‘And under stones is where this lot belong,’ my companion pronounced censoriously. He gave me a withering look. ‘You don’t really expect to get any information out of beggars, do you? Even if they did see something, they wouldn’t tell
you
. But the chances are they didn’t. They were all roaring drunk or off picking honest revellers’ pockets or spending their ill-gotten gains in the local whorehouses. For goodness sake, Roger, you’re wasting your time!’
I noted that I had become ‘Roger’ and not the more respectful ‘Master Chapman’ that he had accorded me earlier, a symptom of Bertram’s increasing familiarity which, in its turn, was breeding contempt. Master Serifaber’s cocksureness was growing too fast for my liking. I drew myself up to my considerable height.
‘I think this is where we part company,’ I told him firmly. ‘You can return to Baynard’s Castle and inform Master Plummer that I no longer have need of your services.’ And without giving him a chance to reply, I strode off up Faitour Lane.
It was still only mid-afternoon, and many of the beggars had not yet returned from their daily stamping grounds, those jealously guarded patches of territory within the city walls where they sat all day rattling their cups and displaying the various disabilities that accompanied their hard-luck stories. But there were a few about, squatting in the doorways of houses and brothels, counting the contents of their begging bowls, removing their eye-patches and the filthy, blood-stained bandages that had bound their balled fists into pathetic ‘stumps’. I even saw a man release one of his legs from a complicated sling that had held the lower half strapped to his buttocks, while on the ground beside him lay the crutch that had supported him throughout the morning. Don’t misunderstand me: there were, and still are, many thousands of genuine beggars in every city in the kingdom; but hoaxing people with fake injuries is an easy way of earning a living that will always attract rogues and vagabonds. And why not? It’s each man for himself in this dog-eat-dog, rich-and-poor world.
I made my enquiries, but for the most part I was met with blank-eyed stares or uncomprehending shakes of the head that might have been genuine or simply assumed – I had no way of telling. Even those who showed some intelligent interest just laughed and pointed out that murders were an everyday – or, rather, an every-night – occurrence in any big town and its environs; certainly in London. Besides, it was difficult enough, they said, to remember what had happened last night, let alone more than two weeks ago. I began to realize that Bertram had been right to accuse me of wasting my time.
But one should never give up too easily, so I hung around for a while longer until I felt that I had outstayed my welcome. Indeed, it became apparent from the mutterings and squint-eyed looks I was getting that the faitours’ tolerance was wearing thin. I decided the time had come to concede defeat and retreat to the Voyager, where a cup of Reynold Makepeace’s ale would help to restore my good humour. I thanked the last beggar I had spoken to – a poor scrap of humanity with thinning hair and pock-marked skin – and had already turned back towards Fleet Street when someone laid a hand on my arm.
‘You askin’ about that fellow what ’ad his head bashed in a fortnight or so ago?’ a woman’s voice enquired.
I stopped and glanced down into a delicate, flower-like face framed in the striped hood of the London whore. She must, I thought, be making a fortune for the pimp or brothel-master who owned her, and reflected sadly that in five years or less those pretty features would be coarsened and ravaged by disease.
‘Handsome fellow,’ I said. ‘Foreigner, name of Fulk Quantrell.’
‘That’s him.’ She nodded, smiling up at me with big, sapphire-blue eyes.
‘You knew him?’
‘’E paid fer my services a couple o’ times, yes. ’E was after the boys, too. The young ones.’
‘He told you his name?’
‘Why shouldn’t he? I liked him. ’E liked me. Told me ’e was going to be rich one day. Richer ’n ’e was already. Said if I were patient, ’e’d rescue me from this hell-hole – me and some young lad ’e’d got ’is eye on. Liked men and women equally, he did, just so long as they were young and pretty.’
I reflected that Lydia Jolliffe hadn’t known Fulk as well as she thought she did.
‘Free with his money, was he?’ I suggested.
The girl nodded. ‘Mind you, didn’t do me much good, did it? What I earn goes to Master Posset. ’E’s my pimp. And it weren’t no good giving me gifts.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Offered me ’is thumb ring, Fulk did. Lovely stone. All different colours and set in silver. But I told him he’d better keep it. It’d be stolen in a trice. The whorehouses ain’t got no locks nor bolts on the doors. Can’t hide nothing. But he
would
’ve give it me. And other things. Said ’e owned a ’broidery workshop where they kept a stock of jewels and such to sew on clothes.’
I grimaced. It would seem that Fulk Quantrell had not been above appropriating to himself an importance that he had neither deserved nor possessed.
‘What about the night Fulk was murdered?’ I asked. ‘Do you know anything about that?’
‘He’d been with me that night. Said ’e’d come straight from St Dunstan’s. Some saint’s day, he told me. Some saint of the place where he come from.’
‘Saint Sigismund of Burgundy?’ I suggested.
She pursed her soft, rosebud mouth. ‘Mmm … could’ve been. Something like that.’
‘What time did he leave you, do you know?’
‘Late, I reckon. It was dark. Most of the wall cressets had been doused. I went with him to the door.’ She broke off to indicate a mean-looking house a few yards distant, implying it was where she worked.
‘Did you notice anyone follow him as he left?’
The girl wrinkled her brow. ‘Strange … I’d forgotten, but now you mention it, I did fancy I saw someone walking behind ’im as he got further along towards Fleet Street. Didn’t think nothing of it at the time. There’s always folk moving about round ’ere at night.’
‘What did this figure look like? Can you remember?’
‘Long cloak, ’ood pulled right up,’ she answered promptly. ‘But then, there’s nothing in that. It were a cold night. I didn’t hang around. Fulk was my last customer. All I wanted was my bed.’
‘How did you learn of his death?’
‘One o’ the other girls told me next morning. She said, “You know that lad what comes here reg’lar an’ always asks fer you? Well, he’s been found battered to death down the lane.” I went out at once, just in time to see Joe Earless and little Sam Red Eye moving the poor lad’s body round the corner, into Fleet Street. “Why you doing that?” I asked ’em. “’E was right on our doorstep,” little Sam said. “We don’t want no Sheriff’s men poking around our house.” And I suppose,’ the girl added fair-mindedly, ‘they don’t. The good Lord alone knows what they got salted away in that shack o’ theirs.’
‘Where do they live, this Joe Earless and little Sam Red Eye?’ I asked.
She pointed at the other side of the road, to a noisome, lean-to hut which seemed to be made chiefly of bits of wood, branches of trees and ancient rags all held together by a thick coating of dried mud, erected against the outside wall of another older but equally dilapidated building. ‘Over there. That’s Joe Earless sitting on the ground outside, counting the day’s takings.’
I thanked my beautiful little whore – who offered herself free of charge, ‘for a nice big man like you’, if ever I wished to avail myself of her services – and picked my way across the filthy lane to where a one-eared man was sitting in the dirt, dropping a succession of coins, one by one, into a canvas bag.
‘Master Earless?’
The smell of him, like ancient, rotting fish, was overpowering even in Faitour Lane, not renowned for its perfumed zephyrs.
‘’Oo wants ter know?’ He raised a belligerent, weather-beaten, pock-marked face, but seemed reassured by my shabby clothes and mud-spattered boots.
I explained my errand as briefly as I could, laying great emphasis on the fact that my enquiries were being made on behalf of the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy, who had been deeply attached to the young man in question. Even so, Joe Earless subjected me to a long and piercing scrutiny before grunting, ‘You don’t look like a Sheriff’s man, I must say.’
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’ve been told you and your friend had nothing to do with the murder itself.’ Not entirely true, of course, but I permitted myself the odd lie or two (or three or four or more, if necessary) in the cause of searching out justice. ‘You and he merely moved the body round the corner into Fleet Street.’
‘Tha’s right.’ He stood up, stretching and shaking out his flea-ridden rags – several of the little beasts hurled themselves straight at me – and the stench made me take a hasty step backwards. ‘Right ’ere, ’e was. Right on our doorstep.’ (Which was one way, I suppose, of describing the pile of rotting debris in front of the flap of material covering the hovel’s entrance.) ‘I said to Sam, “We’ve gotta move ’im,” I said. “Look at them clothes,” I said. “’E’s someone, ’e is. Sheriff’s men’ll be makin’ enquiries about ’im, swarmin’ all over the place. You mark my words if they’re not. We’d best move ’im,” I said. Sam agreed, so we did. Round the corner into Fleet Street.’
‘’Ere! ’Oo you talking to, you daft bugger?’ demanded a small man of stunted growth, detaching himself from a party of returning faitours and addressing my companion. He regarded me with a pair of hostile eyes, the white of the left one being definitely tinged with red. The smell of him was even more pungent than that of his friend; and at some time or another his nose had been broken and mended at a very odd angle. He was completely bald, except for a few wisps of coarse hair adhering to the crown of his head. But what fascinated me about him most of all was a large agate-and-silver ring on the thumb of his right hand. I was filled with a sudden suspicion that amounted to total certainty.
I turned back to Joe Earless. ‘When you found the body, nothing had been taken from it, had it? You two stripped it of any jewellery and money it possessed.’
‘What you sayin’?’ Joe demanded, his manner undergoing a rapid transformation from friendly to hostile. ‘You accusin’ us of being thieves?’ The righteous indignation he managed to drum up was wonderful to behold and made me want to laugh.
Little Sam, seeing which way the wind was blowing, didn’t bother with words, but gave a piercing whistle. It was obviously a prearranged signal recognized by all the beggars in the street. They appeared suddenly from every direction and began to encircle me in an ugly, muttering crowd. Too late, I realized that once again I had failed to bring my cudgel with me, not wishing to appear intimidating when calling on respectable folks, but stupidly laying myself open to attack from any unfriendly quarter. I had my knife in my belt, it was true, but I had no desire to wound anyone unnecessarily. Besides, the sight of it might inflame the mob of faitours even further.
They were all around me and beginning to close in. I could feel their stinking breath on my face and on the back of my neck. My one advantage was that I was taller and stronger than any of them. I braced myself for the first assault …
‘Hold! In the name of the King!’ yelled a voice. And there was Bertram striding towards us, his Gloucester blue-and-murrey livery easily mistaken for King Edward’s murrey and blue, the emblem of the white boar for that of the white lion. ‘This man’s my prisoner,’ he continued, forcing his way through the beggars and laying a hand on my arm. ‘Got you, my man! You’re under arrest. Come quietly and you won’t be harmed.’ He was clearly enjoying himself at my expense, and who could blame him? I had been rude and he was taking his revenge.
I went docilely enough until we were clear of Faitour Lane and across the Fleet Bridge; then I clipped his ear. But he was laughing so much by this time that I don’t think he felt it (although it may have stung him later).
‘Well, aren’t you going to thank me?’ he gasped as soon as he could speak. ‘And what a good job for you that I hadn’t gone back to Baynard’s Castle as you instructed.’
Ruefully I acknowledged the truth of this statement. ‘But how did you know what was happening?’
Bertram grinned. ‘I followed you. Kept my distance, of course. Watched you talking to that girl and then cross over to that one-eared fellow. Did you discover anything?’
‘You mean apart from the fact that it’s unsafe to go out without a cudgel anywhere in this city?’ We passed under the Lud Gate and jostled with the lawyers around St Paul’s, before proceeding along Watling Street to Budge Row.
‘I’ll tell you about it,’ I promised, ‘over supper.’
‘You mean you’re not dismissing me after all?’
I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘How could I possibly dismiss you, when you’ve just saved my hide?’
Over a dish of beefsteaks cooked in red wine and dressed with an oyster-and-cinnamon sauce, I told Bertram everything I had learned in Faitour Lane. Mellowed by the food and ale, he conceded that I hadn’t, after all, wasted my time and, with even greater magnanimity, that perhaps I knew more about investigating a case of murder than he did.
‘So,’ he said, as we started on a curd flan and our second jug of ale, ‘you reckon it wasn’t the murderer who stripped Fulk of all his valuables, but these two beggars who moved his body? Joe Earless and Sam Red Eye.’
‘I’d stake my life on it. Sam Red Eye was wearing the thumb ring described to me by the little whore. Mind you, I only saw the one piece, but I’d bet my last groat there were other things belonging to Fulk hidden somewhere inside that hovel.’
‘And what do you think that means?’
I sighed. ‘Not a lot, except as confirmation of what we have rather taken for granted: that Fulk’s murder was not a random killing by thieves, but by someone who wanted him dead for a specific reason – someone who didn’t even stop to strip the body in order to make it look like a robbery.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s something,’ Bertram said, a little dashed. He had obviously been hoping for some far greater revelation, some brilliant deduction and insight on my part that would instantly solve the whole case. ‘So what about the others? Mistress St Clair and her family, the Jolliffes, Martin Threadgold. Did you learn anything from them?’