Kate Sedley - The Dance of Death

I was surprised and showed it. ‘Not like your men to be so precise,’ I sneered, getting a little of my own back. ‘They must have been having one of their better days.’

Timothy scowled. ‘None of this is a joke, Roger. It’s damnably dangerous.’

‘Oho!’ I exclaimed. ‘The truth at last! Of course it’s dangerous. I told you yesterday we were dabbling in treason. It’s all very well saying that the duke will protect us. He may not be able to. He could be in the Tower — or worse.’

Timothy’s irritation was written large on his face. He was under great strain, and suddenly it showed. ‘That’s enough of that sort of talk.’ The corner of his right eye had developed a twitch. ‘Now listen to me carefully. Make sure that no one is watching you when you enter Culpepper’s house and be certain it’s him when he answers the door. He’s a widower. Lives alone. An old man, over sixty, as you’d expect. Grey hair, thickset. None too keen on using the communal pump.’

‘You mean he stinks more than normal?’

‘We-ell. . yes. But it’s another way of identifying him. Here, take this token.’ The spymaster pushed a bone disc, with the emblem of the White Boar carved on one side, towards me. ‘If he jibs at letting you in, show him this. But not unless you have to. Then ask him for a description of Robin Gaunt. That’s all you want. Nothing more. Don’t enter into conversation with him.’

‘And if he can’t remember this Robin Gaunt, or perhaps won’t say unless I tell him why I wish to know?’

Timothy sighed, the lines of weariness about his eyes seeming to increase. ‘Then I’ll have to have him brought in for questioning. Frighten him a bit. But I don’t want to do that unless it’s necessary. His neighbours are bound to get wind of it, and the last thing I want is to draw any attention to him.’

‘But isn’t he going to discuss my visit with the neighbours anyway?’

‘The man who’s been keeping an eye on him these past few days reports that Culpepper doesn’t like company and speaks to very few people. Other people tend to avoid him.’

‘The smell must be worse than we thought,’ I commented with a grin, then wished I hadn’t. Timothy looked for a moment as though he might burst into tears.

‘I’ve warned you, Roger, that this is a serious matter. Don’t make a jest of it.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I shall expect you back here after dinner, when Mistress Gray will join us. Now, off you go, and for God’s sake, take care. Make sure you’re not being followed. If anything — anything at all — arouses your suspicions, come back and try again tomorrow.’

Half an hour later, I crossed West Cheap, strolled through the goldsmiths’ quarter and bore right into the Shambles.

I had been able to smell it from some way off, the stench assaulting my nose from the second I entered Old Change. Up close, it was even more pungent, the cobbles slippery with blood and the central drain piled high with discarded animal bones and offal. Mind you, there was less waste here than in many other parts of London. There wasn’t much of any beast that couldn’t be used; eyes were a great delicacy, as also were brains, very tasty, like the innards, stewed with an onion, and some meat could even be scraped off the ears. A whole sheep or cow’s head could make several meals and feed a family quite cheaply, as I well knew. Adela was nothing if not a thrifty housewife. I had often enjoyed a pig’s cheek, although I have to admit to a certain queasiness about eating eyes.

Stinking Lane more than lived up to its name, the houses on either side being extremely close together and the smell from the Shambles getting trapped between them. There were other aromas, too; poor drainage meant that urine and faeces were mixed with rotting vegetables and the other detritus of daily life. (Urine and faeces? I’m becoming too nice in my old age. ‘Pee’ and ‘shit’ were words that would have served me well enough once.) Twice the soles of my boots slipped on the slime of the cobbles as I counted three cottages up on the left-hand side. I took a step back and surveyed the frontage.

There was only one window, located on the ground floor, and that was shuttered. The door, too, was inhospitably closed. I hammered against the wood and waited. Nothing happened.

I hammered again, louder this time, but again no one answered. A third endeavour produced the same result.

I felt suddenly angry and kicked the door violently, but my irritation was really directed more at Timothy and myself. Why had it not entered our heads that Culpepper might be out? Why had we expected him to be sitting there, awaiting our pleasure? He wasn’t even aware of our existence.

Refusing to accept defeat, I knocked a fourth time. The door of the next hovel was wrenched open and a young woman appeared, waving a broom with fell intent.

‘Stop makin’ that fuckin’ noise, can’t you?’ she hissed. ‘I’ve just got my baby off to sleep, an’ now you come along, wakin’ the dead with yer rattling and bangin’.’

‘I’m looking for Master Culpepper,’ I said. ‘Do you know if he’s in?’

‘No, I don’t,’ the woman answered viciously, but keeping her voice low. ‘I’m not ’is bloody keeper.’ She relented slightly. ‘’E were there first thing this morning, ’bout an hour ago. I do know that ’cos I saw ’im, throwin’ ’is rubbish into the drain. Gone out, I reckon. But ’e won’t be long. ’E never is.’

I thanked her and apologized for the disturbance, hoping I hadn’t wakened the child. She grunted, but gave me a nod of acceptance before whisking herself inside again and closing her door.

I decided that it would be worthwhile to wait around and return in half an hour or so, but as there was nothing in Stinking Lane or the Shambles to interest me, I decided that I might as well walk as far as St Paul’s. If memory served me aright, there was usually some sort of entertainment going on in and around the church or churchyard. I swung on my heel and, as I did so, saw a young man on the other side of the lane, walking in the opposite direction, going towards Aldersgate. I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about him, had it not been for the jaunty blue feather in his hat.

I knew him at once. The arrogant gait, as he picked his careful way across the slimy cobbles, and the self-satisfied smirk half seen on his face both told me that this was the same man I had noticed yesterday on the water-stairs at Baynard’s Castle. With a guilty start, I remembered Timothy Plummer’s admonition to keep my visit to Master Culpepper’s house as secret as possible. Instead of which, I had made enough noise to alert one of his neighbours and had then indulged in a loud-voiced conversation with her that, in this very narrow street, could probably be heard for quarter of a mile around. I cursed myself royally for the fool that I undoubtedly was. My anger and resentment were making me careless, and that could endanger my own life as well as those of others.

How long, I wondered, had Blue Feather been there? Was he, as he seemed to be, just passing by, or had he been standing opposite, unnoticed by me, for some little time, listening to my exchange with Humphrey Culpepper’s neighbour? I shrugged fatalistically. There was no point in pursuit: he would tell me nothing to any purpose even if I accosted him, and I would only draw attention to myself and put him on his guard. If, that is, he had anything to be on guard about. The chances were, it was mere coincidence that I had remarked him two days running — although I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe this. At least I had one advantage over the stranger; he didn’t know that I had spotted him the previous day and would therefore have no reason to think that I might be suspicious of him.