Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

‘I do. The Honest Wherryman.’

‘Have you been there recently?’

‘I ’ave, sir, in the course of my enquiries. Didn’t learn anything. It’s a rough place. Not many honest men to be found there, despite the name.’

‘Perfect. Lead on, Josiah.’

Pudding Lane was one of the narrow streets running from Eastcheap down to the river and it was where much of the offal from the butchers’ shops in Eastcheap ended up. The lane was swimming in it.

The upper storeys of the wooden houses on either side of the lane overhung so much that in places they almost touched each other and so little light penetrated that the inhabitants lived in perpetual semi-darkness. It was a horrid, miserable place, known for its bakers’ shops, but home also to pickpockets, beggars, whores and drunkards. Thomas could not believe that either victim had been there willingly, especially at night.

The Honest Wherryman stood at the lower end of the lane, near the river. It was a narrow building, with grey slates on the roof, many of them broken, and wooden walls roughly daubed with lime and clay. Thomas had to duck as he followed Josiah through the door and into the dark, cave-like room that served as the alehouse.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he made out small groups of drinkers seated on stools around low tables littered with bottles, mugs and the remains of whatever they had been eating. An emaciated dog lay unmoving under one of the tables. In one corner a game of dice was in progress, but otherwise the place was quiet. The customers of the Honest Wherryman evidently did not frequent it for company or conversation. They sat in silence, drinking, smoking their clay pipes and eyeing suspiciously any newcomer arriving in their midst.

Thomas shivered, although whether from apprehension or the damp he was unsure. Josiah went to a hatch in the far wall and called for a jug of ale and two mugs. Armed with these, he found them stools at an unoccupied table near the door. Thomas sat with his back to the wall and a good view of the room. Josiah sat to his right facing the door. They each took a sip of ale and looked about.

Only the dice players had carried on without taking much notice of the new arrivals. By every other eye in the room they were being examined either openly or furtively. Thomas did his best to look unconcerned, carried on sipping his ale and wondered if any of his fellow drinkers was ever going to speak. He had more or less decided that none of them was, when the door opened and another new arrival entered. A tall man, he had to bend very low to avoid hitting his head on the door frame, especially as he wore a narrow-brimmed hat decorated with half a goose feather. Once inside the room, the tall man straightened his back and peered around. He raised a hand in greeting to two of the men in the opposite corner, went to the hatch and ordered a mug of ale.

Turning back to the room, mug in hand, he spotted Josiah and came over to their table. ‘Josiah Mottershead, if I’m not mistaken. Here again? How’s business?’ His voice was deep and surprisingly well spoken. Unlike Josiah, he had a use for the letter ‘h’ at the start of a word.

Thomas noted the quality of his clothes – ruffled shirt, short waistcoat and trousers tied neatly at the knee with black ribbons – and his intelligent face. Hair tied back like Josiah’s, sharp blue eyes and a long, thin nose. He reminded Thomas of a schoolteacher who had once taught him Latin and Greek. A man who did not suffer fools gladly.

‘Oh, up and down, Woody, if you know what I mean,’ replied Josiah, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Up and down.’

Woody smiled knowingly. ‘And who’s this, if I may ask?’

‘This is my cousin Tom, come to ’elp out with a job I’ve got.’

‘Good day, Tom. Woody’s the name. Come to help Josiah, have you? Where’re you from?’

Before Thomas could reply, Josiah said ‘Tom’s a bit simpleminded, Woody. Doesn’t speak much, often not for days on end. Never blabs. Wouldn’t know ’ow, would you, Tom?’ Thomas shook his head and tried to look simple-minded. ‘’E’s good with ’is ’ands, though. Clever with locks and suchlike.’

‘Sounds like a useful cousin to have in your line of work, Josiah. Could do with one like him myself.’

Josiah grinned. ‘Only got one cousin, Woody. Can’t ’elp, I’m afraid.’ He paused and leaned forward to whisper, ‘Very quiet in ’ere today. Suspicious looks, too. Most of ’em ’as seen me before. What’s going on?’

‘It’s probably Tom they’re looking at. Since those gentlemen were found with their throats cut in the lane, there’ve been coroner’s men about asking questions. Not too popular hereabouts, coroner’s men.’ So Seymour Manners had not been entirely idle; covering his back, probably.

‘Tom doesn’t look like a coroner’s man, does ’e, Woody?’

‘He doesn’t. Except his hands are very clean for a man who’s good with them. Might have been noticed. Best tell Tom to hide them away if you don’t want any questions.’

Josiah was as quick-witted as he was broad-shouldered. ‘’Adn’t thought of that. It’s a thing with Tom. Always washing ’is ’ands. Must be to do with ’is mind being funny. Put them under the table, Tom.’ Thomas did so. ‘And what’s the story about the gentlemen whose throats were cut? What was the last one’s name?’

‘Bebb, I think. No, Babb. Sir something Babb. Murdered and robbed and not a sign of who did it. Nor the other one – Smith. Both in Pudding Lane.’

‘No word at all on it?’

‘None that I’ve heard. Strange that, there’s usually a rumour or two. Not the sort of murder we expect round here. Proper gentlemen, by all accounts. If it was any of the usual suspects, we’d have heard.’

‘’Ave there been any strangers about?’

Woody looked up sharply. ‘You’re very interested in it, Josiah. You sure your cousin isn’t a coroner’s man?’

‘No, ’e ain’t. Mottersheads don’t work for the law. Never ’ave, never will.’ Josiah sounded affronted.

‘Then why the questions?’

‘No particular reason. Just wondered who did it. Might be the same fellow who did for the other man – Winter, ’is name was. Found by the bridge. I met ’im once in a sort of way.’

‘Did you? What sort of way?’

‘I ’appened to be on ’is property one evening when he came ’ome. ’E didn’t see me but I saw ’im, and I remembered the name from something I found there. It was on a silver cup. John Winter. Same name, same man. I sold it on, of course.’

Astonished at Josiah’s facility for instant invention, Thomas sat and stared at him, looking as simple-minded as he was supposed to be. What an extraordinary little man. Tough as old oak and quick as a rat. A hard man to best in a fight and an even harder one to trap.

Woody swallowed the story. ‘Trust you, Josiah. Another lucky escape. Can’t help you with names, though. I haven’t heard a thing.’

‘Ah well. Never mind. We’d best be off, Tom,’ said Josiah, ‘we got work to do.’

But before they could move, one of the men whom Woody had greeted came over to their table. ‘Morning, Woody,’ he said. ‘I see you got company. One I recognize, not the other.’

‘Josiah Mottershead and his cousin Tom, come to help him with some work. Tom doesn’t speak much. Or at all, in fact. At least I haven’t heard him. This is Jeb Jones. We were boys together up in Clerkenwell. Eh, Jeb?’

‘We were. Done well for ourselves, haven’t we, Woody?’ Jones’s laugh was more of a cough. It started down near his navel and ended at his tooth. Thomas could see only the one. ‘Hands like a girl’s, the silent one’s got. Where’d he get those?’ he asked suspiciously.