Кейт Седли - Death and the Chapman

I became aware that Philip Lamprey was still speaking. ‘… so I drove a ’ard bargain, and now it’s mine. Bertha was glad to get rid of it in the end, I think. It ’ad been around too long. She usually shifts ’er stuff much quicker. ’Ere,’ he added, nudging me in the ribs with one of his sharp bony elbows, ‘there’s initials embroidered in real gold thread up by the collar. See?’ He tucked one hand inside the neckline of the tunic, making a bulge in the material just below the grey fur border.

I peered closely and could just make out two letters, or what was left of them, embroidered in tarnished gold thread. C.W. My heart was thumping against my ribs. C.W. Was it possible that this tunic had once belonged to Clement Weaver?

I told myself not to be foolish. There were many names which began with those letters. Nevertheless, I looked carefully once again at the camlet tunic. The C and the W had been intertwined, embellished with flourishes and curlicues. Much of the thread was now missing, but I could see by the needle-holes the original pattern. For whoever embroidered it, it had been a labour of love; a mother? a sister? Alison Weaver?

‘I think I may know the owner of this tunic,’ I said to Philip Lamprey. ‘Will you take me to see this Bertha?’ He looked dubious. ‘You ain’t goin’ to make a fuss about it, are you? You ain’t thinkin’ of callin’ in the Law? Bertha’s my friend. I don’t want to get ’er into trouble.’

‘I just want to know exactly where she found the body.’ Still he sucked his lower lip, unable to make up his mind regarding my intentions. ‘It’s a long time ago. She may not be able to remember.’

‘Maybe not, but I’d like to ask her, all the same. If you won’t take me, I’ll find her myself. I’m sure she’s quite well known on the Southwark side of the river.’

With a sigh, Philip capitulated. ‘C’mon, then,’ he said. ‘But you’ll ’ave to pay fer the ferry.’

I was more than willing to do so, and we headed for the nearest water-stairs, where the inevitable fleet of boats was waiting. As it was a fine afternoon, we chose an uncovered one and were rowed across to the opposite shore with a gentle breeze blowing in our faces. The waters of the Thames were a little choppy, but the sun crested the waves with gold, and the glittering distances promised another good day tomorrow.

I had gained only the most fleeting impression of Southwark two evenings ago, when I had arrived there with my friends from Canterbury. And I had been up and gone very early the following morning, making my way across the Bridge to the city. But I had been warned of its reputation; of its bear-baiting pits, its cock-fighting rings, its stews and its brothels. It boasted, too, several churches, of which St Mary Overy was the largest, and one or two fine mansions on its outskirts. I remembered one of the pilgrims pointing out a house to me which, he said, had once belonged to Sir John Fastolfe. He had also recommended to my notice the Tabard inn, made famous by Master Chaucer in his stories.

When we landed there were a number of whores in the striped hoods which were the badge of their profession waiting for a boat to take them across to the city.

‘We ’ear the Archbishop of York’s in town,’ one said to the boatman with a lecherous giggle.

Once again, I felt a stab of disapproval and shock that churchmen should consort with prostitutes, which made me realize, not for the first time, that I was neither so worldly-wise nor so world-weary as I liked to think myself.

I followed Philip Lamprey through a warren of narrow, filthy streets bordering the Thames, eventually emerging on to an abandoned wharf – Angel Wharf, so Philip informed me – a little way up river. Here, there was a settlement of near-derelict huts and hovels, occupied by what looked at first sight to be a tribe of beggars. A second, more searching look, however, told me that this was a permanent community, with its own boats moored alongside the wall, next to a shallow flight of well-worn steps leading up from the river. As Philip and I neared the entrance to the wharf an urchin seated on the ground and playing at five-stones gave us a piercing stare; then, apparently unconcerned, dropped his eyes again and continued with his game. But a few seconds later a shrill, ear-splitting whistle came from behind us, and I realized that he was warning of our approach. As we emerged from the dark, stinking alley into the afternoon sunshine, there was no one to be seen.

Had I gone alone to Angel Wharf, I should have accomplished nothing. Indeed, there is the possibility that I might never have been seen again. It was a sort of thieves’ kitchen, where everyone made his or her living by working on the wrong side of the law; and where, as a consequence, strangers were viewed with the deepest suspicion. And people who had come to ask questions, like me, were the most mistrusted and unwelcome of all.

Philip Lamprey, however, seemed perfectly at ease and shouted: ‘Bertha! Bertha Mendip! It’s me! Philip Lamprey!’

As though by magic, a number of the hovel doors opened and a few moments later the wharf was full of curious faces all staring in our direction. To begin with, no one came close, leaving us standing in the centre of an empty circle, as if we were lepers. But finally, what looked like a bundle of evil-smelling rags detached itself from the ruck of onlookers, advanced a step or two and resolved itself into a tiny woman, thin almost to the point of emaciation, with shrivelled features and a skin like leather. With a shock, I realized that the dirty, unkempt hair straggling about her shoulders was still a dark chestnut-brown and bore only a trace of grey. She had probably seen fewer than thirty-five summers, but appeared to be twice that age until I looked into her eyes. These were a brilliant blue, full of eagerness and life.

‘Oo’s this, then?’ she demanded of Philip Lamprey. ‘Friend o’ mine.’ Philip plainly considered that sufficient introduction. ‘’E wants to ask you about this ’ere tunic.’ And he indicated the garment he was wearing.

‘Oh yes?’ Bertha sounded unimpressed, and, just as plainly, my friendship with Philip did not inspire her with confidence. ‘Oo is ’e?’

‘I’ve told you.’ Philip was impatient. ‘A friend. You can trust ’im.’

There was an ugly murmur from the onlookers and I felt the hair rise on the nape of my neck. All I wanted to do was turn and run. Then I had a sudden inspiration. I remembered that Philip had called her Bertha Mendip.

‘I’m a chapman,’ I said. ‘I was at Glastonbury Abbey as a novice until decided that I didn‘t care for the monastic life. My home’s in Wells. My father was a stone carver for the cathedral.’

The tribal instinct is very strong in England, even today, in this enlightened new century. But fifty years or more ago, it was still stronger. The fact that I was a Somerset man born and bred in no way proved that I was trustworthy, yet Bertha Mendip accepted me immediately. She lost her aggressive attitude and jerked her head in the direction of one of the huts.

‘You’d better come inside, then.’

The interior of the hut stank with the smell of drying clothes which had been too long immersed in water and in contact with decaying flesh. They hung on poles at one end of the room, the smoke from a desultory fire curling through a hole in the ceiling. A young boy, presumably Bertha’s son, as small and shrivelled as she was, was throwing damp wood on to the blaze in an effort to keep it going. Of the husband mentioned by Philip there was no sign.

‘Well?’ Bertha demanded truculently, as though angry with herself for accepting me so readily. ‘What is it you want to know?’

‘Whereabouts in the Thames you found the body which wore that tunic,’ I answered, nodding towards Philip Lamprey.