Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Bastard officials!’ he grumbled. He wished the beadles and Guild members would take as much care on what was sold in the streets as they did about their precious reputations. He turned and went back up the Shambles, stopping for a while to watch a man, dressed completely in black, the whitened bones of a skeleton painted garishly on his garb, dance a macabre jig whilst his companion tapped a drum and a boy on a reedy flute blew an eerie death march. Corbett pushed his way through the crowds round the butchers’ stalls, keeping one hand on his purse and a wary eye on the rubbish underfoot. Outside Newgate a crowd had gathered to greet the death carts taking felons up to the scaffold at Smithfield or down the city to the Elms. He remembered the mad beggar man the night before and, shivering, he hurried on.

Corbett now wished Ranulf was with him. At the corner of Cock Lane, the blowsy harridans and common whores were already touting for business, the white paint on their faces so thick it cracked in places, their shaven heads covered with red or orange wigs.

‘A penny for a tumble!’ one shrieked at Corbett.

‘Tuppence and you can do anything you like!’

‘Don’t worry,’ another cackled. ‘It won’t take long!’

Corbett went over to the group. He smiled, trying to hide his disgust at the sour smell from their clothes, ignoring the black paint round their eyes which was beginning to run and stain their painted cheeks.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ he greeted the group.

The women looked at each other speechlessly before bursting into shrieks of laughter.

‘Oh, good morning, sir!’ they chorused back, flouncing their bright red skirts and bowing in mock curtseys.

‘What do you want?’ A large fat woman, round as a barrel of lard, pushed her way forward, her lips, parted in a false smile, showing blackened stumps of teeth.

‘Which one of us takes your fancy?’ She turned and grinned at her companions. ‘For a shilling you can have the lot of us, a good baker’s dozen!

More shrieks of laughter greeted her sally. Corbett tried to hide his embarrassment and looked away.

‘My lady,’ he murmured, ‘I’d probably exhaust you.’ He smiled at the rest. ‘I mean all of you.’

The laughter and the catcalls died as a silver coin appeared between Corbett’s fingers. ‘For the moment, my beauties, accept my profound apologies for being unable to give you my custom, but this silver piece,’ he gazed round the group, ‘this silver piece is for anyone who can provide information about the death of Agnes. You know, the girl killed in the church near Greyfriars.’

The whores now shrank back like a group of frightened children.

‘I mean no harm,’ Corbett continued gently. ‘I am the King’s man. I work with the under-sheriff, Alexander Cade.’

‘You mean Big Lance!’ the tub of lard shouted back.

Corbett stared at her curiously.

‘Oh, yes, that’s what we call him. A good jouster, Master Cade. I can tell you.’

A young girl, no more than fifteen or sixteen summers, her thin bony body dressed in rags, pushed her way to the front. ‘I can tell you about Agnes.’

Corbett held the silver coin before her eyes. ‘I am waiting, child.’

The girl smiled; her pallid, white face suddenly looked pathetic and vulnerable. For a few seconds her eyes lost their watchful hardness.

‘Down there,’ the girl pointed. ‘Next to the apothecary. Agnes had a garret.’ She wiped her runny nose on the back of her hands. ‘She always claimed to be better than any of us. Oh, yes, a regular lady with her own chamber and her fine gowns.’

‘What else do you know?’

‘Agnes became frightened. She said she had seen something.’ The girl’s mouth became slack and she shook her head. ‘I don’t know what but it was after one of the other girls was killed. Anyway, she refused to go out. She paid one of the boys, an urchin, to watch the door.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all I know.’ Her grimy hand came out. ‘Please, sir,’ she whispered eagerly. ‘May I have the coin?’

Corbett pressed it into her hand, and, unsheathing his dagger, he walked away down the darkened alleyway. At the shop next to the apothecary’s he stopped and stared up at the rotting wood and crumbling plaster, before knocking on the door. A toothless old hag answered, her eyes small black buttons in a yellowing, lined face. A regular nightbird, Corbett thought, one of the old hags who rented out chambers to street-walkers, took their money and turned a blind eye to what they did. Of course, at first, the old hag knew nothing but, when coins changed hands, she suddenly remembered everything. Corbett listened to her chatter. The hag told him nothing he hadn’t already learnt from the whore but, for another coin, she showed Corbett Agnes’s chamber. There was nothing there; the dead girl’s possessions, together with every stick of furniture, had been moved and the clerk realised the old woman was just playing him like a landed fish.

Outside in the street, Corbett leaned against the wall of the house and stared around. The place was filthy. He glimpsed things in the sewer, floating on top of the greenish water, which made his stomach turn and he pinched his nose at the terrible smell from the refuse piled high against the walls. He felt sure he was being watched and glanced cautiously up the narrow alleyways which fed into Cock Lane. He walked a little way up the street, his hand against the wall of the house, pulling it away quickly as his fingers touched something warm and furry. He turned, muttering a curse at the rat which scuttled between the crevices, then walked back to the apothecary’s. Yes, he had seen it: the small shadow in one of the alleyways.

‘This is going to be an expensive morning,’ he murmured. He took another coin out of his purse and held it up. ‘I know you are there, boy!’ he called out. ‘You still watch the house don’t you? I mean no harm.’ He spoke softly, wishing to avoid the prostitutes still gathered at the mouth of Cock Lane and the hungry-eyed faces which peered down from the casement windows. ‘Come here, boy!’ Corbett urged. ‘You will be well rewarded.’

The beggar lad crept out of the alleyway. He was barefoot, his face so thin his large eyes made him look like some baby owl frightened by the light. He nervously plucked at the rough sacking which served as a cloak. He thrust his little hand forward.

‘Thank you, sir.’

The voice was reedy and Corbett recognised the professional beggar. The poor child was probably despatched on to the streets by his parents to beg for alms. Corbett crouched in the doorway of the apothecary’s shop and waved the lad forward. The boy, wary of the dangers of the street, edged cautiously near, his eyes glued on the silver piece. Corbett quickly reached out, seized the boy’s thin arm and felt a twinge of compassion. All skin and bone; how long, he thought, would this child last in the next severe winter?

‘Come on!’ he urged swiftly. ‘I mean you no harm. Look, here’s a silver piece. I’ll give you another if you tell me the truth.’

The boy sucked the knuckle of his free hand.

‘You knew Agnes, the girl who died?’

The boy nodded.

‘What was she frightened of?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why did she stay in her room?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you know?’

‘A man came.’

‘What kind of man?’

‘A priest, a brother. He was tall and wore a cowl, but he left very quickly.’

‘And what else happened?’

‘Agnes gave me a message.’

‘What was it?’

‘Just a scrap of parchment, sir. I was to take it to Westminster.’

‘To whom?’

‘I don’t know.’ The large eyes welled with tears. ‘I did something wrong. I didn’t mean to but I was hungry. I dropped the message in a sewer and spent the money the girl gave me at a bread shop.’