Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

‘You can get one of them in any of the taverns in Lower Street, I daresay,’ Alred said absently. He burped again, and shivered. Why did he feel as though there was an icy chill in the place? Yet he was sweating like a hog in sunshine. There was no sense to it, but he got like it every time he drank too much.

‘I don’t think we can afford any of them!’ Bill said, sinking back on his makeshift bed.

Leaving him there, Alred went to the door again and peered out. The street here had a good view over the haven most mornings, although today it was obscured by a low mist that lay over all the water. It was a curious sight, a white, rolling smoke that poured in up the river from the sea. Projecting from the nothingness beneath was a forest of mastheads. It was very odd.

He made his unsteady way the few yards over to the pit. All his sand and gravel was still there, and the pile of cobbles ready to be inserted and rammed home to create the new surface. And there, in the hole, was the dead man still, waiting for the Coroner’s visit. A thin crowd of gawpers stood at the end of the hole, peering down at the corpse.

Alred walked to the edge and gazed with them. It was strange to be looking down at the hole like this. Usually he would be in there mending the roadway, and he’d have a different view of people. He’d recognise some from the sight of a chin or nostrils seen from beneath. Women he would view from a more interesting perspective than most men would ever gain.

There were several who stood and stared today. Some urchins, a few tranters and tatterdemalion scroungers, and one man who must have been a sailor from the way he rolled as he walked, a big man with a square face and a chin that had only very recently been shaved. He looked the sort of man who was capable with his hands, strong and self-reliant. The fellow was familiar, but as so often, seeing him from an equal footing, as it were, Alred couldn’t place him.

‘Morning, master,’ the watchman said. He was sitting on the step of a building nearby, his staff resting in his crossed arms, legs bent so that he had to peer over his knees to talk to Alred. ‘You sleep well?’

There was more than a hint of jealousy in his tone. Alred gave a slight grimace. ‘Sleep? In that little workshop? No, friend. There’s no comfort on a solid floor like that, and if there were, the worry about finishing all this in time to get on to my next job would stop me being able to enjoy myself.’

‘Strange. I would have thought the constant snoring would have kept you awake rather than the cold or worry,’ the guard said drily. He yawned. ‘Some of us have been fighting the damned pigs away all night.’

It was the same everywhere, as Alred knew too well. Any family would have a hog or two — they were a staple. And it was easier to let them feed themselves by rooting about in the kennel or among the other piles of rubbish that lay about in the roads. ‘No town in the country can keep the streets safe from pigs,’ he said.

‘You’re right there. There were three last night, one after the other, all trying to get to this poor devil’s corpse. I know them, mind.’

‘How?’

‘Oh, we mark them. If a pig’s found wandering and is being a nuisance, we cut off its tail and charge the owner to get it back. That’s the first time. If we find it again, we kill it, and he can have the body if he pays a fine — four pennies, one per foot. We’ll have to do more soon, though. The damned things are making a mess of the place.’

Alred said nothing. This area was a mess anyway. He allowed his gaze to move up the street, from the corpse here in the working, past the large dungheap from the stable further down the hill, to the pile of broken timbers and trash from a house whose outbuildings had collapsed, past the kennel full of human excrement, and on.

The watchman got the message. He muttered sourly, ‘Let’s just hope the Coroner gets here sooner rather than later. We all need to get back to normal.’

‘That poor bugger won’t, though, will he?’ Alred commented, jerking his chin at the body in the hole.

‘No. Wonder where he came from?’

‘He’s not a local man?’

‘Him?’ the watchman chuckled. ‘He’s about as local as you are, man. I’ve never seen him before. Christ Himself may know where he’s from, but I don’t.’

Simon arrived in his rooms to find Stephen already frowning at a set of records.

‘I cannot make these numbers add up, Bailiff.’

‘I never can either,’ Simon said lightly. ‘Stephen, I am going to visit Paul Pyckard. Do you know where he lives?’

‘He’s not far from Hawley’s house on Lower Street. Three doors south, I think. Why?’

‘I want to speak to him — see if anything was actually stolen from his vessel. Pirates normally try to steal everything they can. But not to take it, slaughter all the crew and even try to burn it … that makes no sense at all.’

‘No.’ He was still a moment. ‘Have you heard what people are saying?’

‘Let me guess: the devil came and took the evil bastards because the master had insulted a nun on his last voyage?’

‘He did?’ Stephen said, wide-eyed.

‘No. What can you tell me about Pyckard?’

‘I haven’t been here as long as you, Bailiff. You know him better than I.’

‘You will have heard more gossip than I,’ Simon said knowingly. It was always the case that while merchants might detest each other, their clerks would still deal with each other, discussing the antics of their masters as a source of joint amusement.

‘He’s not been well for some weeks. I know that much. He was married, but his wife died in a storm at sea on one of his ships, these fifteen years since. He was distraught when that happened, I heard. They were devoted.’

‘Yes. I heard that too,’ Simon said. ‘What of the ship?’

‘The Saint John replaced one he lost years ago, I think. Someone told me that that cog, the Saint Rumon , was his first; he bought it from the proceeds of importing spices and cloths. Now he’s got three ships.’

‘Very good. See if you can learn anything more.’

‘I will do what I can, Bailiff.’

‘I won’t be long,’ Simon said next, making for the door. ‘I merely want to see if I can understand this. It seems most … curious.’

He repeated that word to himself as he strode up the street towards the house Stephen had indicated. The mist was burning away as he walked and he could see some of the nearer ships beginning to show themselves, the great hulls looming through the bright fog like ghosts. There was a strange effect on his eyes. He’d noticed it before when there had been a mist in from the sea, but never so clearly as now: as he stood on the shore, he could almost imagine he was being drawn out into the clutching tendrils of fog, to be swallowed by the ships.

Superstition! he told himself. Now, in the daylight, he felt much bolder. There were more important things to worry about today!

Alred was soon back with the others. They were chatting in lively fashion as he appeared in the doorway.

‘Ho ho, here’s the master!’ Law cackled. ‘Been sick yet?’

‘Be silent, boy. Sweet Jesus’s pains, you’d drive a man to drink, you would. Did you ever pour me that drink?’

‘Have a hair of the dog that bit you,’ Bill said more sympathetically. ‘Come on, Al. It’s not as though you can’t hold it. Fetch yourself a beer. What are we?’

Law laughed again. ‘We’re paviours!’

‘I can’t hear you, Al.’

‘Bleeding paviours.’

‘Still can’t hear you!’

‘We’re bleeding paviours, you deaf son of a goat!’ Alred said, and despite himself he grinned as he said it, marching to the small barrel they’d bought earlier in the week and pouring a measure into a drinking horn he’d stolen from the tavern. He took the drink to the doorway and peered out. Soon the ale began to seep into his belly and bowels, and he did feel better. He smiled at Bill as he clapped him on the back and walked out to buy some pies.