P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

Recorder Fleetwood was talking to his men. Dodd thought it was all very orderly and efficient. Michael was put on a horselitter, decently covered, while the footpads’ bodies were loaded on packponies to go back up to the Hanging Elm for display.

‘Could we search the village houses for that suit of Michael’s?’ Carey asked.

Hunsdon and Fleetwood exchanged cynical looks. ‘I’m afraid I would need search warrants for each house,’ said the Recorder.

‘Why?’ asked Carey. ‘Her Majesty’s pursuivants regularly tear London apart looking for priests.’

‘Ah yes, but that is a matter of high policy and treason. This is only a murder.’

‘Besides, they’ll have sold the suit, I should think,’ said Hunsdon. ‘Surely even Hampstead peasants would have more sense than to wear a suit from a murdered man. Never mind, Robin. I’m going to try something else. Mr Fleetwood, would you and your men kindly assemble the villagers by the horsepond?’

Hunsdon addressed the assembled people from horseback.

‘Now, as you know, goodmen and goodwives of Hampstead, three wicked footpads were killed by my son and his followers the day before yesterday when they tried an ambush at the Cut. I would not dream of suggesting that any of you would be concealing such criminals, which is of course a crime in itself.’

Some of the villagers shifted their feet. Dodd wondered if he recognised a couple of them.

‘However, earlier that day, those same wicked footpads had probably killed my servant, Michael Lang, a good decent married man, that leaves a wife and three children. He had served me since he was a boy.’ Hunsdon paused impressively. ‘I will pay three pounds sterling for any genuine information about that murder. Three pounds in gold. No questions asked. Understand? You may find me at Somerset House in the Strand and I will receive any such informer personally.’

***

Carey seemed subdued as they rode back down Haverstock Hill and followed a roundabout route to return to the Mermaid Inn while avoiding the dangers of the Strand. They found Shakespeare sitting quietly next to Greene, reading a book. He had covered Greene with a solicitous if rancid blanket and put his head on a greasy bench cushion and Greene looked comfortable and happy. Carey tipped Shakespeare and sent him back to Somerset House with the horses.

After they had eaten, Dodd had no further luck with the cards and was led into a couple of very rash bets by sheer irritation with the Courtier’s breeziness-as Carey sternly lectured him after each game.

Carey resorted to tossing a coin over and over.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now we’ve had two heads in a row. What are the chances the next time it will be tails?’

‘A bit higher, I’d say, sir,’ Dodd opined.

‘No, no, no!’ said Carey, who had not been intended by Nature for a schoolmaster. ‘The chances are exactly the same.’

‘Why?’ Dodd was frowning at the offending coin, lying innocently on the blackened table. Barnabus and Simon had come in while Carey was at his tutoring and now Barnabus gave a delicate cough.

‘Only there’s nothing doing in the Mediterranean, sir, and I was wondering if you’d mind if I took Simon off to see his mum, see if she’s got any news, you know.’

‘Of course, it doesn’t work if the coins are heavier one side than the other. What’s that, Barnabus? Is that the woman with the fighting cock?’

‘Tamburlain the Great, sir. Yes. I wouldn’t mind seeing how he’s shaping now he’s finished his moult.’

Dodd, who was desperate to get away from Carey and his notions about cards and the like, stared hard at Barnabus.

‘Sergeant Dodd could come too. I could teach him ’ow to navigate ’is way around a city.’

‘Ay, sir,’ said Dodd quickly, heartily sick of card-playing. ‘I wouldnae mind a breath of fresh air.’

It was certainly true that Greene had been farting with the creativity of the very drunk, but mainly Dodd’s head was hurting from adding up his points and then comparing the score with Carey’s numbers.

Carey looked disappointed. ‘Oh, very well.’

‘Ye willnae have any trouble wi’ bailiffs, sitting here alone, sir?’

‘No, no. The Mermaid’s in the Blackfriars Liberty, I should be safe enough. I might meet some old friends here as well if I stay long enough for them to wake up and venture out of their pits.’

Barnabus led the way up Water Lane, under the Blackfriars Gateway and into the broadest street Dodd had seen in the city, where the cobbles were worn with deep ruts. They walked eastwards along it with St Paul’s looming over the houses north of them and Barnabus dinning Dodd’s ears with a continuous stream of reminiscence, anecdote and the occasional history lesson attached to some landmark or other that they passed. It seemed that navigating in the city was less a matter of knowing where you were going, than remembering landmarks and turning left or right at them. Barnabus took them up a long narrow street and out at a big old-fashioned market cross that he claimed was called Eleanor Cross after some Queen or other. Dodd blinked around himself. They were in a dazzlingly wealthy shopping street lined with barred windows where gold and silver plate and magnificent jewels studded with pearls, rubies, sapphires, emeralds glinted tantalisingly. Large buff-coated men with swords stood at every door, giving Dodd considering looks when he went up to gawp at the displays. He knew he was gawping and it annoyed him, but he couldn’t help it. Never in all his life had he seen so much money laid out before him, so many vast golden cups and bowls, so much wrought jewellery. It made your mouth water, truly it did.

‘This is Cheapside,’ said Simon Barnet at Dodd’s elbow. ‘Good, innit?’

Dodd nodded, speechless.

‘Up that way,’ Barnabus added, waving an arm to the north, ‘that’s where the big guildhalls are and Gresham’s Exchange is that way on Cornhill.’

‘Does yer sister live here?’

‘Nah. It’s too pricey round here, I just thought I’d show you Cheapside, seeing it’s your first visit. I mean, you couldn’t come to London and miss the Cheapside jewellers, could you?’

Dodd shook his head. They wandered along for a while and came to a row of stalls selling ruffs of astonishing width, embroidered shirts, women’s wigs sparkling with gold chains and pearls, and some extraordinary hats. Dodd’s mouth fell open again before he shut it with an irritated click of his teeth. Never in his life had he felt such a yokel, but this made Edinburgh look like Longtown by comparison. Where in God’s name did folk get the money to spend on such things?

‘Here,’ nudged Barnabus. ‘Why don’t you buy something for your wife. Eh?’

‘What, for Janet?’

‘Yeh. She’s your wife, in’t she?’

‘Well, but…These are fer fine court ladies, not Janet.’

‘She may not be a fine lady, though she’s always seemed pretty fine to me, but you’re a man of importance in Carlisle and she should show it, shouldn’t she? Here, look, why don’t you buy her a hat?’

‘What, one of them?’

‘Yeh. Why not? You got Heneage’s bribe money on you and nobody’s nipped it out of yer crotch yet.’

‘How did ye ken…’ Barnabus rolled knowing eyeballs at Dodd and darted forwards to speak confidentially to the woman behind the stall. She looked hard at Dodd.

‘A hat for your wife, sir?’ she said. ‘A French hood, perhaps?’

‘Nay,’ said Dodd looking at the thing she was pointing at. ‘She’s got one of them, there’s plenty of wear in it yet. What about that one?’ He pointed at a high-crowned confection of green velvet with a pheasant’s feather in it. ‘That would look well wi’ her bright hair.’