D. Wilson - The First Horseman

The following morning I was up and dressed in good time. I took a lantern and stepped out into West Cheap. It was dark and made the more so by a thick mist drifting up from the river which so mingled with the smoke from household fires that I could see no more than a few paces before me. I had just passed the bulk of St Mary Bow, whose coloured windows were illumined from light within, when I heard a loud noise ahead of me. It was something between an explosion and a heavy blow upon an anvil. I could not recognise it at all. I stopped. Listened intently. The street was now quiet again, save for the sound of water dropping from the eaves. As I set off again, a frenzied commotion broke out — screams, shouts and cries of alarm. Cautiously I lifted my lantern higher and strode forward. A small crowd had gathered around the Great Conduit, the square building housing the water fountain that stands at the junction of West Cheap and Poultry. There was nothing unusual about that; labourers congregated there every morning hoping to be hired. But there was something different about this gathering. Everyone was grouped around a tableau at the base of the west-facing wall. Drawing closer, I saw two men kneeling beside a third who lay on his back upon the stone paving.

‘What’s happened here?’ I demanded.

One of the kneeling men looked up. His face was pale in the lamp’s lurid glow. ‘This poor fellow’s dead… killed… But, I don’t understand… There was no one near him… Yet… well, see for yourself, Master.’

I bent forward. There was, indeed, a gash in the dead man’s dark cloak and the lamplight glistened on what was oozing from it. I shone the light on his face — and recoiled in horrified recognition.

‘Witchcraft, that’s what it was. Must have been.’ The speaker — a dark, straggle-haired fellow with the stench of the tannery about him — stood up. His long face in the lamplight was pale and lugubrious.

I was too stunned to make any reply. I could scarce breathe for the emotions surging in my breast — anger, horror, grief — and disbelief. ‘This could not be,’ I wanted to cry out. ‘Dear God above, this could not be!’ I knelt on the wet stone and peered closer at the lifeless face. It was strangely calm and expressionless. But there was no doubt. Here was all that remained of Robert Packington.

The tradesman was now raising his voice to address a rapidly gathering audience. ‘Here is a great evil, Masters, the work of Satan himself and his bondsman.’

Several people in the crowd threw questions which the self-appointed narrator answered with gestures and a quavering voice that would have done justice to an actor in one of the Inns of Court plays. ‘Why, here’s this fine gentleman walking across the street, holding his lamp high — thuswise. Steps forward this foreigner from the doorway yonder.’ He glared around, gathering his audience with his baleful eye. ‘He shouts some curse or spell and points — like this. There comes a doomcrack from the very portals of hell. Our gentle neighbour calls out.’ He paused and lowered his voice. ‘But straightway he falls down — ’

‘What are you saying?’ I came to myself and stood up, interrupting the performance. ‘This was the work of a foreigner? Why say you this? Do you know the assassin?’

The speaker drew himself up to his full scrawny height. ‘That I do not, young Master (he emphasised the word ‘young’), but, sure, he had to be foreign. Who of the king’s subjects would deal in such devil’s work?’ His words drew a murmur of assent from the other onlookers.

‘Then you know nothing! You stood there not ten feet from the murderer and all you can tell us is that, in your precious opinion, he must have been foreign.’

‘Do not take on so.’ The man was not to be put out of countenance. ‘I saw what I saw and I know what I know. It was a short fellow in a long cloak with the hood up and he spoke in a strange tongue.’

‘What did he say?’ I demanded.

‘And I were a scholar who spoke foreign I could tell you.’

‘And what became of this little “foreigner”? Can you tell me that?’

For the first time the grimy leatherworker looked less sure of himself. ‘Why, he headed down Bucklersbury… I think.’ He spun round to point at the narrow entrance to the street of grocers’ and apothecaries’ shops. ‘Yes, down Bucklersbury. Heading for the river, I doubt not.’

‘God’s death!’ I shouted. ‘You make a useless witness. What about the rest of you; someone must have seen what became of the assassin.’

There was much muttering and shuffling of feet but no one came forward.

‘Well, we waste time here. Four of you lift the body — gently — and come with me.’

‘Hold fast, young neighbour.’ The tanner was not to be deprived of his assumed authority. ‘This is a matter for the crowner. We must not move the corpse without his say.’

‘Stand aside, fool!’ My anger burst forth and I half-screamed, half-sobbed the order. ‘This man was my friend and a truer friend man never had. Bring him respectfully to my house.’

No one moved.

I glared around at the faces, dim in the lamplight. ‘This was a fellow Londoner killed in cold blood. We must find the truth of the matter. Take him to my house hard by. There we’ll send for the coroner, as the tanner here insists, and a physician will examine the body.’

No movement, only whispered conversations. Then I guessed the cause of their reluctance.

‘If it’s loss of a day’s wages that worries you, I’ll see that no man is the poorer for a simple act of Christian charity.’

Still they stood like members of a tableau in one of the old miracle plays. Then an apprentice nodded silently to his friend and together they stooped to lift the slain man’s shoulders. Others gathered round to help bear the weight. I stepped forward to lead the way and thus our little cortège bore the body of Robert Packington to Goldsmith’s Row.

By taking charge of the necessary investigation of this atrocity I was, as I think I knew even then, covering over the thoughts and feelings that would otherwise have overwhelmed me. I had poor Robert laid out on one of the gold beaters’ benches while I sent for my physician and also for the coroner.

The coroner was the first to arrive. Master Kernish was a gaunt, black-clad lawyer who was accompanied by a secretary carrying his ledgers and writing materials in a large scrip. He came striding in from the street, where daylight was now doing battle with the mist, and immediately set about establishing his authority. He scarcely listened to my brief explanation.

‘Who sent for the physician?’ he demanded curtly. ‘I’ll thank you to leave such decisions to the proper authority — which is me. However,’ he conceded with a deep frown, ‘since the man has been summoned I will await his report on the cadaver. I suppose it is too much to hope that there were any witnesses to this fatality.’

‘Six unskilled labourers and petty tradesmen,’ I said. ‘I have sent them up to my chamber to await your pleasure.’

He replied with a grunt and turned towards the stair.

In the chamber he seated himself in a cushioned wainscot chair drawn up to the table. The secretary sat beside him setting out precisely his ledger, papers, quill, penknife and inkpot like troops on a battlefield.

Kernish surveyed with every appearance of distaste the huddle of men who stood by the livery cupboard. ‘This is the way I work: I will take independent testimony from you, one at a time. You will wait outside until summoned and, while waiting, you will not discuss the incidents of this morning. I will not have any collusion. The life of one of His Majesty’s subjects has been taken, seemingly in a violent manner. If that is the case then a vile crime has been committed against the king’s peace and the good order of this city. I am empowered to uncover the truth. This will be a preliminary investigation. If I deem it necessary, I will swear a jury and you all, or any of you, may be summoned to give your evidence before it. Everything you say in this room and at a subsequent full inquest will be recorded and you will be under solemn oath to restrict your answers to my questions to the simple truth. I want no opinions, suppositions or accusations that cannot be substantiated. Is that clear?’