The Dance of Death (10 page)

Fortunately for me, Eloise made her own excuses. ‘You're here to browse in the library, I suppose?' And when I nodded with apparent enthusiasm, she gave a little grimace. ‘Poor entertainment,' she said. ‘I shall return to Cheapside and look again at the goldsmiths' shops. It's what I've been doing for most of the morning and it was only with the greatest reluctance that I tore myself away. Being so close to St Paul's, I couldn't resist coming to look at
La Danse Macabre
, just to see if it was indeed a copy of the one in Paris.' She treated me to a dazzling smile. ‘And now that I've satisfied myself on that score, I shall go back and tantalize myself by staring at all the beautiful jewellery that I covet but can't afford to buy.' To my astonishment, she reached up and kissed me on the cheek, at the same time gurgling with laughter. ‘If you could only see your face! There's no need for such an outraged expression, I assure you. I'm just practising for when we're pretending to be husband and wife. I'm sorry you don't approve, although I'm certain Master Plummer would.'

She gave me no chance to answer, but whisked round and was soon lost to view among the crowd of lawyers and their clients, leaving me staring after her, not knowing quite what to think. Had she been following me, or was the meeting as unplanned as she would have me believe? Whatever the answer, it demonstrated how difficult it was going to be to avoid her even in a city as large as Paris, because in every town there is a hub of activity, a central area frequented by the vast majority of its population – a town, if you like, within a town – where, during the day, the press of people is greatest and where you are more likely to run across somebody you know.

I reminded myself that time was getting on, and only waiting until I felt sure that Eloise was safely back in Cheapside, I returned to the Culpepper house by way of Paternoster Row and Ivy Lane. As I approached it, my heart sank. There was the same sort of lifelessness about it as there had been about the Lampreys' dwelling yesterday, indicating that no one was at home. I knocked, all the same, but with a gentle tattoo so as not to rouse the neighbours. There was no answer and I cursed roundly under my breath. Then I shrugged. If Humphrey Culpepper was out, there was nothing to be done and I should have to try again tomorrow. I had tried my best and Timothy couldn't ask for more.

On the other hand, knowing him, he probably could: he was always an unreasonable little bastard. And it was with that thought in mind, as I turned to retreat thankfully from Stinking Lane, that I noticed a narrow alleyway, about shoulder-width, running between Culpepper's house and the one on its left as I faced it. I hesitated, but only for a moment, then trod softly between the two cottages to find myself in another alley, which ran along the back of all the dwellings on that side of the lane. I turned right and stared at the rear of Culpepper's house, where, surprisingly for such a mean hovel, there was a back entrance, a door made of rough planking that was ominously swinging open on its broken hinges.

My breath caught in my throat. Even before I investigated, I knew that I was going to find nothing good in there. My heart pounding uncomfortably, I pushed aside the broken planking and went inside.

It was a two-roomed cottage with a narrow staircase in one corner rising to the second storey. The floor of the living room was of beaten earth without even a scattering of rushes. The furniture was minimal: a table, a stool, some shelves on which cooking utensils were stacked, a water butt and a rough, patently home-made armchair drawn near to the hearth, where a pile of sticks stood ready for lighting beneath a pot already partially filled with water. On the table stood a wooden bowl of dried oatmeal, ready to be made into porridge, alongside a plate and beaker. Plainly, Master Culpepper had prepared his breakfast before, or just after, going out to dispose of his rubbish in the common drain, when he had been spotted by his neighbour. But he had never made his meal, so what had happened to him since then?

The whole house was permeated by the stench from the Shambles, so it was the activity of the flies that first arrested my attention. I would have expected them to be congregated downstairs, where food was kept and where crumbs had dropped between the cracks in the table top, but the buzzing came from overhead, and I noticed five or six circling at the head of the staircase, far more of the creatures than one would normally find in late October. My heart began to thump again as I cautiously mounted to the upper room, treading as gently as if I were walking on eggshells.

Now the smell of fresh blood assailed my nostrils most powerfully, making me flinch. There was nothing in the room except for a clothes chest and a bed, both of which I could just make out in the gloom, for this upper storey had no window and relied, even in daytime, either on candlelight or on the faint glow that came up from the living quarters downstairs. All the same, I could see that the cloud of flies was hovering and settling on something sprawled across the bed. Instinct told me at once what it was – or, rather, who it was – but I had to be certain. I returned to the ground floor and lit a candle, which I found on one of the shelves, together with a tinderbox, and then went back upstairs, holding the flame aloft with a hand that trembled.

Humphrey Culpepper – for who else could it possibly be? – lay face upwards, his throat cut neatly and cleanly from ear to ear. It was beautifully done, if one can ever say such a thing about murder, the head almost severed from the body, but the sight made me retch and I almost dropped the candle. I clutched the bedpost for a moment or two, feeling dizzy, then managed to pull myself together, angry at such weakness. I forced myself to look around, taking in the details.

Humphrey Culpepper lay with his head towards the top of the stairs and was dressed in hose, shirt and boots, his right arm through a sleeve of his jerkin. I reckoned that after going outside to the drain, he had come upstairs again to finish dressing before going down once more to light his fire and make his porridge. He was sitting on the further edge of his bed, his back towards the staircase, and had neither heard his murderer entering the cottage nor creeping up to kill him. At his age, he was likely to be somewhat deaf, a probability of which his assailant had taken full advantage. Completely unaware of being in any danger – for what did he know of the machinations of Timothy Plummer or that I was on my way to interrogate him? – Culpepper had been seized from behind and despatched, with all the skill and precision of a butcher, to meet his Maker unshriven, which meant that he would have to spend a longer time in Purgatory. A cruel fate and one that made me angry, not merely with whoever killed him, but with Timothy and myself.

The thought of Timothy brought me up short. As a law-abiding citizen, it was my duty to raise the alarm, and I had almost been on the verge of doing so, but what if I were to fall under suspicion for the murder? The goodwife next door would confirm that I had been making enquiries about Master Culpepper earlier in the morning, and although I had no doubt that I would be cleared in time, the investigation would draw just the sort of attention to me that the spymaster and Duke Richard were anxious to avoid. No; although every fibre of my being called out for justice on the person who had committed this atrocity, I knew that I had no choice but to get away from there as quickly as possible, without being seen, and report back to Timothy at Baynard's Castle.

My demand for an interview with Master Plummer produced the information that he was at present unavailable, being closeted with my lord of Gloucester.

‘Splendid!' I said to the supercilious steward who was regarding me as though I were something slimy that had just crawled out of the wall. ‘I'll see the duke as well, then. It'll kill two birds with one stone.' The steward raised haughty eyebrows and curled his lip, but I kept my temper. ‘You'll be sorry if you don't take my message to His Grace,' I said coldly, in a voice every bit as disdainful as his own. ‘He will not be pleased. In fact, he'll probably be very annoyed.'

In the event, I was the one who found himself in hot water.

‘Will you stop drawing attention to yourself like this, Roger?' Timothy demanded furiously. ‘You can't insist on access to a meeting between my lord duke and myself without arousing people's curiosity, and that's the last thing we want at the moment. I'm due to see you, anyway, after dinner.'

I could tell by the duke's frown that he agreed with his spymaster, but once I told them what had happened, they were both too concerned to be angry.

‘And you got away from the house without being seen?' Timothy asked anxiously.

‘As far as I know,' I said. ‘I went down the back lane behind the cottages that comes out into the Shambles. After that, I lost myself in the crowds.'

‘No one could have noticed you from the other houses?' the duke put in.

I shook my head. ‘The only windows are at the front, and as far as I could tell, most of the residents keep their shutters closed because of the stink.'

‘Stinking Lane lives up to its name, eh?' Prince Richard gave a little half-smile, but immediately sobered again. ‘This means that someone knows something,' he muttered, looking at Timothy and twisting the ring on the little finger of his left hand round and round, as he always did when troubled.

‘Not necessarily, my lord,' Timothy protested. ‘There's no proof that this murder has any connection with Roger's mission. It might simply be a revenge killing – a personal grudge settled in a violent way.'

‘You don't really believe that,' the duke answered quietly, ‘and neither do I.' He glanced at me with a rueful grin. ‘And I'm sure Roger here doesn't, either.'

‘It would be too much of a coincidence, Your Highness,' I said firmly.

Timothy looked as if he might be ready to do murder himself, but all he said was, ‘Whoever did the deed must have been covered in blood. It might be worth a few judicious enquiries to find out if anyone in Stinking Lane noticed a person in bloodstained clothing.'

I laughed. ‘That could be difficult. You won't find many men around the Shambles district who
aren't
wearing bloodstained clothing.'

Timothy gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I suppose not,' he agreed.

The duke, who, up until now, had been standing warming his hands at the fire, threw himself back into a cushioned armchair with a muttered curse. ‘If this man Culpepper,' he said, ‘has been killed by a Woodville agent, how on earth did they find out what I'm up to?'

I raised sardonic eyebrows at Timothy, who reddened and looked highly uncomfortable. Obviously, he had so far failed to acquaint Duke Richard with my previous night's experience. This he now proceeded to do with much self-blame for not having mentioned it earlier.

The duke looked furious, realizing, as he must have done, that Timothy had been intending to keep the incident quiet had not circumstances forced him to reveal it. As usual, though, he kept his anger in check, never, to my knowledge, berating one of his officers in front of a second person; and for someone who undoubtedly had the Plantagenet temper, I have always thought this consideration for others one of his most endearing traits. (And whatever our present lords and masters would have you believe to the contrary, he had many.)

‘Do we know the name of this server? Has he been found?'

The spymaster looked even more unhappy as he haltingly explained that the man appeared to have fled the castle as soon as he possibly could. ‘But I still do not see, Your Grace, how he could have known anything about Culpepper.'

‘Maybe not.' The duke pushed a lock of dark hair back from his forehead. ‘But the moment he reported to his superiors, someone would have been set to follow Roger and keep an eye on what he was up to. When he knocked on the door of Master Culpepper's house, it would have been noted.' He frowned. ‘If only you hadn't gone away, Roger, but stayed to watch the house, there would have been no opportunity for anyone to enter and murder this poor man.' He added repressively, ‘However, it's done, and there's no good to be gained by apportioning blame.'

I remembered the smart young gent with the blue feather in his hat and knew that I ought to mention him. Feeling disinclined to draw further attention to myself, however, I kept quiet. With luck, the duke might decide to abandon his enquiries for Robin Gaunt.

But luck, as usual, was against me. After further discussion between him and Timothy, it was agreed that the Woodvilles could have no real knowledge of my true mission in Paris and that my trip in the company of Eloise Gray, posing as her husband, and her meetings with Olivier le Daim, would provide sufficient cover to conceal my main purpose.

‘And it's still by no means certain,' Timothy pointed out eagerly, ‘that the murder of Humphrey Culpepper is in any way connected with Roger's visit to him.'

Duke Richard conceded the fact, but without, I thought, any great conviction. ‘What was the man's use to you?' he asked.

Timothy explained, ‘We know him to have fought alongside Gaunt at Pontoise and to have been a part of the Rouen garrison. We hoped for some description of our friend – enough to say whether he is short and stout or tall and thin.'

The duke nodded. ‘Perhaps the name Gaunt itself is descriptive,' he suggested. ‘It may have been a nickname. Perhaps he was thin and haggard-looking. It's little enough to go on, I agree, but worth consideration.' He glanced at me with raised eyebrows.

I made no answer, but Timothy hurried to fill the breach. ‘It's most certainly worth a thought, Your Grace,' he smarmed, his eyes furiously signalling to me to contribute my groat's worth. But I maintained a stubborn silence, signifying my disapproval of a scheme whose success hinged on such a lack of practical knowledge.