Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl (8 page)

‘What’s that?’ Ranulf stuttered. ‘You said, “next to the others”?’

‘Well,’ Cade replied. ‘The dead whores are always brought in a cart from a small outbuilding in the Guildhall. We pay the priests of St Lawrence Jewry to bury them – a shilling a time, if I remember correctly.’

‘And everyone,’ Ranulf remarked, ‘except Lady Somerville, has been buried there?’

‘Yes. And for a shilling, they don’t get much: a tattered canvas sheet, a shallow hole in the ground and remembrance at the morning Mass.

‘Doesn’t anyone ever claim the body?’

‘Of course not. Some of these poor girls are from Scotland, Ireland, Flanders, towns and villages as far west as Cornwall and as far north as Berwick-on-Tweed.’

‘And no one attends their funerals?’

‘No. We thought of that and kept a careful watch.’ Cade gave a shiver. ‘They are buried like dogs,’ he murmured. ‘Not even their regular customers come to bid a fond farewell.’

Corbett finished his wine and handed the cup back to Cade.

‘I’ll ignore your blushes, Master Cade, when I say the King has high regard for you.’

The under-sheriff looked embarrassed and shuffled his great, booted feet.

‘However,’ Corbett neatly closed the trap. ‘Isn’t it strange that you have failed to draw up a list of customers of these whores? Who frequented them? After all, your informants can tell you about the emergence of a rogue like Puddlicott but not about the customers of dead whores.’

Cade’s smile faded. ‘Look,’ the under-sheriff sat down on a stool and ticked his points off on stubby fingers. ‘First, some of these whores were high-class courtesans. Oh, yes, they are poor in death but, when alive, they were favoured by some of the rich and powerful men of the city—’

‘Wait,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Some of these young ladies earned silver and gold. What happened to it?’

Cade pulled his mouth down. ‘Most of them immediately spend what they earn. Once they die their property is plundered by people who should know better. Finally, they have no heirs or relatives so any remaining property is immediately confiscated by the Crown.’

Corbett nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, as I was saying, the lords of the soil, the prosperous merchants, would not take too kindly to having their names linked with, what they now term, common street-walkers. Secondly,’ Cade drew in his breath, his eyes turned away and Corbett sensed the under-sheriff was not telling the full truth. ‘Secondly,’ Cade repeated, ‘it’s the manner of their deaths which makes me guarded: most of them were killed in their own chambers, so they must know their killer or they wouldn’t open the door. Master Corbett, I am an under-sheriff, my fees are paid by the wealthy burgesses, I do not want to be the official who finds that one of my pay-masters visited a whore on the night she died.’ Now Cade did blush with embarrassment and he rubbed the side of his face with his hand. ‘Yes, yes, I admit,’ he continued, ‘I am frightened. I’ll catch any rogue – be he priest, merchant or lord – but, Master Clerk, this is different. I can discover that the Lord Mayor himself visited a whore but what does that prove?’

‘You could search for a pattern, a name, common to all the killings.’

Cade jabbed a hand at Corbett. ‘No, Master Clerk, you are the King’s confidant, you were recently knighted by him.
You
find out!
You
point the finger! For God’s sake, man, that’s why you were sent here and I say that without intending any offence!’

Corbett chewed the inside of his lip, he stretched over and touched Cade gently on the hand.

‘I understand,’ he muttered.

In fact, Corbett did, and appreciated why an under-sheriff had been appointed to deal with something none of his superiors would touch with a bargepole. Corbett smiled to himself; he also understood why the King had sent him back to London.

He stared at the list Cade had given him. ‘You are most observant, Master Cade,’ he remarked. ‘These whores must have known their killer; shown a great deal of trust. Even this last one, Agnes, whose corpse we are about to inspect. She was killed in a church,’ Corbett continued, ‘I suspect she was invited there by her killer.’

‘Possibly,’ Cade replied. ‘But let’s put the deaths of these poor girls to one side. How do you explain Lady Somerville’s murder?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett muttered. ‘Perhaps the old woman knew something. But I tell you this, Cade, your anxieties are well founded. When we arrest this killer – and don’t worry we will – I wager it will be some high-born bastard with a great deal to hide.’

‘Sweet Lord!’ Cade whispered.

Corbett stared at the far wall. ‘What puzzles me,’ he continued, ‘is why the killings have increased. According to your list, Master Cade, a whore dies on or around the thirteenth of each month but in May the pattern changes: Somerville is killed on Monday the eleventh of May; the priest the following evening; a prostitute, Isabeau, on Wednesday the thirteenth of May and then, soon afterwards, the girl in Greyfriars. What crisis has forced the murderer to change his pattern?’

‘Unless. . .’ Cade interrupted.

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless there is more than one murderer.’

Corbett and Ranulf waited for Cade to collect his belongings. They left the Guildhall and went down to Catte Street, the area round Old Jewry and the dark, looming mass of St Lawrence’s Church. A crowd had gathered near the stocks placed outside the wicket gate of the cemetery. Most of the onlookers were city riff-raff who were baiting a man locked in the stocks for selling faulty bow-strings, whilst his shoddy merchandise was piled in a heap and burnt under his nose. The poor unfortunate, his head trapped in the wooden slats, was forced to breath in the acrid smoke which irritated his mouth, nose and eyes. Now and again he would yell abuse at his tormentors before falling into a fit of coughing which jarred his head against the slats.

Corbett and his companions pushed through the crowd into the derelict cemetery. Cade went across to the priest’s house, he knocked at the door and talked to someone inside. A few minutes later a small, portly figure emerged, a huge bunch of keys in his hand. Corbett threw a warning glance at Ranulf to behave himself for the priest’s broad girth, rosy face and womanish waddle indicated he was a man of the cloth more interested in the fruits of the earth than the salvation of souls. He wore a cloak of Lincoln green, edged with bright squirrel fur, whilst cheap jewellery glinted on wrists and fingers. His beady little eyes glared at Corbett. There were no introductions. Instead the priest opened a small leather bag he was carrying and drew out three sponges soaked in vinegar and herbs.

‘You’ll need these,’ he rasped, handing one to each of them. ‘Now, follow me.’

He led them round to the back of the church to a long windowless shed. He opened the padlock on the door and waved them in.

‘Feast your eyes!’ he jibed. ‘I bury the poor bitch in an hour. You’ll find a candle on the ledge to the right of the door.’

Corbett went first into the darkness and immediately caught the stench of putrefaction. He was glad he had the sponge and that his stomach was strong. Ranulf, however, went a dull grey colour so, after he had used a tinder to light the candle, Corbett told him to wait outside.

‘Ignore the rats!’ the priest called out. ‘The coffin is on trestles in the centre.’

Corbett held the candle high and, despite the discomfort, felt a tinge of compassion for the lonely, oblong box. Cade, muttering curses, lifted the loose lid and revealed the ghastly sight of the woman lying there. Apparently, she was to be buried as she had been found, no attempt being made to dress the body. Her face, white as chalk, looked even more garish in the flickering candle flame, her skin was already turning puffy, her body bloated with corruption. Corbett examined the long purple gash which had severed the windpipe. Cade, one hand cramming nose and mouth, lifted the poor girl’s dress. Corbett took one look at the mutilation, turned away and vomited the wine he had just drunk. He staggered to the door, a white-faced Cade following him into the sunlight. Corbett threw both sponge and candle at the feet of the priest.

‘God have mercy on her!’ he muttered between bouts of retching. ‘She was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister.’ He suddenly thought of his young daughter, Eleanor. Once, the mass of mutilated flesh he had just glimpsed, must have been a young child cooing in a cradle.

‘God help her,’ Corbett repeated.

He sat in a half-crouch and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand. Ranulf brought an ewer of water from the priest’s house and, without a by your leave, he held it up for Corbett to wash his hands and face. The clerk then stood, glared at the priest and undid the neck of his purse.

Two silver coins went spinning in the priest’s direction. ‘Here, Father!’ Corbett muttered. ‘I want a Mass sung for her. For pity’s sake, before you bury her, douse the coffin in a mixture of vinegar and rose water and place a white cloth over the corpse. She probably lived a wretched life, died a dreadful death. She deserves some honour.’

The priest tapped the silver coins with the toe of his high-heeled boot. ‘I’ll not do that,’ he squeaked.

‘Yes, you bloody well will!’ Corbett roared. ‘You’ll get someone to do it and, if you don’t – and I will check – I will make it my business to have you removed from this benefice. I understand His Grace the King needs chaplains for his army in Scotland.’ He stood over the now frightened priest. ‘My name,’ he whispered, ‘is Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, friend and counsellor of the King. You’ll do what I ask, won’t you?’

The priest’s bombast collapsed like a pricked bladder. He nodded and carefully picked up the silver coins. Corbett didn’t wait but walked back to the wicket gate, where they had tied their horses, and stood for a while drawing in deep breaths.

‘Whoever did that,’ he nodded back to the church, ‘must be both evil and bad.’

Cade, who still appeared nauseous, just muttered and shook his head whilst Ranulf looked as if he had seen a ghost. They walked down the Poultry, their stomachs unsettled as they passed the stinking tables and shearing tubs of the skinners who sat, knives in hand, scraping away the dry fat from the inside of animal skins before throwing the finished pieces into tubs of water.

Ranulf, now revived, cat-called the apprentices who stood waist-deep in the large vats of water, kneading the soaking skin with their bare feet. The abuse was swiftly returned but most of the skinners’ venom was directed at a man chained by the beadles to the pole of one of their stalls. A placard round the fellow’s neck proclaimed how the previous night, whilst drunk, this roaring boy had moved amongst the skinners’ houses mewing like a cat. A barbed insult, implying that some skinners tried to trade cat skin in the place of genuine fur.

At last, Corbett and his party reached the Mercery where tradesmen behind stalls shouted that they had laces, bows, caps, paternosters, boxwood combs, pepper mills and threads for sewing. They passed the great seld, or covered market, in West Cheapside, finding it difficult to manage their horses because of the cows being driven up the Shambles towards the slaughter houses at Newgate. The animals seemed to sense their impending doom and struggled at the ropes round their necks. The horses caught their panic and whinnied in fear. Further up near Newgate, the slaughterers had been busy, turning the cobbles brown with blood, gore and slimy offal. They passed through Newgate, the summer breeze wafting the fetid odours of the prison and the foul stench of the city ditch which ran alongside of it.

‘A morning for bad odours,’ Cade mumbled. He pointed to the city ditch, a seething cauldron of stale water, dead rats, the carcasses of cats and dogs, human waste and rotting offal from the markets. Cade nudged Ranulf playfully in the ribs.

‘Keep on the straight and narrow,’ he warned. ‘From next Monday, the sheriffs intend to use all malefactors in the city gaols to clear the ditch and have the rubbish rowed out to sea to be dumped.’

Corbett, still thinking about the corpse he had just viewed, stopped at Fleet Bridge to buy a ladle of fresh water from tipplers selling it from stoups and water barrels. The others joined him and they washed their mouths before continuing down Holborn towards the Strand. They passed the church of St Dunstan’s in the West, the Chancery record office, went under Temple Bar and on to the broad Strand leading down to Westminster. The great highway was lined by the freshly plastered and painted great inns belonging to certain nobles; the road was busy with judges, lawyers and clerks, dressed in their rayed gowns and white coifs, making their way to and from the courts.

Outside the hospital of Our Lady of Roncesvalles, near the village of Charing, Corbett stopped to admire the new beautifully carved cross erected by his royal master in memory of his beloved wife Eleanor. Moving on, they rounded a bend in the road and saw before them the gables, towers and ornately carved stonework of Westminster Abbey and Palace. Entering the royal precincts by a small postern gate in the northern wall, they saw, to the right, the great mass of the abbey and, nearer to them, wedged neatly between the abbey and the palace grounds, the beautiful church of St Margaret. Yet the splendour of both the abbey and the church was tarnished by rusting scaffold stacked haphazardly against the walls by the masons who had ceased work when the treasury had run out of money to pay them.

Cade pointed north, around the other side of the abbey. ‘Over there,’ he remarked, ‘in the middle of a small orchard you will find the ruins of Father Benedict’s house and,’ he moved his arm, ‘behind the abbey church is the Chapter House where the Sisters of St Martha meet. Shall we go there first?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘No, first we will visit the palace and see the steward, he may be able to give us more information.’

Cade pulled a face. ‘The steward is William Senche. He’s usually half-drunk and can’t tell you what hour of the day it is. You know how it is, Sir Hugh, when the cat’s away the rats will play.’