Edward Marston - The Mad Courtesan

Firethorn was keen for his wife to stand by the bedside of his sister-in-law and quick to appreciate the advantages to himself. The most immediate ones now became clear. He was given a cordial welcome, a cheering stoup of wine, a delicious supper and a sympathetic ear. As soon as he retailed the miseries of his day, they were soothed by her attentive concern and lost all power to hurt him. Relieved of his worries, he was taken upstairs to his bedchamber and reminded just how voluptuous Margery could be when not encumbered by children or chores. It was like their marriage night all over again. Pounding the mattress with their shared ecstasy, they endorsed their union in the most strenuous way and were quite unaware of the vicarious pleasure they gave to the servants and apprentices who were listening through the floor of the room above. Theirs was a love that truly enclosed the whole household.

As they lay panting in each other’s arms, Margery spoke fondly of their marriage and its undying bliss. Firethorn was doubly delighted, savouring the wonder of what he had just experienced while looking forward to blessings of like nature in other bedchambers. His wife was going to Cambridge for a couple of weeks. He would be free from all restraint. This thought was uppermost in his mind when he mounted her for a second time and let out a whoop of joy that woke up half of Shoreditch. Marriage blended with mischief.

It was late when he finally tracked them down in the upper reaches of Clerkenwell. They were plodding along together like two old oxen pulling a heavy cart that taxed their combined strength. Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather were typical watchmen, public-spirited individuals who did an unpopular job to the best of their mean abilities. Attired in long, dark robes that were belted at the waist, they had large caps shaped like helmets. Josiah Taplow carried a staff and a lantern while William Merryweather bore a bell along with his lantern and halberd. Their weapons were more for show than use. Like most watchmen, they were more adept at warning people of their presence than of apprehending any malefactors. Indeed, it would be difficult to find officers who would be less use in a fracas than Josiah Taplow, a retired plasterer and William Merryweather, an unemployed poulterer. Worthy and well intentioned they might be but they had little practical effect on the crime-infested area that they were doomed to patrol like lost souls in the outer darkness. It was unlovely work.

Nicholas Bracewell stepped out to accost them.

‘Hold, sirs!’ he said politely.

‘We are watchmen both,’ said Taplow defensively. ‘Stand off a little further. We are armed.’

‘I intend you no injury,’ said Nicholas. ‘It was the coroner himself who sent me in search of you. Master Taplow and Master Merryweather, is it not?’

The two men exchanged a bovine glance of bewilderment then held up their lanterns to illumine the newcomer’s face. Josiah Taplow was a wrinkled old man with a hook nose and a tufted beard. William Merryweather was bigger, sturdier but altogether more somnolent. He used a series of nudges to communicate with his colleague and left all the talking to him. Taplow took stock of the book holder.

‘Who are you, good sir?’ he asked.

‘My name is Nicholas Bracewell.’

‘What business have you with us?’

‘You found a dead body but yesternight, I believe.’

‘That we did.’

‘The gentleman was my friend.’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Master Bracewell,’ said Taplow with a wheezing note of apology, ‘for that gentleman did not die as a gentleman rightly should.’

‘I have seen him and know the worst.’

‘Words could not describe the horror of it, sir. We have seen many foul sights in this occupation but none so foul as this. Is it not so, William?’

Merryweather grunted and nudged his corroboration.

‘Where did you find him?’ said Nicholas.

‘On the corner of Turnmill Street and Cow Cross.’

‘Could you take me to the place?’

‘It is a tidy walk from here.’

‘I think I can keep pace.’

Reassured that Nicholas posed no threat to them, they ambled along the murky lane with the book holder in tow. It took them fifteen minutes to reach Cow Cross and another five to decide on the spot where the corpse had lain. There was a lot of chuntering from Taplow and nudging from Merryweather before agreement was reached. When they held their lanterns low, Nicholas could see the blood of Sebastian Carrick still staining the ground. The sight touched off his vengeful feelings once more and he had to master them before he spoke again.

‘At what hour did you find him?’ he said.

‘Not long after midnight,’ recalled Taplow.

‘How was he lying?’

‘Dead, sir. Stone dead.’

‘On his front? On his back? Curled up on his side?’

‘On his back,’ said Taplow. ‘As if knocked down by a single blow that split his poor brains in two.’

‘Which way was he facing?’

‘Up toward Heaven, sir.’

‘I talk of his feet, Master Taplow.’

‘They pointed toward Turnmill Street.’ The watchman had a tentative stab at detection. ‘We believe he was about to enter that sinful place when he was cut down.’

Nicholas doubted this judgement. Sebastian Carrick was a denizen of dark areas and knew how to protect himself. He would not easily have fallen to a frontal attack. It was more likely that he had been trailed by his killer who spun him round in order to strike the fateful blow. That meant that Carrick was leaving Turnmill Street rather than entering it. Somewhere in the festering warren lay the clue to his barbaric demise.

‘Was anyone else nearby?’ asked Nicholas.

‘None save me and William, sir.’

‘What did you do?’

‘All that we could, master. We fetched a cart and took the body to the coroner. It was a dolorous journey.’

‘You did well, sirs, and I thank you both.’

‘We did our duty.’

‘Indeed. Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘You know it all, Master Bracewell. Bleak as it is.’

Nicholas was about to take his leave when he noticed the vigorous nudging from William Merryweather. The elbow drummed out a message on his colleague’s ribs and Josiah Taplow remembered a significant detail.

‘He was not the first, sir,’ he said.

‘First?’

‘With that wound upon his head. We found another poor wretch with just such a gash as that.’

‘Who was the fellow?’ said Nicholas.

‘A discharged sailor bent upon pleasure.’

‘When was this earlier murder?’

‘Some four or five weeks past.’

‘And where did you find him?’

‘Not far from this very spot sir. Hercules Yard.’

‘With a like wound from a like weapon?’

‘Yes, Master Bracewell.’ Taplow responded to another flurry of nudges. ‘And one thing more besides. He had the same marks upon him.’

‘Marks?’

‘Ten long scratches right down his back. The gentleman and the sailor together. A most peculiar sight, sir. They were like the stripes on a wild animal.’

William Merryweather leant in close to make his one contribution to the discussion.

‘Aye, Josiah,’ he said righteously, ‘and it was a wild animal who put them on those two bodies.’

It was his first visit to the Pickt-hatch and he found it quite overwhelming. Too callow to take on someone like Frances and too drunk to do himself justice with any of the other whores, he was relentlessly urged on by his friends until he gave in. The couple were sent off upstairs with a rousing cheer that gave the young man a momentary boldness. He put an arm around her but it was out of desperation rather than affection and Frances practically carried him along the passageway to her room. Helping him inside, she closed the door and propped him up against it, standing back to appraise him with hands on her hips. He was no more than sixteen and barely able to stand on his long, spindly legs. Frances had taken dozens like him to her lair and she had never needed more than five minutes to bring their ardour to sticky fruition.