Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

He followed Betsy and Ralph through to the chamber at the rear. At least here the odours were more wholesome, in the main. Passing the vats where the soap was being made, Baldwin saw large pots filled with wood ash. This would be steeped in water to make the strong caustic solution, lye, that would mix with fat to create soap. Yet even here there was a repellent taint: the sickly smell of illness. Blood and rottenness pervaded the place.

Betsy opened the door to the chamber and Baldwin found himself contemplating the ruined body of the whore.

‘My holy Father!’ Sir Peregrine cried, and turned away.

Even Sir Baldwin, who had seen the foul abominations committed on healthy people in Acre, had to blink and look away a moment. ‘Who could do this to her?’

‘If it was that little shite, he deserved all he got,’ Sir Peregrine said harshly. ‘He died too easily.’

Baldwin could not argue with the fairness of the sentiment. ‘Ralph?’

He was sniffing at the cup beside the bed. ‘I made up my potion and put it in this. I did say to Betsy that she should only have a little — I was hoping that there’d be enough to keep her going a few nights.’

Betsy glanced away from his accusing look with a hangdog air. ‘I think she heard you, Ralph. We should have been more careful. With her face like that, is it any wonder if she thought that life held nothing more for her?’

‘I did say to keep her away from mirrors,’ Ralph expostulated.

‘And we did, but if she heard you say that, what do you think she’d have thought? And she could feel what had happened to her. She probably felt every last cut by the devil that did this to her.’

‘Who did, mistress?’ Baldwin asked. ‘The man who cut her so appallingly was surely the man who killed her. He should suffer the full penalty for murder.’

‘How could I say? I don’t know.’

‘How did she arrive here?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Was she attacked down here?’

‘I don’t think so, no. She got here early in the morning on Sunday, and we’ve been looking after her since. The gatekeeper at the South Gate saw her with her head all wrapped in a hood and called to her, but she didn’t reply. He knew her from. .’

‘I can imagine,’ Baldwin said.

‘Well, he asked after her yesterday when I passed. Said he thought she must be drunk, the way she was rolling and swaying, otherwise he’d have gone to help her.’

‘Did she say anything about the man who did this to her?’ Sir Peregrine demanded bluntly. ‘That’s what I want to know: was it her pander who did this to punish her? Did Mick do it?’

‘Mick? No. She said that he was dead …’

‘ She said that?’ Baldwin repeated. ‘So she knew he was dead?’

Betsy sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. She looked at Anne’s face, and shook her head before bursting into tears. ‘She’d been going to leave the city with him. Mick was going to buy a place somewhere else. He’d saved a load of money, and he wanted to get away for ever. Never thought they’d end like this, poor idiots!’

‘Where were they going to go?’ Sir Peregrine asked.

‘Anywhere. Tiverton, Barnstaple … I heard them talking about all sorts of places. There were always opportunities for a man like him. He wouldn’t worry about obstacles. If he was trying to achieve something, you knew he’d almost certainly succeed.’

‘What of this money he’d saved?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Where did he come by that?’

She wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘He was a shrewd man with savings. Perhaps he took all the money she gave him and saved it up?’

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin agreed without conviction. ‘Or did he rob the clients who came to visit her?’

‘He wouldn’t do a thing like that!’ she declared.

He was silent a moment, but she seemed unwilling to expand on her words. ‘Very well, Betsy. What else can you tell us about this poor child’s suffering?’

‘I don’t know anything,’ she declared, and now there was more than a hint of fear in her voice. ‘You have to leave here now. I’ve got to get ready for work.’

‘At this time of day?’ Ralph asked, surprised.

‘I have paying customers in the morning,’ she said pointedly.

Reg was relieved to get away. The home where he had once been so happy was little better than a gaol now. Sabina never gave him a moment’s peace, always nagging, going on and on and on, or, if not, sitting with a petulant sulkiness about her that was even more humiliating, somehow. Christ Jesus, if only the bitch could just accept that they weren’t in love any more. Just accept they’d grown apart.

If only Michael hadn’t … well, he had. That was the problem. He didn’t realize what he was saying, the poor little sod. Why should he? Probably peeped in through the gaps in the floor that night, and saw some woman’s legs up in the air while Reg bulled away … Oh, dear God in Heaven, so long as it wasn’t that time when Mazeline had her head … no, no, Reg must have noticed if Michael had seen that. The boy would have given himself away somehow.

He sighed again. Since Sabina had learned that he had a lover, he had taken to sighing quite a lot. It wasn’t ever enough, though. A sigh gave not even momentary relief.

Thank Christ Michael hadn’t seen the face of the woman! That was the only thing that gave him some relief, because if Sabina knew he’d been with Mazeline, she’d go and demand to speak to her.

The very idea tore at his vitals. It was terrifying. She’d not care who heard her outburst, and if Jordan should ever learn that Reg was playing hide the sausage with his wife, his rage would know no bounds. He would destroy any man who did such a thing. And he would do so with still more vicious, vengeful cruelty than he had shown with Anne. That had been a masterpiece of brutality in its way, mutilating a pretty girl in front of the man who would have been her lover, and then executing him as well. Each act performed in front of the other, with the added hideous twist that he forced the lad to help him inflict the suffering on his woman. There was a precise refinement to that which made Reg feel sick even now. But in the same way that Mick had not dared to stop Jordan from hurting his Anne, Reg didn’t dare to prevent him either. Both Mick and Reg were complicit in their terror. They would both aid Jordan in his most evil excesses, purely to be safe themselves. And yet they were neither of them safe. Mick had died, his blood smothering the body of Anne, and Reg … God knew what would happen to him.

If he could, he would go home now, pack, and leave for ever. But he couldn’t just up and go: if he was going to do that, he’d have to take Mazeline with him. He couldn’t — Jesus, save me! — couldn’t leave her to Jordan’s mercy. What, leave her to the same fate as Anne? Impossible. And he couldn’t leave without Michael. Michael didn’t understand yet, all he knew was that Daddy was tumbling with another woman. It would be a long, long time before he could understand what his father was engaged in. Dear Christ, please don’t let my son talk about that to anyone else he knows. If he were to tell his friends and it got back to Jordie … It didn’t bear thinking of.

And then he saw her. Suddenly the sun seemed to shine again. Where the light had been dim, now it was fresh and bright, and the colours of people’s clothing were clear and vibrant again, and he was alive again, alive and happy, and all his fears seemed to fade. They didn’t leave him, because at the back of his mind there was always Jordan, but they were a little reduced in virulence, as though the fact of Jordie’s presence was less intimidating now.

‘Mistress,’ he called. ‘Mistress le Bolle?’

She turned, and he felt his joy flee, to be replaced by a terror more fierce than before. This was his Mazeline, but she was terribly marked. Her left eye was almost black, with a livid orange tidemark.