Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

It was simple statement but it immediately brought back memories of last year’s affray. Death had figured prominently in that affair, well murder to be precise. More deaths came later. Ned felt a chill march up his spine. If Margaret Black sought his assistance, then it must be serious. He really didn’t feel like another limping tramp across the city, but the presence of her impatient retainer left little choice. With a resigned wave of acceptance he followed on.

***

Gruesome Roger had given little away in the painful journey to the riverside. That the retainer was tight lipped could have been considered an understatement. Ned had rarely heard him utter more than a couple of short comments, though they’d usually been in a dryly sardonic tone and almost always concerned Ned’s shortcomings. Only the infamous Christmas confession had seen Hawk’s even approach a measly measure of loquacity. So Ned now stood at the wharf in a foul mood with his leg berating him for the added abuses as he cautiously tried to massage some feeling back into the stricken limb. Ned also could have sworn that once Roger had noticed his limp the black hearted fiend had increased the pace. So having been peremptorily summoned here to the riverside, what did he see? A boat! One of several, stacking the length of the wharf.

Anyone nautically proficient would have recognised it as a three masted carrack of around two hundred tuns burden capacity, not really a small vessel but in the lower end of the middle range shipping that packed this part of the Thames. Craft like this were commonly used for the trade route that shuttled between the Low Countries and the coasts of England. It had the bluff bows and sturdy shape that would see it through the unpredictable storms that swept the North Sea, but still maintain a good speed between ports with its large square sails. All that however was irrelevant to Ned. As far as he was concerned it looked like a large barrel with bits cut off, topped by a couple of tree trunks held up by a mystical network of ropes.

What did hold his interest was the performance on the dock next to the vessel. Mistress Black, his summoner, was standing on a plank that led to the deck of the carrack. He supposed the angle helped, for it gave her diminutive five foot height an extra boost so that the two fellows before her had to look up. He’d seen young Meg Black in many moods and even been on the infrequent end of a painful display of temper for the odd incautious comment. Those reprimands were love pats compared to the tempest he now watched from a safe distance. Ned could’ve sworn that her eyes sparked with fury as she berated those trembling before her. As an aspiring professional he noted her comprehensive knowledge of law, and marrying that with the invective used by the London boatmen, he could well understand why the two officials were nervously backing away. It would take a very brave or foolish man to stand before that assault. The recipients of her wrath eventually broke and fled past him. The taller of the two was as white as a sheet, distractedly mopped his brow with a crumpled cap and muttered to his companion that the fee for this post wasn’t worth the bribes if a man had to put up with this kind of intimidation. Well that at least gave Ned his first clue as to what was happening. Somehow this death involved officials from the Customs House.

Ned didn’t claim to have an intimate knowledge of the ins and outs of the city’s trading practices, but he did know that all cargo was supposed to be made available for inspection by the customs officials before being loaded, to check it for import and export taxes. He’d heard that it could be a very lucrative sinecure, with all sorts of incentives offered by merchants to ensure that the ‘correct’ quantity or weight was assessed. Usually it paid to keep those officers receptive to your interests. He failed to see how Meg Black terrifying two of them could fit into those sensible business practices. Having restored a measure of life to his leg, Ned hobbled over to the guarded gang plank.

Mistress Black positively glowed in the afternoon sunlight. It must have been the battle that gave an added lustre to her already attractive features. The blush of her cheeks and rapid breathing had him momentarily distracted from his rancour at the abrupt summons. The sometime apprentice apothecary took a moment to switch to her newest visitor. Ned may have expected a better welcome after his trials this day. He didn’t get it

“About time you got here Bedwell. Follow me.”

It was short and abrupt and he may have taken offence, but from the look in Meg’s eyes, it wasn’t anger that was fuelling her rage rather a deep fear. From what he’d seen last year it took an awful lot to make Margaret Black afraid. With a parting scowl and a muttered curse Gruesome Roger immediately took the vacant guard post at the dock. Ned ignored Hawk’s ill manners, shelved his question about the customs men and instead trailed after as Meg briskly paced across the deck and pushed open a small door in the aft castle of the ship.

It opened into a cramped room very simply furnished with a demountable trestle table that occupied most of the available space. The rest was packed with a few stools and chests, while on one side was a narrow inset bunk. He’d heard that the living quarters were said to be a bit tight on a ship and this cabin certainly proved that. There was barely enough room to walk around between the table and the walls. It could have seemed even more claustrophobic, but some thoughtful soul had opened the shutters at the back allowing in a needed measure of light and air.

Meg stood by the table, hands clenched very tightly resting on the smooth timbers. She’d made no move to tread further into the closed space and was trying not to breathe. As soon as he stepped in next to her Ned could see why. The cabin stank even worse than the butcher’s shambles at Eastcheap. Ned thanked the saints that the slightly less offensive air of the river had a chance to circulate. To think they spent days or weeks on these vessels. No wonder sailors were considered mad!

“All right, I’m here as requested. Why?” His demand was lacking in his usual courtesy. As of this instant Ned didn’t care. He was tired, sore and it stank in here.

Meg Black said nothing in answer, just lifted a hand and pointed across the room towards the bunk. Her gaze however was fixed on the passing life of the river out the open window. Ned frowned for a moment then shrugged and squeezed past the chests until he made it to the inset bed. It had a pile of blankets and coverlets loosely thrown over the top. He gave brief glance back to Meg Black but apart from a slight trembling, the river trade still held her attention. Perplexed he gave a final shrug and pulled back the covers.

Luckily it had been hours since his last meal, so his sudden dash to the cabin window and the ensuing bout of retching was blessedly short. But now he knew the source of the stench. Two dead bodies under a blanket in this warmth would ferment the atmosphere of any room.

“Who are they?” Ned wiped his mouth after finding his stomach had calmed down enough to take a few steps back towards the bunk, though still shaking from the compulsive loss of his refreshment. He tried to take a more critical look at the dead, though slain would be a better term for the remains.

“The shipmaster, Joachim Schuyer, and his nephew Pieter.” Meg’s voice was flat and drained of emotion. The previous wash of anger at the unfortunate customs officers must have drained away.

Ned lent a little closer to the scene in the bunk, sleeve cuff pressed over his mouth and nose. “I suppose, ‘natural cause’ is out of the question?”