin didn't clang when you carried it.” He hissed. “Who else knows?”

  “The sexton suspects. I've told him that Master Reynold had taken his secrets to the grave with him.”

  “Literally.”

  “Quite so. He knows me well enough to know that I wouldn't steal the Parish silver and sell it from a barrow in Shoreditch.”

  “What about the rest of the stuff in the tunnel in the crypt?”

  “I've had it bricked up.” George paused, and looked at Thomas. “Do you know where it leads, by the way?”

  “The vicar didn't tell me. I don't think he knew himself.”

  “Well, one of London's little mysteries.”

  George and Thomas left the churchyard and strolled along New Fish Street. It was now nearly dark, and becoming very cold. George shuddered and rubbed his thin shoulders vigorously under his cloak. “It was the right thing to do, Tom. Or the least wrong thing, anyway. In a few hundred years, somebody will dig it all up and wonder about us.”

  Thomas nodded, with some hesitation. “Master Beresford would have appreciated the irony, I'm sure.”

  Monday afternoon, May 28, 1550

  After an uneventful morning and an unremarkable but substantial dinner, Thomas and Katherine Whyte were sitting in the sun on a bench in the Inn's courtyard. Thomas was rubbing oil into the horses' bridles and reins, white Katherine was harrying a torn tablecloth with a needle and thread. She frowned in concentration as she worked, head bent, and every so often cursed under her breath and tugged at the stitches. After a few minutes, Thomas looked up from his work, and sniggered when he saw Katherine's efforts. She glared at him. “All right, clever breeches, you do it.” She thrust the tablecloth into his arms. “Let's swap jobs.”

  “As you wish, mistress.” Thomas grinned and handed over the pile of leather-work, and then inspected Katherine's stitching critically, shaking his head. “We'll never find you a husband if you sew like this.”
/>
  “That suits me,” she retorted, and attached the reins vigorously with the oily cloth.

  Thomas chuckled to himself, and patiently unpicked the unevenly-sewn patch. Then he steadily and competently sewed it back on. Katherine looked over irritably but, to her annoyance, could find no grounds for complaint.

  Thomas folded the cloth and put it neatly on the bench next to Katherine. She grinned. “At least you'll have no difficulty finding a husband.”

  Thomas shrugged. “Anybody who serves in the militia learns to sew, or goes into battle with his arse hanging out of his hose. And after you've sewn a patch on a tent in the dark, in a howling wind, with your fingers numb with cold, a tablecloth is nothing. My sergeant could sew with both hands tied behind his back.”

  “You can cook, as well,” she teased. “You'll be quite a catch for some nice young man.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, then Thomas began absent-mindedly picking his teeth. Katherine looked at him disdainfully. “Thomas Whyte! Do you have to do that here? In the courtyard where all the guests can see?”

  “What guests? They're all sleeping off that enormous dinner.”

  “It's not just the guests who had an enormous dinner, Cousin Tom.” Katherine poked him painfully in the belly. “You put away four chicken legs yourself. It's a wonder there was any left for the guests.”

  “I've got a hard afternoon ahead of me,” Thomas protested, swatting her hand away. “Can't live on thin pottage when you've got barrels to haul around.”

  “You'll be hauling your own barrel around before long,” Katherine teased, and patted his belly again. “And you won't be able to put it down afterwards, either.”

  Thomas grunted, and went back to poking the remains of his dinner out of his teeth.

  “Still, it's good to see you eating again, Tom. You must be feeling better.”

  Thomas considered this. His head had returned to its usual size, and his vision was clear again. He still felt dizzy if he made sudden movements but, on the whole, it could be worse.

  “I am, actually,” he replied. “And I'm starting to feel like an innkeeper again.”

  Katherine winked at him crudely. “Keep working on your stitching, and you might just get one.”

  “Very droll, Katt. You know what I mean.”

  She nodded. “Have you finished playing investigator, then?”

  “Well, we're pretty certain that the mystery corpse from Eastcheap is Roger Allard, and we're fairly certain we know who killed him, and why.” Thomas briefly explained about Allard and the Warters, filling in the details he had not already told her. He finished by saying: “George knows now, but I didn't want to tell him, because he won't be able to bring himself to lie if the Sheriff asks him outright.”

  “And you will?”

  Thomas shrugged. “There are bigger sins that lying. Anyway, we also think we know what happened to Allard's wife -- largely thanks to you. We're pretty sure that Peter Long killed himself, out of guilt at what he and Gerard had done to Goody Allard. The Wilkes brothers are dead, and good riddance, even though I wouldn't have things finish the way they did.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I'm not sure -- it's all a bit odd. They were beaten to death by other prisoners, it seems, but it's odd that it happened just after George told Sir John.” Thomas picked at his teeth some more; Katherine scowled at him and knocked his hand away. Thomas continued: “So, yes, it's pretty much all cleared up. The only loose end is young Gerard, who's still at large.” As he said the name, Thomas involuntarily felt the back of his head. “The Sheriff has ordered George not to take action against him, and I guess that applies to me too.” He paused. “Although what the two of us and a handful of elderly watchmen could do against Gerard Senior's private militia, I'm not sure.”

  Thomas started to pick his teeth again but desisted when he saw Katherine poised to slap him. “All I need to do now is twist the rest of my money out of the Sheriff.”

  Katherine nodded, then looked around at the sound of horses in the courtyard. She nodded in their direction. “It looks like you'll get your chance.”

  Thomas sighed, and stood up; Katherine followed him. “Speak of the Devil --” she said.

  Thomas continued in a lower voice: “-- and the next thing you know, he's be stamping around your courtyard on a bloody great charger as if he owns the place.”

  Sheriff York was followed by two other men in livery whom Thomas did not recognize. York gestured to them curtly, and they wheeled about and trotted their horses back out into the street. Thomas strode up to the Sheriff's horse and took hold of the bridle. He lifted his cap very slightly, then held the huge horse while the man dismounted. “Good day, Master Sheriff,” he said pleasantly.

  “Maybe,” Sir John replied laconically. Seeing Katherine, his slight grin turned into a smile, and he raised his cap emphatically. Katherine curtsied, and then offered to fetch some wine. When she had left, Thomas looked around the courtyard but, seeing nobody rushing to help, said: “I'll see to your horse, Sir John, since --” he raised his voice and turned in the direction of the kitchen “-- since I seem to be running the inn single-handedly again today.”

  “Oh, don't fuss so, Master Whyte,” York replied. “Just tie him to the rail -- he gets pampered enough at home.” York patted the big horse's neck, and Thomas tied the animal loosely to the hitching rail; he was reluctant to tie him too tightly, as the horse looked as if he could pull the posts out of the ground if he set his mind to it.

  Thomas said: “You're very trusting, leaving a splendid mount like this tied up in an inn courtyard.”

  The Sheriff shrugged. “Who would be foolish enough to steal the Sheriff's horse?”

  Thomas thought about this -- the answer seemed perfectly obvious to him. “A man who has little to lose, and thinks that a decent head start on a fast horse puts the odds in his favour? By my oath, there are parishes ten minutes' walk away, where fellows would steal the boots from your feet if you stood still long enough, never mind your horse.”

  “I'll risk it,” York replied solemnly. “Let's go inside for a while.”

  Having invited Thomas into his own inn, the Sheriff turned on his heel and strode towards the inn's guest entrance; Thomas followed, clucking irritably under his breath. The entrance led into a narrow passage to the tap room, where Mary and some others girl were cleaning up. When they saw the Sheriff they curtsied and ran away, giggling, so Thomas and Sir John had the room to themselves. They sat down on benches on opposite sides of a table; neither spoke for a while.

  Eventually Thomas broke the silence. “I take it this isn't a social visit?”

  The Sheriff shook his head.

  “Bad news?”

  “I don't know. To be honest, Master Whyte, I hardly know how to start.” He frowned, and scratched his beard. “It's all a bit... awkward.”

  Thomas raised his eyebrows; it was rare to see Sir John looking indecisive about anything. “Start with a drink, then. I'll see where Katt's got to with the wine.” He left the table, and came back a few minutes later with a decent bottle of wine and two glasses -- he had decided that a visitor of the Sheriff's station merited glasses rather than cups. He poured the wine and sat down. The Sheriff toyed with his glass, reluctant to speak. Finally he said: “I understand that you know Geoffrey Sumner.”

  “Aye, of course,” Thomas replied, looking at him quizzically. “He's sort of courting my cousin Katherine.” He paused. “Well, he's trying to work himself up to it, anyway. Now you mention him, I realize that I've not seen him for some time.”

  The Sheriff looked at Thomas for longer than was comfortable.

  Thomas fidgeted on his seat. “What's this about?”

  The Sheriff exhaled deeply, as if he had just come to a difficult decision. “I suppose I may trust you -- you've worked for me often enough. I've got to trust somebody, after all; but, by Jesu, it's damned difficult these days.” He took a swig of his wine, th
en looked around the room. Seeing the room still empty, he leaned towards Thomas and continued in a low voice: “For some time, I've suspected that there is a plot to restore Edward Seymour to power.”

  Thomas relaxed. “Snother one?” He chuckled.

  This clearly wasn't the reaction the Sheriff expected. He scowled and sat back on his seat. “What do you mean 'another one'?” he hissed. “How many such plots do you know about?” He frowned at Thomas intently.

  Thomas laughed. “Oh, three this week, two last week. You know how it is.”

  The Sheriff glared at him. “No, Master Whyte, I do not know how it is. And you didn't report this?”

  “Look,” Thomas replied, holding his hands up, “it's just something people talk about. Tavern gossip. There are plenty of people who think that the Duke of Somerset -- as he still is, as you know -- was treated harshly.”

  “Somerset only kept his Duchy by the skin of his teeth. 'Harsh treatment' would have had his head on a spike over the Bridge.” York swigged his wine, and sighed deeply. “And if the Council finds that I've been discussing high matters of state with an innkeeper -- even a generally trustworthy innkeeper -- it will be my head on a spike.”

  Thomas frowned, and looked around nervously. “And mine, too, I suspect. So you're saying there really is a serious plot this time?”

  “There have been several serious attempts to push Seymour's suit with the King, backed up with threats of one sort or another. So far we've stopped all of them without too much upset. Look --” York looked around again. “Since I've already said enough to get us both up to our necks in pig-shit, I might as well tell you that I tried to defend Seymour -- Lord Somerset, if you prefer -- when he was indicted last year.”

  Thomas wondered how hard he had tried; the Sheriff was known to be a close friend of the Earl of Warwick, Somerset's main accuser. The Sheriff must have intuited what Thomas was thinking, because he said: “I try to keep on good terms with the various factions in the Council, but I don't have to agree with the way Seymour was treated. We all worried that Seymour had taken too much power for himself; even he worried about that, I think. But the solution should not have been trumped-up charges and a gossip campaign.”

  Thomas nodded. “The Council needed a scapegoat after Kett's rebellion, and the Duke was already unpopular. Blaming him would have been convenient.”

  “More than convenient. Silence could have been interpreted as complicity. But, in truth, I don't know how much Seymour's sympathies influenced his inability to control the rebels.”

  “He was opposed to enclosures.”

  The Sheriff grinned. “My impression is that he's opposed to whatever the damned gentry is in favour of. That certainly doesn't make him popular with, well, with almost any of the Council.” The Sheriff paused to refill Thomas's wineglass and his own. “None of this matters now. Whatever I might think, whatever you might think -- ” He scowled. “Whatever people might gossip about in your tap room of an evening, the last thing the Kingdom needs right now is another half-arsed rebellion. Seymour -- Somerset -- will have plenty of support among the newly-rich men of London; people who have money and resent the old gentry for their privilege.”

  Thomas leaned across the bench and pulled over a wooden bowl of bread rolls left over from dinner. He offered the bowl to the Sheriff, who took a handful. Thomas said: “Well, you needn't worry about me. I'm hardly rich, newly or otherwise. That reminds me --”

  The Sheriff held up his hand. “All in good time, Master Whyte.” He took a piece of bread and dipped it in his wine. With some difficulty Thomas stifled his outrage at this display of poor taste, and resolved to serve the Sheriff cheap wine in future. York continued: “You're an influential person in the parish and, despite what you might say, not badly off.”

  Thomas started to respond, but the Sheriff cut him off. “All over the Kingdom there are whole families living in buildings that your would consider mean for your horse. You might not have coin to throw around, but you have property and the freedom of the City. None of your household is hungry. Quite frankly, Somerset's lure extends to people who aren't any wealthier than yourself.”

  Thomas's face fell as he made the connection. “You're talking about Geoffrey Sumner, aren't you?”

  “Among others, aye. Many others. My agents have been keeping an eye on anybody who has dealings with the -- person at the centre of things. I thought I'd better talk to you personally, because I know you and Sumner are friends.”

  “We're hardly friends, Master Sheriff. I respect Geoffrey, and I think he's a decent fellow, but we're not close.”

  York looked at Thomas carefully, and then nodded. He dipped his bread in what was left of his wine; Thomas shuddered involuntarily. “I should keep it that way, if I were you, Thomas.” Thomas started slightly, at this unaccustomed use of his Christian name, which made him realize how off-the-record this conversation was. The Sheriff caught his look, and continued quietly: “I'm talking to you as a friend, not a Sheriff. I hope you appreciate that. Anyway, Sumner's involvement is peripheral, but he is involved; I have no doubt of that. He's certainly put money into the --” York groped for the right word. “Um --”

  “Enterprise?” Thomas suggested.

  “Aye, the enterprise. Small sums, considering the wealth of some of the backers, but enough to get him into trouble in these suspicious times.”

  “And is he in trouble?”

  “At present, he is beneath the notice of the Council. There are far bigger fish in the pond than Master Sumner.”

  “I suppose you can't tell me who they are?”

  “On the contrary. You were responsible, indirectly, perhaps, for their leader now being in the King's custody.”

  “I was?”

  “Indeed so. It is Walter Gerard.”

  Thomas groaned. “Ah. That explains a lot. How long have you known?”

  “I've been watching him for nearly a year. I have good reason to think most of his family are involved.”

  “Even the son, Samuel?”

  York considered this, then shrugged. “Maybe not. I doubt he cares enough about politics to get actively involved, and he's not bright enough to conceal his activities if he did. Still, I'm sure he knows about it.”

  York took another piece of bread and bit into it hungrily. After a while he continued: “In any case, they're both bound for the tower.”

  “Best place for young Samuel, that's for sure. I presume that George told you about his attacks on young women.”

  “Not to mention his attack on an older innkeeper.”

  Thomas scowled. “That was my fault. I should have known not to turn my back on a bastard like him.”

  “I'm surprised your household let him leave the inn in one piece.”

  “I think that at the time they didn't realize how badly I was hurt. I didn't realize myself for some time. What happened, anyway? When did you arrest Gerard?”

  “This morning. A company of the King's Yeomen dragged the Gerards out of their den.”

  “Did they put up much of a fight?”

  “Against the Yeomen? God's nails! Gerard's hired thugs would have been no match for those briusers.”

  Thomas nodded. The Yeomen were the King's personal bodyguard, picked from experienced militia officers of unquestioned loyalty -- a loyalty that was further assured by feeding and watering them from the King's own kitchen and cellar.

  “So what was my role in all this?” Thomas asked.

  “I haven't been able to convince the King to move against Gerard. He's not just wealthy -- he's a big man in the Mercer's guild; he could even be the next guild-master. And you know how that tends to work out.”

  “A future Sheriff?” Thomas grinned.

  “A future Lord Mayor. Not a person to cross without a good reason. Anyway, after you and Master Harwood stirred things up last Wednesday --”

  “You knew about that?”

  “I know lots of things; it's my job.” The Sheriff could not resist a
smug glance at Thomas. “After that incident, I redoubled the watch on the Gerard house. Good thing I did, too -- yesterday morning a couple of fellows set off from the house on fast horses, with suspiciously heavy saddlebags. My agents intercepted them at an inn on the Canterbury road, where they were changing horses. Now where do you suppose they were going?”

  “Some place with empty coffers and a dislike of Protestantism?” Thomas hazarded.

  “Aye, ultimately I imagine that's where the saddlebags were headed. France or Spain, I would guess. I don't know whether Gerard's fellows were going to take the money overseas themselves, or they just planned to meet somebody in Dover who was part of the plot. But I'll find out. At any rate, taking four saddlebags of gold coin to Dover at the gallop is behaviour that calls for explanation, even from a man of Gerard's influence.”

  “What does my Lord of Somerset say about all this? Is he involved, or is he just being used as a figurehead by Gerard and his cronies?”

  The Sheriff scowled. “Damned if I know. He's been very withdrawn lately. Of course, he's been summoned by the Council. No doubt the King will be asking him some searching questions. Warwick will be grinning behind his hand, if I know him -- it's just what he needs to finish Seymour off.”

  Thomas tipped up the wine bottle and found it empty. He wiggled it at the Sheriff, who nodded. Thomas took the bottle and wandered off to the cellar, deep in thought. When he returned, this time with a bottle of somewhat less well-favoured wine, he filled the glasses and sat down.

  “So,” he said, “you let George and me irritate Walter Gerard, just to signal to him that you were willing to take action against him.”

  “Exactly. He must have known that I had no firm evidence against him, but I wanted him also to know that I was willing to stand up to him. His having such a villainous son was a stroke of good luck.” He paused. “For us, I mean; not for him. He would have known, I'm sure, that his son was quite capable of the crimes you pursued him for. But, given his other interests, I doubt he would have wanted to become the centre of my attention. By creating the situation you did, you forced him to make his move, and probably before he was ready.”

  Thomas nodded. “If he had taken the money to Dover as part of an ordinary commercial expedition, most likely you would have been none the wiser.”

  “Indeed. I'm sure such sums do leave the Kingdom from time to time although, of course, they aren't supposed to.”

  “So why did you forbid George to take action against his son? Surely that would have stirred things up even more?”

  The Sheriff refilled Thomas's wine glass, shaking his head. “It's just possible that if you'd marched into the Gerard house at the head of a bunch of watchmen, like Joshua leading the Children of Israel into Canaan, you might just have succeeded in dragging the son out.” He swigged his wine. “Unlikely, I should say, but possible. I needed Gerard to have his son under his feet, as a constant reminder of the unwelcome attention he might bring down. If the son had been in Newgate, he might have relaxed.”

  Thomas wondered briefly what kind of father would relax at the thought of his son rotting in Newgate gaol; the answer, of course, was: the kind of father that would raise a son like Samuel Gerard. He also wondered how much self-interest figured in the Sheriff's enthusiasm to stamp out plots to restore Somerset. After all, being soft on the deposed Royal Protector probably wouldn't help him keep in with Warwick's faction at Court.

  Thomas said: “On the subject of Newgate: George and I went to the Compter on your instructions yesterday, to take a couple of lowlifes to await trial at the Quarter Sessions. When we got there, we found that the hangman had been saved a job.”

  “Indeed?” The Sheriff's look gave nothing away.

  “Aye.” Thomas took a deep breath. “And I was wondering whether you had some part to play in that happy outcome.”

  The Sheriff looked at him steadily. “I know nothing about it.”

  Thomas stared at him, but staring into York's unblinking eyes was like staring at a snake. Thomas looked away first. “I'm glad to hear it.”

  “I believe Constable Harwood -- stout fellow that he is -- was keen that they be denied an opportunity to plead benefit of clergy.”

  “God's teeth! George was keen that they stand trial in front of a jury, as was their right. As is every Englishman's right -- a hearing before his peers, without fear or favour.”

  The Sheriff shrugged laconically. “Happily, it seems that the City has been spared the cost of a judge and jury, not to mention that of a hanging.”

  Thomas stared at the Sheriff, but again was met with impassive, unblinking eyes. He sighed.

  “Where are the Gerard family now?”

  “Father and son are being held under guard in the Mint. I will have them moved to the Tower tomorrow, which is the appropriate place for suspected traitors. The horsemen are being brought back to the City, in chains, with the gold. The servants and retainers are being allowed to go about their business, for now, except for a few that we know are involved with the plot. Those few also are being held in the Mint for now. Heaven knows, we can't imprison the whole household -- there isn't a gaol big enough.”

  “Can I question Samuel Gerard?”

  York raised his eyebrows. “Why would I allow you to do that?”

  “He's committed murder and assault, and probably rape. If he escapes hanging for treason, there are plenty of people who want to see him tried for those crimes instead.”

  The Sheriff shrugged. “Certainly you may question him, if it makes you happy. My suspicion, however, is that he will end up with his head on a pole.”

  Seeing Thomas's look, the Sheriff sighed. “Look, make no mistake, Master Whyte. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the Seymour affair, the Gerards aren't doing what they're doing for the benefit of the community. They're in it for power and money. To some extent they've been able to mobilise people -- misguided but mostly well-meaning people -- who really do think they're working for a better future. That's a double-edged sword -- avarice on one edge, zeal on the other. Given a choice, which edge would you rather see blunted?”

  Thomas and the Sheriff drank their wine in uneasy silence for a few minutes.

  Eventually York grinned, and said: “While I'm here, Master Whyte -- we do have some additional unfinished business.”

  “The mystery corpse in Eastcheap?”

  “Aye, even so. I'm pleased to say that the atmosphere in the City has cooled considerably since we spread the work that the dead man is a butcher.”

  “Are butchers really that unpopular?”

  “In some quarters, aye. But it's not that -- with the victim and the perpetrator both butchers, it sort of balances things out, I suppose. There aren't sides to the quarrel any more, just two butchers with a grudge.” He looked at Thomas levelly. “That is, if the perpetrator really is a butcher, and not just somebody with a cleaver and a strong right arm. George would not tell me who it was.”

  “George is an honest man. He would have told you if he knew.”

  “You did not tell him?”

  Thomas shuffled uncomfortably. “I wanted to discuss it with you in person.”

  “Then do so.” The Sheriff grinned. Thomas was not reassured -- it was the same grin as he had once seen on a wolf stalking a rabbit. “I'm agog.”

  Thomas drained his wine, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “The victim, Roger Allard, was a festering pox scab. His death makes the City a slightly cleaner place. He was killed by a married woman and her husband. Allard raped the woman viscously, and promised to do so again. Knowing nothing of what passes for a healthy marriage, he thought he could shame her into submission. Of course, the woman told her husband at the first opportunity, and I guess it was only his ill-health that prevented him going after Allard immediately.”

  The Sheriff nodded. “That's what any man would have done. It's certainly what I would do.”

  “But this man is gravely ill. He has a degeneration of the spine, an
d often can scarcely walk. So the wife poisoned Allard, and between them they plotted to drag the body away, and make the death look like a violent disagreement between butchers. As it turns out, the husband got carried away with his task, and almost hacked Allard to pieces.”

  “He did this after the man was dead?”

  “Aye. There's no doubt about that.”

  The Sheriff whistled softly. Then he said: “Nevertheless, this was a deliberate murder, even if it was planned in a passion. Our law does not allow provocation to excuse a murder. How did the perpetrators react when you confronted them?”

  “They knew what the result was likely to be. They each tried to take the blame, to protect the other.”

  York scowled. “Very bloody moving. They must have seen you coming!”

  “I'm as convinced as I ever have been about anything that they were genuine.”

  “You're a soft touch, Master Whyte, that's all.”

  “The man they killed was a blight on God's Earth. He was a rapist and a whore-monger who pimped his own wife.”

  The Sheriff stared at Thomas evenly. “So you've decided to save the City the cost of a judge and jury?”

  Thomas opened his mouth to speak, and then then shut it again. The Sheriff continued relentlessly: “Only twenty minutes ago, you were looking down you nose at me -- you damned well were, don't try to hide it -- for having the temerity to decide that some pox-ridden villain was too worthless to merit the protection of the law, and here you are doing exactly the same thing.” York put his face close to Thomas's, and said quietly. “You might want to think about that, next you start feeling all worthy and superior.” He stared at Thomas for a while, and then leaned back. With a grin, he reached across the bench and slapped Thomas gently on the face with the back of his hand. “Cheer up, Master Whyte, and welcome to my world.”

  He stood up. “Thank you for the wine. I'll have one of my staff bring your fee around later.”

  “And this matter?”

  The Sheriff looked at Thomas for a while but, to Thomas's relief, replied: “It is closed. I look forward to reminding you of your part in it next time you get on your high horse about the rights of man and such-like.”

  The Sheriff walked around the bench, and the two men sauntered out into the courtyard. The Sun was shining steadily, and the ground had mostly dried. When they got to the stable, York's horse nudged him in the midriff and nickered noisily. Thomas stroked the animal's mane, and asked York: “Did you enjoy the show, last week?”

  The Sheriff appeared to consider the question carefully. “Their master -- what's the fellow's name? Aye, Beauchamp; he made some crude jokes about a ghastly fellow called York. I wouldn't like to meet that man; he sounds like a complete ass.”

  Thomas looked uncertainly at the Sheriff, who looked back at him sternly. Then the Sheriff's mouth twitched, and he snorted with laughter. “Come on Master Whyte, be a stout fellow and give me a leg-up, would you? I'm too bloody old to be jumping into the saddle these days.”

  Thomas chuckled and put his hands together for the Sheriff to stand on. When York was mounted, Thomas untied the horse and passed up the reins. “He's looking for a patron, if you're looking to support entertainment that's a bit more upmarket than the usual bawdy knockabouts.”

  “I rather like the bawdy knockabouts, to be frank. Still, we have to move with the times. Or so His Grace keeps telling me.” He clucked to his horse and dug his heels in. “I'll think about it.” Then he nodded, and was away.

  Tuesday afternoon, May 29, 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 the inn's 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. Despite his apparent concentration, Thomas was in fact lost in nostalgia for a time only two weeks ago, when he had naively believed that the Tuesday bookkeeping was the low point of his innkeeper's life. Since then, he had investigated several brutal murders, violent assault, rape, and suicide. He could not have known it, but things were again going to get worse -- much worse.

  For now, the accounting was bad enough. He had put it off all morning, until he could no longer stand Katherine's dirty looks and sarcastic jibes about how school had been wasted on him. He tried to focus on the scrawled figures on an invoice. He screwed up his eyes and held the paper to his face, moving it back and forth. Eventually he gave up.

  “Katt!”, he shouted, learning back on his stool and pushing the door open with his foot. “Katherine!” However, it was not Katherine's head that appeared around the door, but that of George Harwood. Thomas Grinned; George would be of no help with the accounting, but he we nonetheless welcome as a distraction. Thomas's grinned faded, however, when he saw the look on the constable's face.

  “How now Jack? Have a seat.” Thomas nudged the empty ale barrow in George's direction with his foot. “Drink?”

  George shook his head. “I can't stop -- I need to get back to the shop.” He took a deep breath. “Sorry, Tom, but you need to know -- did you know that the Gerard family household has been taken into custody by the Sheriff?”

  “Aye, the Sheriff did say.”

  George raised his eyebrows. “He told you in person? I had to find out from watch gossip. Did he tell you why?”

  Thomas shifted uncomfortably. George glared at him for while, and then relaxed. “To Hell with it -- I don't expect you to be able to tell me. Some sort of plot, is the rumour.”

  “Something like that,” Thomas agreed. “It seems that lots of people are involved, but Gerard is the leader. Even our Master Sumner is in on it, it seems.”

  “God's wounds! What does your Katherine make of that?”

  Thomas craned his head to look outside the door. “I don't know -- I haven't worked up the courage to tell her yet.”

  “Do you think she'll be disappointed or relieved?”

  Thomas scratched his face thoughtfully. “If I know Katt, what she'll mostly be is angry. But whether at Sumner, or the Sheriff, or me, I know not.” He sighed. “Thank you for telling me George. I appreciate your making the trip, but as you can see, it's not entirely news to me.”

  “Nay!” George interrupted, impatiently. “That's not what I came to tell you. The news is that young Gerard has escaped from custody.”

  “Nay! How? Are you sure?”

  “Aye. News is all over London; all the constables and watchmen have been told to be on the alert.”

  “I thought nobody ever escaped from the Tower?”

  “That's the problem -- he never got as far as the Tower. He'd gone from the Mint by the time the Sheriff's men went to escort him and the rest of the household to the Tower this morning.”

  “Jesu! That's not good.”

  “Indeed it is not. As you might imagine, Master York is spitting mad. Is young Gerard part of whatever his father is involved in?”

  “I don't know, Jack, in truth; and I suspect the Sheriff does not either. But it doesn't make the Sheriff look good -- one of his prisoners escaping from custody. How did he do it?”

  This time it was George's time to look shifty. “We don't know. Right now our best guess is that --” He looked at the floor, “-- he climbed out of the window.”

  “He climbed out of the Window?” Thomas rocked back on his seat and slapped his thigh as he laughed. “That's a new one, Jack. Nobody's ever done that before!”

  George managed a half-smile. “He was on the third floor. You know what a skinny splash of piss he is. It seems that nobody thought anybody would be able to get out of the barred window.”

  “Or mad enough to jump from the third floor even if he could?”

  “Indeed. But it seems he was both thin enough, and deranged enough. There's plenty of cover in the gardens around the Mint; once out of the window he could easily have found his way to the wall without an
ybody seeing him.”

  “He still had to get out of the grounds. Isn't it completely surround by a wall?”

  George was suddenly quiet. Thomas prompted him: “What?”

  George sighed. “He crept up behind old Bill, and thumped him over the head with a branch.”

  “Ouch. Will he be all right?”

  “He's got a skull like a canonball, thankfully, like you. But he won't be smiling for a while.”

  “I take it that nobody's seen Gerard since he hot-footed it?”

  “Nobody who will admit it, anyway.”

  “He's got to leave the country, hasn't he? He has no chance of any kind of life in England. Presumably all he's got is the clothes on his back. He won't be able to go back to his house, because its under guard. Whatever supporters his father might have had will melt away. His only hope is to run, as far as he can.”

  George scratched his chin. “Did young Samuel strike you as the kind of person who would make rational decisions like that? Or perhaps the kind of person who would go after whomever he thought was to blame for his predicament?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Eventually Thomas said: “You should be careful, George. You're at least as much a likely target as I am.”

  “At least I've got some big, strapping lads in my household. I don't think Gerard would be stupid enough to try to get at me or my family in the shop. Not that I'm going to give him a chance to.” George sighed. “But your household is all women, apart from Gaffer, and I'm not sure how good we would be in a scrap.”

  “Gaffer? He tough for his age -- but I take your point.”

  “You need to keep yourself out of the way for a bit, Tom. It won't take us long to catch the bastard, if he's still around here. And if he isn't, then he's some other poor devil's problem anyway.”

  Thomas looked thoughtful, and said nothing.

  “Promise me you won't go after him, Tom -- I know how you think.”

  “What, me?”

  “Seriously, there are plenty of men out looking for him. You really don't need to put yourself in danger.”

  Thomas sighed. “All right, Jack. I promise. But if he's not been found by the end of the week, I might have to think about that again. I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for him. It's not me I'm worried about, anyway.”

  George nodded, understanding Thomas's implication. “We'll have him by tomorrow night,” he replied, with a confidence he clearly did not entirely feel.

  Tuesday evening, May 29, 1550

  Katherine took his news about Geoffrey Sumner more calmly than Thomas expected. Despite her earlier lukewarm enthusiasm for the man, Thomas half expected her to insist on continuing to see him, just out of spite. In fact, she had just looked thoughtful for while, and explained that he had always struck her as a man with something on his mind. Thomas doubted that this was the end of the matter, but he was content to leave things to lie for the moment. He also explained about Gerard's capture and escape, and Katherine had immediately realized that this put Thomas in some kind of danger. She failed to realize that it also put her in danger, although Thomas understood this well enough.

  “You will be careful, Cousin Tom, won't you?” Katherine chewed the corner of her thumbnail, and looked at Thomas out of the corner of her eye. She smiled uncertainly, knowing that too much fuss on her part was likely to have the opposite effect on Thomas to the intended one. They were sitting next to the fire in the kitchen; on the other side of the room Agnes clattered pans while singing tunelessly under her breath.

  Thomas sighed and took off his cap. It was at least possible that Gerard would come to the inn and, knowing his peculiarities, it was also possible that he might go after the women of the household to get at him. Unconsciously, he rubbed at the site of the injury to his head. Katherine noticed this, but said nothing.

  Thomas replied: “I can't stay indoors indefinitely, until they catch him. If they catch him which, quite frankly, seems unlikely. He'll be miles away by now.” He was far from sure about this.

  “That's not the first time you've said that about somebody you were after,” Katherine said.

  “It's the first time this week!” Thomas replied, airily. Seeing Katherine's look, he sighed. “In any case, the last fellow I was wrong about turned out to be in the crypt.”

  “With luck, the same fate will come to Samuel Gerard. I can hardly imagine a man more deserving of it.” Katherine spoke firmly, with no trace of levity. Thomas looked around at her in surprise.

  “That's strong stuff, coming from you,” he said.

  Katherine shrugged, and pretended to adjust her hair. “When I think how he treated Meg.”

  “Meg? Oh -- the lute girl. Sorry, with everything else, I'd rather forgotten about her. Have we heard any more from Beauchamp's gang? I rather thought they might have plans for Gerard as well.”

  Katherine looked at him uncertainly. “Do you know something I don't?”

  Thomas shrugged; Katherine decided not to press him. She shook her head. “I haven't heard anything. Edmund told me they were moving on to Southwark.”

  Thomas grinned. “The young fellow who liked to show his shoulders? The one one you were making eyes at?”

  “Thomas Whyte! That's a terrible thing to say. I wasn't doing anything of the sort!”

  Thomas started to make a cutting remark, and then thought better of it. He wondered if her reaction was because she did harbour warm feelings for the young man, or because she didn't. He wondered what he felt about it if she did. He contented himself with patting her gently on the cheek. She scowled.

  “Anyway,” Thomas continued, “I'll watch out. But I can't become a hermit -- I have errands to run.”

  “Just try to keep out of trouble, won't you?”

  At the moment Agnes strolled over, swinging a ladle. She winked at Katherine. “That's right, Master Tom,” she chuckled. “Just for a change, eh?”

  Thomas finished his chores, and then paced around the inn courtyard until boredom got the better of him. The bell of St Peter's had just clanked seven o'clock, so Thomas had two hours until curfew. He realized that he had to be back in the inn by then, and wondered what he could usefully achieve in two hours. He decided to pay the Warters a visit at the Mermaid; they would be pleased to find that the Sheriff had decided to make no further enquiries about the murder of Roger Allard.

  Thomas looked up at the sky; it was a dull, overcast evening, but he could see no obvious sign of rain. Knowing that this was a sure sign that a downpour was imminent, and imagining what Katherine would say if he came home soaked through, he returned to the inn and picked up his heavy woollen cloak.

  The inns in Gracechurch Street already had their lanterns lit by the time he walked past. The pall of smoke from the works along Thames Street, combined with the low cloud, created a harsh red glow over the river to the south. The occasional bursts of laughter and song from the inns seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the gloom of the evening. In Little Eastcheap the meat sellers were washing down their stalls for the evening; a stream of bloody water laced with pieces of fat and offal ran down the gully in the middle of the street. The men sang and whistled and called vulgar remarks to one another, as Thomas picked his way through the crowds, carefully avoiding the worst of the entrails and dung underfoot.

  The Sun had set by the time Thomas got to St George Street, but there was no lantern at the door of the Mermaid. In some of the houses in the street a fine line of light showed from the edges of the ill-fitting window shutters, but the alehouse was dark, and silent. The sign over the door let out occasional melancholy creaks as the wind blew it to and fro. A few people still walked on the rutted street; some looked at Thomas oddly, but none spoke to him. Thomas walked up to the door and leaned his face to the small diamond window. Seeing nothing in the dark inside, he knocked gently on the door. Windows in neighbouring houses opened, and then shut. Thomas took off his cap and scratched his head. He looked up at t
he upper storey, then walked around to the narrow alleyway to the side of the alehouse. All was dark. He walked back to the door and, with the flat of his fist, gave a stout knock; but there was still no sound from inside.

  Replacing his cap, Thomas sat on the coarse oak bench outside the Mermaid, and considered whether to disturb the neighbours. It was peculiar for an alehouse not to be open at the time working men were finishing for the day, and an explanation was clearly called for. However, Thomas wasn't here in any official capacity, and he didn't want to disturb the neighbourhood for no good reason. He was just on the verge of deciding that the mystery could wait until daytime, and he really needed to get back to the Hart, when a man walked heavily up to the bench and sat down beside him. The man touched his cap respectfully, and Thomas did the same. Thomas thought he looked rather familiar, although the pallor of his skin and his painfully gaunt frame suggested a man who was very ill, or had been.

  Thomas smiled at the man, and said: “I'm Thomas Whyte. I was hoping to see the Warters.”

  The man nodded. “You won't see them here.” He coughed painfully. “Nay, nor any place this side of Judgement. We buried 'em yesterday.”

  Thomas looked up in surprise; then he realized with a feeling of guilt that the main part of his surprise was how little he was surprised. “Illness?” he asked, suspecting otherwise.

  The man nodded, but would not look Thomas in the eye. “Aye. Fever. Took them both in their sleep.” He coughed gratingly again. The man's voice was much stronger than his appearance or his coughs suggested. Not a grievously sick man, Thomas decided, but one who nonetheless had a long road of recovery ahead of him.

  It was the mention of fever that caused Thomas to realize who the man reminded him of. “Are you William Warter?” He asked. The man looked round with an expression of surprise. “Aye, that I am. How did you know?”

  “I can see the family resemblance, now I realize, but I remember Harry saying that the had a sick brother. If you don't me saying, you look like someone who's had a foot in the next world, and not so very long ago.”

  William shrugged. “The Lord sends us hard trials. I was very sick for several weeks, and with three children and another due any day now, that's not easy.” He leaned back against the wall of the alehouse. “Then last Saturday, the fever broke, just like that. I think I shall be well enough to work next week.”

  Thomas looked at him sceptically; the man looked as if a fart would blow him over. William noticed his look, and continued: “It will be some time before I'm fully fit, as I'm sure you can see. But I'm over the worst, thank the Lord. We all got down on our knees and gave thanks, I don't mind telling you. If it wasn't for Harry, I don't know what I'd have done.” He smiled at Thomas. “God bless Harry; he always looked out for me, since we were children.”

  Thomas noticed just a hit of wetness in the other man's eyes. “He was the elder?”

  “Aye, by two years. We had another brother, and two sisters. Sadly, they passed from this world some time ago.” He sighed. “And now Harry is gone as well.” He shook his head, and looked down at the ground. After a while, he sat up, and looked around at Thomas. “But tell me, Master...”

  “Whyte. Thomas.”

  “Tell me Thomas: what is your business with us? You're not from this parish, and you're not dressed like a tax collector. It's rare for outsiders to come looking around St George's unless there's trouble.”

  Thomas shrugged. “There's no trouble. I wanted to give Harry and Joan some good news. It seems that I'm too late.”

  Both men turned and stared silently across the street for a while.

  “When did they die?” Thomas asked.

  “We found them Sunday evening. We had to kick the door open --we realized something was wrong when they didn't open up the house. When we got to them, they were just lying there, in bed. Cold.”

  Again, William wouldn't meet Thomas's eye. Thomas said: “It must have been quick -- I saw them last week; Thursday, I think it was. How do you know it was a fever?”

  William looked at Thomas, then looked away quickly. “What else could it be?”

  “You did not tell the constable? Or even call a searcher?” The role of the searcher was the complement to that the midwife, and both were often played by the same woman. The searcher was called by the parish to determine if a death was by disease, misadventure, or crime. The duties of the searcher were increasingly being taken over by the King's Coroner, but searchers charged only pennies for their services, and were popular in poor parishes.

  Speaking with his head down, William replied: “We had no reason to bother either one of them.” Thomas reflected that, if this had been St Margaret's, George Harwood would have known about the death before the corpse was cold, and been all over the witnesses like smallpox scars; but this was a different parish.

  “How were the bodies when you found them?” Thomas asked gently.

  “How were they? By God's nails, they were bloody dead! How else should they be?”

  Thomas ignored the outburst, and continued patiently: “I mean, did they have the marks of fever? Livid skin? Eyes open? Black spots? Swellings in the armpit?”

  “What?” William asked. “Aye, of course.” He stared at Thomas challengingly.

  Thomas sighed. “What I just described is the way bodies are found when they die of the plague. You brother and his wife did not die of the plague. If they had, you'd be burying half the parish by now. How did you really find them?”

  For a long time, William said nothing. Then he admitted: “They were quite peaceful. Like they had just fallen asleep. Joan was holding --” William could not continue. He put his head between his hands and wept. Thomas sat impassively. Eventually, William looked up and wiped his face on the sleeve of his jerkin. “She was holding a little wooden horse. I carved it for Katie -- it was the only little toy she had: she died soon after. No reason; she just -- she just didn't wake up one morning.”

  William wiped his face again. “So now you know. I thought I just ought to tell you what happened, before you woke the neighbourhood. What was the good news you wanted to tell them, anyway?” he asked sourly.

  Thomas wondered what to tell William, then thought that no useful purpose would be served by telling him anything. “Oh, it hardly matters any more.”

  William nodded, and stood up. “It will be curfew any moment, Master Thomas. I'd better get back to my family. You should too. This isn't the safest place after dark.” He nodded briefly, and turned away.

  Thomas sat on the bench and looked down the road towards the church. He thought about Henry Warter and his degenerative disease of the spine; he thought about the Warter's daughter, Katie, whom he had never met, and never would. He thought about Joan Warter's gentle sadness, and Henry Warter's quiet dignity. He thought about tincture of opium. He sat on the bench for a long time -- longer than he knew was sensible -- until it was quite dark. Then he walked home in what moonlight was afforded by the dull night.

  Tuesday evening, May 29, 1550

  It was a hour after curfew, and quite dark, by the time Thomas returned to the White Hart. He walked through the courtyard and tried the main door, noting with some relief that it was locked. The kitchen door was also locked, but Thomas noticed with irritation that one of the window shutters was open. The glass of the window was partly open, and Thomas debated climbing through it, rather than rummaging around in the straw of the stable for the hidden key. In the end he decided that he was too old for such antics, and made a mental note to himself to warn the household to be more assiduous about locking up, at least until Gerard was re-captured.

  As Thomas strolled over to the stable, the moon broke through the clouds, illuminating a peaceful, almost rustic scene. Old Harry was snoring in a gentle, horsey way; but he stirred briefly when Thomas rummaged in the straw. Thomas jumped slightly when his probing disturbed a couple of mice -- they skittered out from the straw and into the dark body of the stable. He found the key without too much se
arching, and walked back to the kitchen. Something about the open window made him uncomfortable -- he paused briefly, then shook his head in irritation. He opened the door, and stepped into the silent kitchen. Thomas did not close the door -- he knew that Katherine would tell him off if he forgot to put the spare key back in its hiding place, so he took the main key from its string by the door, and slipped it into his pocket.

  Thomas looked around the kitchen carefully, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary.“Just time for a little snack before bed,” he muttered under his breath, while tossing the spare key up and down in his hand. He looked for leftovers on the kitchen table, but found nothing. Thinking there might at least be some bread left, he rummaged around in the dark cupboards. Cursing quietly, he gave up and groped around on the shelf for the tinderbox. He lit one of the fat candles by the oven, then picked it up and held it up to the kitchen shelves. As he moved the candle around, a light was briefly cast on something so unexpected that Thomas failed to register it at first. Then he froze, and moved the candle back. At the other end of the kitchen, a man dressed in a short cloak and dark clothes was sitting on a chair, watching him intently. The candle flame reflected two bright spots in the man's unblinking eyes.

  “What the hell --” Thomas started, as he held the candle up and walked over to the man. The man stood up, lazily raising a crossbow towards Thomas's chest. It was Samuel Gerard.

  Thomas was dismayed, but not entirely surprised. Gerard's capture and brief incarceration had not done him any favours. Nor, presumably, had his flight across Southwark and -- Thomas guessed -- his climb through the inn's kitchen window. As Gerard came closer, Thomas could see that his clothes were torn and dishevelled; he was bare-headed, and his hair was damp and matted. However, the most striking change was in Gerard's eyes -- they were red-rimmed and darted from side to side. The corner of Gerard's mouth twitched. The hand holding the crossbow trembled, but its aim was still steady -- steady enough at a range of three yards, anyway.

  Gerard stood up and pushed Thomas back towards the other end of the kitchen with the crossbow. “Why don't you sit down, Master Whyte?” he asked, a grin flashing across his face. Thomas stood his ground, until the point of the crossbow bolt pushed hard against his breastbone, then he sat on the bench next to the table.

  “What the hell do you want, Gerard?” Thomas asked, trying without complete success to keep the tremor out of his voice.

  Gerard sat on the bench opposite, and rested the crossbow on the table top, pointing at Thomas. Thomas wondered idly how the man had managed to get hold of such a weapon. He couldn't have made contact with any of his former friends -- there had not been time, even if any of them were willing to have any dealings with him, which was doubtful. He must have stolen it on the way -- he could imagine Gerard's delight at coming across such a thing by lucky chance. The more immediate question, of course, was how to get it away from him. Even if Thomas could disarm Gerard of the crossbow, that didn't make him harmless. Thomas noticed that Gerard had two long, evil-looking knives stuck in his belt -- with a sinking feeling he realized they were from his own kitchen.

  “What do I want, Master Whyte?” Gerard sneered. “Well, let me see. First, I want money. As you can see, I'm not at my best. Being a hunted fugitive does such terrible things to one's looks, don't you agree?”

  Thomas could not suppress a laugh. “Money? You've come to the wrong place then, lad. We've got no money.”

  “You're lying!” Gerard pushed the crossbow bolt hard against Thomas's chest. “You innkeepers have bags of money. Don't give me that horse-shit -- you must have taken a sack-full of money just last week, when that tawdry band of mummers was performing.”

  “Aye, quite so. Sadly, it was a sack-full of pennies, and that's not counting the brass buttons and what-nots. Most of it's spent now, anyway. We had to pay the mummers, as you call them, then there's the expenses -- food, ale, wages for the serving girls.” Warming to his theme, Thomas continued: “We managed to make a few marks, just enough to keep our creditors happy for a few weeks. It's an expensive business, running a large inn, you know. We have to pay the staff, then there's taxes to the Crown, taxes to the Corporation, guild fees...”

  “All right!” Gerard snarled, poking Thomas with the crossbow bolt. “I don't need a lecture about economics from an innkeeper.”

  Thomas shrugged. “If you want our money, we keep it in a chest behind the counter in the tap-room. Go have a look -- it's probably not even locked.” It wasn't -- Thomas knew that there was only a few shillings in it.

  “Nice try, Whyte. I'll have a look later. I haven't even started to tell you what else I want.” Gerard grinned. “First, I want to kill you. Then I want to have some fun with your wife. Then I'm going to set fire to this privy you call an inn.”

  Thomas drew in a breath sharply. “God's nails! I knew you were unhinged, but this is madness, even for you.”

  “Nothing mad about it, Whyte. You've ruined my life; now I'm going to ruin yours.”

  “Is that before you kill me, or after?”

  Gerard lifted the stock of the crossbow, and slammed it down on the table. Thomas flinched. Gerard's mouth twitched, as he screwed up his red-lined eyes. “Don't try to be clever, Whyte. I've got nothing left to lose.” He grinned. “So, yes, you're right. I think I'll see what entertainment your wife can offer, and then kill you, and then burn down the inn. In that order.” He paused. “Actually, perhaps I'll kill you after you've watched the place burn. Aye, that will be much more fun.”

  “You've got yourself mixed up, Gerard -- I'm not married. You're thinking of somebody else.”

  “Oh, I don't think so. The pretty wench who was fussing over you in the courtyard last week. Tall, thin, red hair.”

  Katherine. Thomas swallowed, then said. “Nay, doesn't sound familiar. You thinking of some other inn.”

  In one movement, Gerard snatched up one of the knives from his belt, and swung it around in a wide arc, so that the point scratched a line across Thomas's face. Then he slammed the knife point down into the table, where it quivered. “Don't waste any more of my time, fellow.Take me to where she sleeps.”

  Thomas reached up to his face. His had came away bloody, but not as bloody as he feared. It would heal, if he survived the evening. “Damned if I will! You can't get away with this, Gerard. One shout from me, and this place will be swarming with people. We have a dozen guests, some of them men with weapons. If you kill the innkeeper, it could seriously spoil their stay.”

  “Well, Master Whyte, that will be some little consolation for you.”

  “But you're planning to kill me anyway, after you've burned down my home. Or was it before? I can't quite remember.” Thomas idly wondered whether he was doing the right thing by goading Gerard. Then he thought, to Hell with it.

  The two men glared at each other across the table. From his position, Thomas could see something briefly block the light from the open kitchen window. He wondered if it were friend or foe, but decided to hope that it were a friend -- things could hardly get any worse if it was a foe. Finally Gerard snarled: “Damn you, Whyte. I'll kill you anyway. You're too much bother.”

  Gerard lifted the crossbow, but at that moment the thing Thomas has dreaded might happen, did happen -- Katherine walked into the kitchen. She rubbed her bleary eyes. “Tom, is that you?” She lifted a candle. “What are you doing at this time of night?” Katherine was wearing a long linen nightgown, with her hair tucked into her cap. She gasped when she caught site of Gerard. “What --” Her next remark died before she uttered it. Gerard looked around, but kept the crossbow pointed at Thomas.

  “Well, what a pleasant surprise, my dear! Do come in. I was going to kill your husband, but now you're here, I can think of better things to do.”

  “Husband?” Katherine looked from one man to the other. “Thomas isn't my husband. He's my cousin.” Out of habit, she added: “Or something.”

  “Really?” Gerard looked from Katherine to Thomas. “You
don't look alike.” He leered. “Clearly the good looks pass down the female line.” His grinned turned to a snarl. “Come on over here girl, so I can see you properly.” Katherine hesitated, and Gerard lifted the crossbow. “Come here! Or I'll shoot his eye out.”

  Katherine walked hesitantly towards the table. She put the candle down on the table, next to Thomas's. Gerard looked her up and down. “I still can't see you properly. Undress.”

  “Damn you, Gerard!” Thomas snarled.

  Gerard's red eyes darted back to Thomas. “Oh, I should think so. All the more reason to have some fun before I burn, wouldn't you say?”

  Keeping his eyes on Gerard, Thomas said evenly: “Katherine, Samuel Gerard plans to kill me, and probably the rest of us as well, and then burn down the inn. Nothing you do now is going to change his plan. He's quite mad, you see.”

  Gerard smiled, and then frowned as he understood what Thomas was saying. Thomas continued: “I want you to run and rouse the guests. You'll know when to do it.”

  Gerard looked from Thomas to Katherine in confusion. Nobody moved. Suddenly Thomas lifted his right hand, and slammed it down on the top of the crossbow. “Now!” He shouted.

  Gerard tried to wrench the crossbow free of Thomas's grasp, but could not. In frustration, he pulled the trigger. Thomas's hand was crushing the crossbow bolt onto the stock, which slowed down its release, and his hand blocked the string from releasing completely. All the same, the bolt hit him in the breastbone hard enough to knock him off the bench and onto the stone floor, where he lay on his back, unable to move. The bolt rolled off his chest and onto the floor. Katherine made a dash across the kitchen, but Gerard was on her in an instant. He caught her by the hair and, taking the other knife from his belt, pushed it against her neck. He dragged her back into the kitchen, and stepped over the inert form of Thomas lying on the flagstones. Keeping the knife against Katherine's neck, he delivered a hard kick to Thomas's head. Katherine shrieked. “Leave him alone, you bastard!”

  Gerard pressed his hand over her mouth, pushing her up against the kitchen wall. He pushed the knife against her face hard enough to draw blood. “Be silent, girl!” He pressed himself up against her. Katherine pressed herself against the wall. “If you want to live, you know what to do.” Any residual trace of sanity in Gerard's expression was gone. His face was twisted into a grimace, and his eyes were darting from side to side erratically. A trickle of saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. Katherine whimpered softly and closed her eyes, her face turned away from Gerard's.

  But the expected assault did not arrive. She opened her eyes when she heard Gerard slump down to his knees. By the candlelight she could see the hilt of a dagger protruding from his back. Gerard's furious expression turned to one of surprise, then he fell forward onto his face, and was still.

  A dark, slim figure stepped out of the shadows, and helped Thomas up to his feet. Thomas looked the man up and down. “You took your bloody time, Edmund.” Then he fainted.

  Monday morning, May 30, 1550

  The Sun rose to find Tobias Savill, Thomas's successor as constable of St Peter's, frowning down at the cold body of Samuel Gerard. Savill and Thomas Whyte were standing in the cellar of the Whyte Hart, where the body had been dragged for safekeeping.

  “You've really done it this time, Thomas,” Savill grumbled, shaking his head. He was a stout, grey-haired man, grey-bearded man -- nearly twenty years older than Thomas, but still clearly fit and irritatingly energetic. “The dead body of the son of one of the City's most influential men, festering in your cellar. It could only happen to you.” He clucked irritably.

  Declining Savill's attempt at informality, Thomas replied: “Or the son of a traitor, Constable, depending on how you look at it.”

  Savill looked at Thomas and then back at the corpse. It was lying face-down, because the hilt of a cheap, wooden-handled dagger still protruded from between the shoulder blades. Only a small amount of blood stained the surrounding clothing -- Gerard must have died almost instantly. Savill shook his head again. “However you look at it, Thomas, you're in the shit.”

  Thomas shrugged. “Not the first time; won't be the last.”

  The men looked up, as Katherine picked her way carefully down the stone steps. Savill raised his cap; Katherine made a slight curtsey. “God give you good day, Master Savill.”

  Savill nodded without speaking, and turned back to Thomas. “And so -- where is the man who dealt the killing blow?”

  Thomas sighed, and looked over at Katherine. As she entered the cellar, she replied: “Edmund? He's gone. All the company have gone.”

  “The company? What company? Gone? Where?” Savill's eyes flicked to Katherine briefly, but he addressed the question to Thomas.

  Not willing to be sidelined, Katherine answered decisively: “Canterbury. They're travelling actors and entertainers.”

  Savill scowled. Canterbury was a long way out of City jurisdiction. “You didn't think to raise the alarm?” he asked disbelievingly.

  Katherine scowled at him slightly. “Cousin Tom was unconscious; I had just narrowly escaped being assaulted and raped.” She crossed her arms demurely over her chest. “I'm just a woman -- what could I do?”

  Thomas wondered if she was laying on her weak-and-feeble woman act a bit thick, but apparently not. Savill smiled at her in a patronizing way. “Of course, Mistress Katherine. I'm so sorry, my dear.” He looked back at Thomas. “What did this Edmund do in the company?”

  “He acted; but I think his speciality was acrobatics and juggling -- that kind of thing.”

  Savill reached down to the corpse, took hold of the dagger hilt between thumb and forefinger, and wiggled it. It did not move. He put one foot on the dead man's neck, grasped the hit in his large fist and, after a brief plea of “Lord, forgive me,” heaved at the dagger with all his strength. Thomas and Katherine grimaced and turned away. Still, for all his efforts, the dagger remained firmly in place.

  Savill was breathing hard; he wiped his brow on his sleeve, and said: “He must have been extraordinarily strong, to drive a dagger right through a man's shoulder blade like this.”

  “Well, Katherine was admiring his shoulder muscles a few days ago.”

  Katherine blushed slightly, but did not reply. Thomas continued: “Strong in the arm, but not an experienced killer, I would say. Someone who knew what he as doing would have reached around his victim and driven the knife up under the ribs.”

  Thomas walked around behind Savill, put his hand roughtly over his face, and mimed driving a blade up through the bottom of his rib-cage towards his heart.

  Savill winced at the display, but nodded in agreement. “What I don't understand is how this Edmund came to be following Gerard.”

  “Oh, that's easy,” Thomas explained, letting go of Savill. “I asked him to.”

  Both Katherine and Savill looked at Thomas in surprise. He grinned. “I discussed young Gerard with Beauchamp's company before they left the Hart on Saturday. I thought it would do to keep a close eye on him until George and I could figure out what to do about him. I wasn't in a fit state to chase around after him myself -- I was still recovering from a head injury.”

  Katherine rounded on Thomas. “You didn't tell me about any of this!”

  Thomas and Savill looked at one another, Thomas guiltily, Savill feeling guilty on his behalf. For the first time, Thomas thought, they shared a moment of fellow-feeling. Thomas shrugged, not altogether convincingly. “Sorry, Katt; It must have slipped my mind.” To Savill he said: “Edmund was happy enough to do it. He does have a bit of a soft soft for Katherine --”

  “He does not!” Katherine interrupted, facing reddening. “We've hardly exchanged a dozen words since they arrived!” She paused. “It's Meg he has feelings for.”

  “Meg?” Savill looked from one to the other in confusion.

  Thomas took pity on him. “Meg is a girl -- a woman -- in Beauchamp's company,” he explained. “A musician. Young Gerard beat her black
and blue after the show on Friday.”

  Savill tutted and shook his head. “If these young women will roam the highways like vagrants, bad things are bound to happen to them.”

  Thomas debated with himself whether to explain to Savill that bad things had happened to Meg on a regular basis before she took up with Beauchamp's company, but decided that it would be pointless. Instead he said: “Gerard was a walking bad thing. It doesn't matter where he was.”

  “And that's why this Edmund was prepared to trail Gerard for two days, presumably without sleep? Because Gerard abused his girl?”

  Thomas shrugged. “That, and because I paid him to. Well, in fact, I paid Beauchamp, since I expected Edmund to be away from this work for longer than he actually was. Edmund didn't need much persuading. I didn't expect things to be over as soon as they were. I wasn't expecting Gerard to be arrested, let alone escape. I would have called off Edmund, but by the time I knew Gerard was locked up, I couldn't find him.”

  Savill smiled nastily. “Bloody good thing you didn't, eh?”

  Thomas affected unconcern. He replied laconically: “Aye, as it turned out.”

  Savill poked the body with his toe distastefully. “Thomas, I'm slightly annoyed that I had to find out about your run-in with Gerard through watch gossip. You should have told me.”

  “Would you have gone after him? The son of one of the most influential men in the City?”

  Savill looked at the ground thoughtfully. He scuffed at the earth in the cellar with his boot. “Aye! -- Nay.” He sighed. “I don't know, in truth. Thomas, when I volunteered for constable, I had no idea so much politics would be involved.”

  Thomas said nothing. Savill continued uncomfortably: “I confess that, when you were constable, I thought you were just dragging your heels, a lot of the time. I hated the way there seemed to be more and more crime in St Steven's, getting worse all the time. My father was killed in a robbery in his shop, as I'm sure you know.”

  “When?” Thomas realized that he ought to have know this, and then he realized that his reaction had given away that he didn't. He knew that Savill and his family kept a reasonably prosperous bookshop and small print works in Cheapside, but did not remember ever meeting the elder Savills.

  Savill looked at Thomas reproachfully. “Oh, several years ago. Whilst you were still in France, so I expect that's why you didn't know.” He spat. “Murdered for a couple of shillings, and a handful of books that the killer probably couldn't even read. My mother died soon after.”

  “I'm sorry. I should have known. Was the killer ever caught?” Thomas assumed the answer was no, from the look Savill gave him.

  Savill continued to kick at the ground miserably. “I thought I could do something.”

  “Something I didn't do?” Thomas asked calmly. Savill looked up at him, then returned to kicking at the ground impatiently. Thomas thought his father's murder partly explained Savill's zeal; but not completely. More lay behind Savill's distaste for entertainers and prostitutes, Thomas was sure of it; but this was hardly the time to try to dig it out. Still, while he hadn't exactly warmed to the man, Thomas understood that Savill was making some effort to be personable, despite his overbearing demeanour.

  “Well, Tobias,” Thomas continued, “you were more than welcome to the constable's post. Truly you were. I was relieved to know you had put yourself forward, so I could retire gracefully. The truth is, I was never much of a constable. I lacked the bloody-mindedness.”

  Thomas looked at Savill to try to gauge whether he would take this remark as a compliment or a jibe, but Savill merely grinned inscrutably. “Well, I'm involved now, for better or worse. So what happened, exactly?”

  Thomas explained briefly the events between his arriving back at the Whyte Hart, and the point where Gerard shot him.

  “A crossbow?” Savill interrupted disbelievingly. “By the mass, where did a man on the run from half the watchmen in London get a poxy crossbow? Lord protect us!”

  “I wondered about that myself, Tobias. Perhaps he'd hidden it somewhere, in case he needed it one day?”

  “Surely not?” The men looked round at Katherine, who was shaking her head. She continued: “From what I've heard and seen, he doesn't strike me as the kind of man who would have much interest in forward planning.”

  Thomas nodded reluctantly. “But that really leaves only the explanation that he had an accomplice, whom he went to when he ran away from the Mint.”

  “God's wounds! That's a frightening thought.” Savill pulled a sour face. “I wonder who it might be?”

  “There was another young man with him, the night he made a nuisance of himself in our courtyard.” Thomas sighed. “But I think he drew weak-willed, bored young men to himself. He was that kind of person. Superficially charming, but touched by the moon. His accomplice could be from any household in Walbrook.”

  Katherine and the two men considered this observation glumly for a while. Eventually, Savill took in a deep breath, and shook his head wearily. “You have the luck of the Devil, Thomas. How many other fellows are shot at short range with a crossbow and live to tell about it?”

  “That part wasn't entirely luck, Tobias. I knew that the only way to disarm Gerard was to get him to fire the crossbow, and hope to Heaven I could knock him down before he could get his hands on the knife. I know from my military days that any kind of resistance to the free flight of the bolt severely weakens the power of the weapon. I couldn't risk him waving it around -- not with Katherine in the room, and someone I sincerely hoped was Edmund ready to burst in at any time. Heaven knows what might have happened. I couldn't even try to take the crossbow off him, without putting other one or other of them at risk. I'm all too aware that fighting over a crossbow is a certain way to have a bolt flying in a random direction.”

  Thomas rubbed at his breastbone, and continued: “The only safe place -- if 'safe' is the right word -- he could fire the crossbow was right at me. I figured that I'd be able to impede the bolt enough to avoid a fatal wound, especially if it hit me squarely on the breastbone.” He grimaced. “Which it did. What I didn't realize is that, at such a close range, being shot in the chest would be like being kicked by a horse. Gerard must have thought he'd killed me. My plan, such as it was, was to keep Gerard busy somehow, so Katherine would raise help.”

  Katherine shook her head. “My plan was to snatch up a fire iron and dash the bastard's brains out.”

  Savill looked at her, wide eyed. “Could you have done that, Mistress?”

  Katherine met his stare evenly. “Oh, without question, Constable. Unfortunately, he turned out to be as quick as a snake. Heaven knows what would have happened if Edmund had not been waiting just outside the kitchen.”

  Savill chuckled. “This Edmund seems like useful fellow. I foresee a great future for him, somewhere far, far away.” He looked at Thomas with an expression between disbelief and admiration. “You know that was a really daft plan, don't you?”

  Thomas nodded, but Katherine interrupted before he could speak. “Would you deliberately take a crossbow bolt in the chest to protect your household, Master Savill?” She walked over to Thomas and stood beside him, staring at Savill squarely. “I think Thomas was extraordinarily brave.”

  Thomas found himself reddening. While being thought a hero was very agreeable, he knew it was not deserved. “Steady on, girl,” he grumbled. “It was just a matter of playing the odds. Gerard had already said he meant to kill me, and I had no reason to doubt him. A small chance of success, however paltry, is better than certain death. It wasn't bravery, just calculation.”

  “In that case, Thomas,” Savill continued, “I admire your cool head. Now what are we going to do about all this?”

  “Well,” Thomas replied reflectively, “if nobody has done so yet, you ought to tell his father.” No longer being constable had certain rewards. “Or, better still, inform the authorities in Walbrook, so they can do it. I can't leave the body in my ale cellar indefinitely.”

&
nbsp; Savill nodded. “Nay, it isn't very respectful.”

  “Respectful? It will sour my ale -- that's what I'm concerned about.”

  Epilogue

  Samuel Gerard was buried quietly at St Stephen's, Walbrook, at the expense of the parish. Walter Gerard took little interest in his son's fate; he himself was tried for treason in July 1550, and hanged at Tyburn a month later. No prosecution was brought concerning the killing of Samuel Gerard; it was rumoured that the Sheriff was against any such action, and the extent of Samuel's involvement in the half-baked plot to restore Edward Seymour to power never became clear.

  The death of Samuel Gerard was the subject of much ill-informed London gossip for several months. Beauchamp's company become somewhat notorious for their part in it, which did nothing but good for their public popularity. Despite the Sheriff's support, however, they never did get to perform before the Court. Meg and Edmund eventually married and, gave up the travelling life.

  No evidence was raised against Walter Gerard's surviving family. Those worthies took no further interest in politics and, following repeated entreaties by the Mercer's guild, were allowed to inherit most of Gerard's estate. Geoffrey Sumner and his family moved to the north of England, where they lived quietly with distant relatives. They were by no means the only people to take such action.

  Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, was arrested in October 1550 on the orders of Dudley, Earl of Warwick, with the support of the Council. He was accused of various plots to regain control of the Kingdom, including a far-fetched suggestion that he intended to poison the entire Council. Despite the absurdity of some of the allegations, he was eventually executed in January 1522.

  Warwick had himself declared Duke of Northumberland -- the first person outside the royal line to achieve such a title. He did not enjoy his new status for long, though: the Young King Edward died in 1553, and Northumberland backed the wrong horse in the race to succeed him, as most of the Council initially did. They favoured Jane Grey, Edward's cousin, over Mary, his sister; a misjudgement that cost many in the Council their positions, and Northumberland his head. Mary -- Bloody Mary -- as she became, attempted in her short and unhappy reign to reverse the protestant reforms, as many had feared, and some had hoped.

  Sir John York had prospered during Edward's reign. In addition to his legitimate duties as Master of the Mint, he took part in clandestine operations on behalf of the Council, including weapons smuggling, spying, and brokering secret loans of money for the King. Perhaps because of his usefulness, York maintained good working relations both with his friend Northumberland's faction in the Council, and its opponents. His fortunes changed, as Northumberland's had, when Mary succeeded Edward, and for the same reason. He was imprisoned briefly, and lost his position at the Mint, but he kept his head. Apart from a brief spell some years later as an MP, he slipped quietly out of public life, and little more is known about him.

  The practice of staging dramatic performances in inn courtyards had a mixed reception. Many inns went on to become substantial entertainment venues; the largest courtyards could accommodate an audience of several hundred, and frequently did. However, in a city in which plague could strike without warning and spread rapidly, travelling troops of actors like Beauchamp's were treated with suspicion. It was not until 1576 that the first commercially successful, purpose-built theatre was established in London. Even then, theatre existed at the fringes of London society until the 18th century.

  As for Thomas and Katherine Whyte, George Harwood, and of the rest of them: since they are fictional characters, we are free to imagine their futures as we see fit.

  About the author

  Dr Kenneth Browning trained as a medical physicist, and was involved in medical education for much of the 1990s -- something you should bear in mind if you're feeling a bit unwell, because most of his students are now hospital consultants. His long and varied career subsequently meandered through law, mathematics, and software development. Now mostly retired, he lives with his family in North London. Although Kenneth has published widely in academic journals and textbooks, Butchery is his first work of pure fiction since his doctoral thesis.

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