Кейт Седли - Death and the Chapman

I noted the swift progression from ‘plausible rascal’ to ‘treacherous bastard’ and connected it to an additional consumption of ale. My little man was getting too drunk for safety, both his and my own. There might be servants of Clarence in this alehouse – in this very room! I preferred not to be overheard criticizing the Duke, however indirectly.

‘I must be going,’ I said, getting to my feet and hoisting up my pack. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’

‘Thank you for saving me from that brute of a pieman.’ He, too, got up and bowed ceremoniously, but staggering slightly as he did so. His speech was clear and unslurred, but I felt, all the same, that it was time to go. I returned his bow and made my way out into East Cheap once more.

By mid-afternoon, I had sold all that was in my pack, and debated with myself whether to go straight to Galley Quay or wait until the next morning. There would be fresh ships in tomorrow, and in the meantime there might be shopkeepers willing to sell such items as needles and thread, ribbons and laces to me in quantity, reducing their prices accordingly. A third possibility was to declare the rest of the day a holiday. I had worked hard from early morning and had done well, earning more than enough to keep myself at the Baptist’s Head for two or three days longer; sufficient, in fact, to insist on paying for my room and to stop imposing on Thomas Prynne’s generosity.

It was, needless to say, the last choice which appealed to me most. I needed to clear my head and put the confused impressions of yesterday and today in some sort of order. And so that I could salve my slightly uneasy conscience, I decided to walk down by the river, along the wharfsides, heading in the general direction of Galley Quay. If, when I reached it, there was still merchandise to be bought of the kind that I needed, I could do so. Otherwise, I would return to The Street later in the day, just before the shops were stripped of their wares for the night, which would be stored under lock and key in the living quarters. It had been my experience that shopkeepers were more prone to strike a bargain when they were tired and looking forward to their suppers. I had grown craftier, I felt, now that I had passed the age of nineteen. (Four days before, while I was still on the road from Canterbury, it had been my Birth Day, although I had mentioned the fact to no one.) I realized that, in the past months, since leaving the Abbey and being on the road, I had truly become a man.

I made my way down to the river, where the gilded barges of the gentry sped along like great angry swans, imperilling lesser craft in their headlong flight. Watermen shouted abuse, crane operators paused in their work of unloading vessels moored at the wharves and people on the bank, including myself, stared sombrely but without resentment at these symbols of a power we could not hope to attain. But then, I suppose we English have never really envied our nobles, because we have always believed in Justinian’s maxim that what affects the people should be approved by the people, and throughout our history have taken steps, however slow and feeble, to ensure that this is so.

I emerged on to the quayside near London Bridge, close to a flight of water-steps, where a fleet of small boats, both uncovered (one penny) and covered (two pennies), were moored, waiting to ferry passengers up and down the river. A party of youths in satin and velvet tunics, with shoe-pikes so long that they had to be chained round their knees, were vying with a couple of more soberly dressed citizens for the attention of the boatmen.

‘Wagge! Wagge! Go we hence!’ the young men shouted, and the boatmen, rightly calculating that there was more money to be made in tips from them than the other two would-be customers, swarmed up the steps to offer their services.

I wandered on, threading my way in and out of the cranes and the workmen’s huts on the wharfside, deliberately letting my mind empty of all thoughts of Clement Weaver and Sir Richard Mallory, and now, the missing Lady Anne Neville. For a while, at least, I would allow myself to think of nothing but the pleasant October afternoon and the delicious supper which Thomas Prynne was no doubt at that moment preparing.

A hand clutched my sleeve and a throaty voice said: ‘I thought it was you, Roger Chapman.’

I was growing accustomed by now to hearing myself so addressed, although in my youth I had been known as Roger Carverson, or Carver for short, after my father’s trade. I recognized the voice at once, without turning my head, as Philip Lamprey’s.

‘We meet again, then,’ I said, stating the obvious, and he agreed with a friendly grin.

‘I told you, didn’t I? London ain’t that big.’

I looked at him and noted that he was a little smarter than when I had seen him last, his patched and faded old woollen tunic having been replaced with one made of camlet. This was equally faded, and the grey squirrel fur which trimmed it had in places been rubbed right down to the skin. It also had a peculiar smell, as though at some time or another it had been next to a pile of rotting fish. In addition, it looked as though it had been immersed in water for a time and then roughly dried. All the same, the tunic was plainly of good quality, and the camlet – a mixture of wool and camel’s hair, imported from the East – had survived the treatment meted out to it.

Philip saw me looking, and smiled. ‘Warmer than my old one,’ he said. ‘Niffs a bit, but then what d’you expect? Been in the Thames two or three weeks, old Bertha reckoned, when she fished it out along of its owner. And it’s been ’angin’ up in ’er place, down by the river, over to Southwark, for nigh on a year. Askin’ too much fer it, she was. “Belonged to a gentleman,” she said. “I ain’t lettin’ it go for nothin.” Though what she calls nothin’… But there, it’s not an easy way to earn a livin’, corpsing ain’t. Pays better than beggin’, but it wouldn’t be my choice, even though I’ve seen enough dead bodies when I was a soldier.’

I had never heard of ’corpsing’ then, but I could guess what it entailed. ‘You mean this woman, this Bertha, fishes dead bodies out of the Thames and sells their clothes?’

Philip Lamprey nodded. ‘’S right. She don’t do it single ’anded, o’ course. ’Er ’usband and son do the fishin’. She jus’ strips the corpses and dries the clothes before she sells ’em.’

‘And what happens to the poor unfortunates who owned the clothes? I don’t imagine,’ I added drily, ‘that they’re then given a decent Christian burial?’

My friend chuckled. ‘Lord bless you, no! They’re just thrown back in the river, where they came from.’

It was the answer I had foreseen. I suspected that the trade carried on by this Bertha and her family was unlawful, and she could hardly advertise it by seeking the assistance of a priest.

‘And how were you able to afford this “costly” garment?’ I inquired ironically. ‘Have you suddenly become a rich man?’

My tone was lost on my companion. ‘I’ve ’ad my eye on it fer a while now,’ he confided. ‘And yesterday, I ’ad a good day. I got m’self a good position outside the Archbishop of York’s ’ouse, near the Charing Cross, ’cause someone’d told me ’e was in London this week, seein’ the King. Meetin’ of the Council, or whatever. George Neville’s quite a generous man, contrary to what you might ’ave ’eard said of ’im.’

The name Neville made me wonder if the Archbishop was aware that his niece was missing, or even if he was privy to her disappearance.

George Neville and George of Clarence had always been as thick as thieves. Or, at least, so said the rumours which had penetrated even our monastic walls.