Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

At the very moment their master was slipping into sleep, Maltote and Ranulf, with rags wrapped round their boots to muffle their footsteps, stole downstairs, unlocked the side door and crept out into the darkened street. Ranulf ordered Maltote to keep his mutterings and curses to himself as they slipped along Bread Street where Ranulf had hidden a nosegay of roses in a small crevice in the alleyway. He had stolen these earlier from a merchant’s garden in West Cheap. Ranulf sighed with relief, the flowers were undisturbed, and they continued on up the alleyways, passages and runnels to the old city wall, past the Fleet prison and into Shoe Lane where Lady Mary Neville lived. Ranulf refused to let Maltote even whisper, keeping a wary eye on the watch and one hand on his dagger against the footpads, cutpurses and sturdy beggars who prowled the night looking for prey.

Outside the darkened house, Ranulf stopped and, using his old skills as a burglar, carefully edged up the wall, securing footholds in the white lathed plaster and on the rim of the supporting black beams; hissing and muttering, he told Maltote to climb on a lower window sill and hand up the roses the young messenger was forlornly holding. Ranulf worked expertly, using the many holds and gaps in the plaster around the window sill of what he guessed to be Lady Mary’s bedchamber, until the whole area was circled by a garland of roses. Some would fall but Ranulf had taken enough to intrigue and fascinate this only love of his life. He then jumped down, laughing softly and, with Maltote in tow, hurried back to Bread Street.

In another part of the city, Hawisa, a young courtesan, recently arrived in London from Worcester, tripped along Monkwell Street near Cripplegate. She had spent the evening comforting an elderly merchant in the room behind his shop whilst his wife and family had gone on a pilgrimage to St Thomas of Canterbury. Hawisa lifted the hem of her murrey skirt, taking great care as she picked her way round the mounds of refuse, jumping and giggling with fright as the rats scurried back to their holes. At last she reached the end house built against the old crumbling city wall and the basement cellar the wool merchant had bought for her. Hawisa was tired and so glad to be home in a chamber which she had decorated and furnished to suit her own comfort. She put the key in the lock, turned it, then froze as she heard a sound behind her. Another rat? Or someone else? She stopped, certain it was a footfall she had heard in the street above her. She stepped out of the porch and looked back up the darkened steps. Nothing. She went back and fumbled with her key then started as she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

‘Hawisa,’ the voice whispered, ‘I have been waiting for you!’

Hawisa smiled, face up, just as the killer’s knife swept towards her neck, ripping it in one long, bloody gash.

Corbett was breaking his fast in the buttery early next morning when the entire house was disturbed by a pounding at the door. He anticipated the news even as he swung the door open and saw the under-sheriff, Alexander Cade, dishevelled and unshaven, standing there.

‘There’s been another murder, hasn’t there?’ Corbett said softly.

‘Yes, about four hours ago. A prostitute named Hawisa was killed outside her own tenement.’

Corbett waved him in. ‘The dead will wait for a while,’ he murmured. ‘You have broken your fast?’

Cade shook his head. Corbett led him into the kitchen and seated him at a table, pushing a bowl of wine and a trancher of dried meat and fresh brown loaves towards him. Cade ate and drank voraciously, wolfing the food down whilst Corbett watched him curiously: despite his hunger, the under-sheriff seemed upset.

‘Did you know Hawisa?’ Corbett asked as a bleary-eyed Ranulf and Maltote slipped into the buttery. The under-sheriff looked up, his half-open mouth full of bread and meat. Corbett knew he had caught him unawares. ‘You did know her, didn’t you?’

Cade nodded. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled. ‘I knew the girl, but that’s my business!’

Ranulf and Maltote sat on the bench beside him.

‘Master Cade, a moment. Ranulf, I must speak to you.’

Outside in the passageway Corbett grasped Ranulf by the front of his jerkin. ‘You left the house last night, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, Master. But, as Master Cade said, that’s my business!’

‘When you leave the door off the latch, you make it mine!’ Corbett snarled. ‘I have enough enemies in this city without extending a public invitation to every felon and footpad, not to mention some red-handed killer of the night!’ He pushed Ranulf against the wall. ‘Where did you go? The Lady Mary Neville’s?’

‘Yes, I did!’ Ranulf glared back.

‘She’s a Lady and a widow!’

‘And what am I?’ Ranulf snapped. ‘Some commoner? Am I to know my true station in life, Master?’ Ranulf stepped closer. ‘Or would you like her for yourself, Master? Is that it? I have seen the way you look at her.’

Corbett’s hand flew to his dagger and Ranulf grasped the hilt of his.

‘I have served you long, Master,’ Ranulf continued quietly. ‘And I have served you well. God knows who my father was whilst my mother was the daughter of a peasant farmer. She had aspirations but not the talent to match. Believe me, I have both. One day I will kneel in front of the King.’ Ranulf jutted his chin forward. ‘I shall be knighted!’

Corbett let his hands fall away and leaned against the wall of the passageway. ‘God save us, Ranulf!’ he murmured. ‘Here we are, hands on daggers! Do what you wish. We have other business at hand.’

They collected Cade and a half-sleeping Maltote from the buttery and walked down a deserted Bread Street and up into Cheapside. The great thoroughfare was empty, only a lonely friar, a chasuble across his shoulder, and a sleepy-eyed boy carrying a lighted taper, hurried along with the viaticum for the sick. Dogs and cats fought over mounds of litter. Two members of the city watch staggered by as drunk as the roisterers they hunted. Corbett stared up at the grey sky.

‘Where is the girl’s corpse, Master Cade?’

‘It’s already been moved to St Lawrence Jewry. We put it on one of the dung carts.’

‘Who found it?’

‘A member of the watch.’ Cade looked away and spat. ‘He heard the dogs snarling and bickering over the body.’ Cade tightened his lips to stop himself retching. ‘God save us!’ he whispered. ‘The curs were licking and drinking her blood!’

Corbett breathed a silent prayer. ‘There’s little point in going to the place,’ he said. ‘Was the girl killed in her room?’

‘Oh, no, just outside. She had the key in the lock when the killer struck.’

‘Shall we go to St Lawrence Jewry?’

‘Master Corbett, I have to attend to other matters first. Would you wait?’ Cade tapped his pouch hopefully. ‘I asked my clerk to make a search of the records. He has drawn up a memorandum on what we know about Puddlicott.’

Corbett smiled. ‘Let’s attend to your business first, Master Cade.’

The under-sheriff took him up to the Great Stocks near the Conduit where soldiers wearing the blue and mustard livery of the city, had assembled the felons and night-walkers in order to carry out the day’s punishments. As Corbett arrived, a cleric caught in the arms of a burgess’s wife was being led away, preceded by a man playing the bagpipes.

‘He’s to walk six times to Newgate and back, bare-arsed,’ Cade explained. ‘His breeches round his ankles!’

The soldiers roared with laughter as the poor unfortunate was led away. Cade had to see to the ordering of other punishments. A counterfeit man who had purchased two satin cloaks for five pounds; on the excuse of taking one away to show a friend, the man had paid a quarter of a noble, offering as a deposit fifteen similar coins tied up in a purse. The shopkeeper had accepted this, and only when the fellow had gone did he find the coins were mere counters. Another, a cobbler had claimed he could find stolen goods by using a loaf with knives pressed in each side. Now the knives dangled round the man’s neck and, as he was clasped into the pillory, the loaf, soaked in horse’s urine, was rubbed into his face. The punishments continued. A blasphemer had to carry three pounds of wax to a church in Southwark. A man pretending to be dumb, so he could beg for alms, had the tip of his tongue burnt with a red-hot poker. Corbett got tired of the summary punishments and walked away.