Paul Doherty: Satan in St Mary

The bailiff then turned to the right and walked down Cock Lane, a narrow rutted track with an open sewer running down the centre. It was an area notorious for its prostitutes, many of whom stood in the darkened doorways, their hair dyed and faces heavily painted. Dressed in eye-catching red and orange, they called out invitations couched in the lewdest way to every passer-by. One of them evidently recognized the bailiff and, for a short while, ran alongside them giving a graphic description of the man's sexual prowess in bed. The bailiff, his face plum-coloured with anger and embarrassment, squeaked with indignation. Corbett tried to hide his smiles and ignore the evident amusement of the two labourers who would have encouraged the woman even further if the bailiff had not turned and glared at them.

At last, they found themselves before the great city ditch which ran the entire length of the city wall. Twenty feet wide, its true depth unknown, the ditch had served the city as both sewer and cesspit since the days of King John the Angevin. The smell was indescribable and Corbett immediately pulled the hem of his cloak up over his mouth and nose. The ditch was full of refuse frozen hard by the winter cold and Corbett could only guess what it was like in the full heat of summer. The bailiff had come forearmed and he held a wine-soaked rag to his nose though the two labourers seemed oblivious to it all, walking backwards and forwards along the edge of the ditch, talking and mumbling as they tried to locate the actual spot where Duket was buried.

Corbett did not envy them their task, the ditch was full of refuse, already he had seen a rat gnawing and tugging at some mud-encrusted lump. The place was a dumping ground for dead cats, dogs, unwanted babies as well as the corpses of executed criminals and suicides. The labourers finally decided on the spot and began to dig then, cursing each other, the task and, with angry glances at Corbett, interfering clerks, chose another spot where they shovelled once again. Corbett turned his back on them and looked across the still frozen fields until shouts and cries behind him made him turn back to the city ditch.

"They have found the corpse, Master Clerk!" the bailiff shouted. "Come and have a look!" Corbett moved over, noting that the face of the bailiff was almost a whitish green and even the labourers had moved away.

The bundle they had disinterred lay upon the rim of the ditch, Corbett took out his dagger and, holding his cloak firmly over his nose and mouth, began to slit the cheap, soggy canvas covering. The corpse lay as it must have been before it was bundled up and dragged through the streets on a crude sledge to be buried in the dirt and slime of the city ditch. It was naked except for a loincloth, all the clothes and jewellery had been stripped from it, probably, Corbett guessed, by the bailiff and the labourers. The stench, even after a few days, was rank and offensive and he had to stop himself gagging as he studied the corpse. The eyes were shut but the mouth sagged open, the tongue still caught between the teeth, the skin was dirty white, puffed and damp, the belly slightly swollen. He studied the purple weal around the dead man's neck and the violet bruise just under the left ear where the noose knot had been tied. There were no other marks of violence about the man except for faint purplish bruises on both the man's arms just above the elbows. He then took careful note of the man's height and, with a sigh of relief, got to his feet.

The bailiff approached. "Are you finished?" he asked.

Corbett nodded. "Yes, bury him. "

The bailiff turned and shouted an order to the labourers and, within minutes, the corpse was dumped back and covered in mud. Corbett picked up a piece of wood, snapped it in two and then lashed them together with a piece of rotten rope to form a crude cross, which he stuck in the mud where Duket was buried.

The bailiff objected. "The man was a suicide!" he spluttered. "He does not deserve a hallowed burial!"

"The man was not a suicide, " Corbett retorted, weary

with the day's work. "And even if he was, he was still a man. " He delved into his purse and handed over some coins. "Your work is finished. You may go. "

The bailiff was going to object but he looked at the clerk's tense face, remembered the powerful warrant he carried, and so kept silent, pocketed the coins and, calling over to the two labourers, turned and trudged back to the city.

Corbett watched them go and, making the crude cross secure, began to recite the Psalm for the dead. "Out of the depths, I have cried to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice. " Above him, a crow wheeled cawing raucously and Corbett wondered, not for the first time in his life, if the prayer could be heard and, even if it was, did it really matter?

Corbett returned to his lodgings later that day, took out his writing-tray, inkhorn, quill, pumice stone and roll of cheap parchment. This he cleaned methodically turning the rough vellum into a smooth writing surface before beginning to write down carefully the conclusions he had reached on examining Duket's body earlier in the day.

First, the corpse bore the usual marks of a hanged man. The deep red weal of the cord round his neck and secondly, the purple or violet bruise under the left ear. But what were the marks on his arms? The bruises just above the elbow? And how did they get there? Corbett put his pen down. The bruises could, he thought, have come from the fight Duket had with Crepyn in Cheapside, but it would have been the most remarkable of coincidences if Crepyn had managed to strike Duket on both forearms exactly in the same place. Moreover, the palms of Duket's hands were white and unmarked. Surely a man who was slowly choking to death would at least try in the throes of his death agonies to grasp the rope, perhaps even loosen the cord round his neck?

Finally and most importantly, Corbett thought, how could Duket have hanged himself from the chair? He had measured Duket's body and compared it to the rough measurements he had taken in Saint Mary Le Bow. A child could see the difference. Duket was too small to reach the bar. True, he could have thrown the rope over the bar but how did he secure the knot? Corbett thought back to those bruises he had seen on Duket's forearms.

No, he concluded, the only possible explanation is that Duket did not commit suicide in Saint Mary Le Bow but was hanged in such a way to make it appear as if it was suicide. Someone else tied that noose round the iron bar in the church, and had put the noose round Duket's neck, taken away the chair and pinioned Duket's arms behind his back, dragging him down to hasten his death agonies. Hence those bruises on Duket's arms. Corbett made a rapid calculation. There must have been at least two or three people involved in such a murder. But why did Duket not cry out? How did the murderers get into the church? How did they get out?

Corbett sighed and wrote his conclusions: Lawrence Duket was murdered in the church of Saint Mary Le Bow by persons unknown, for reasons unknown, and in a manner unknown. He threw the pen down and stared at the meaningless conclusion while his mind began to drift back to The Mitre and the ravishing beauty of Alice atte Bowe.

Seven

Of course, Corbett returned to The Mitre over the next few days. Ostensibly he came 'on the King's business' but his real reason was to see Mistress Alice. The burly giant and his confederates knew this and so did Mistress Alice. Corbett did not care, he felt alive in her presence, free of the Chancery, the drudgery of each passing day and the pressure of the task entrusted to him. Sometimes he sat in the tavern or the small room behind it. When the weather turned fair, they walked in the garden. Alice cultivated herbs, sage, parsley, fennel, hyssop as well as leeks, gelves and onions. There was a pear tree with a sprinkling of early spring blossom, a plot of fine grass with the surrounding soil well tilled and expecting, so Alice remarked, an abundant crop of roses, lilies and other flowers when summer did arrive.