‘I have thought more about the good Earl of Warwick’s suggestion,’ said Wetherby the next morning, ‘and I believe he is right. Someone is playing a game, or at least enjoying a jest at our expense.’
‘Killing Isaac Cardoza was no jest, Roland. I think of him every day and every night.’
‘Indeed not. But Mouldwarp and Hempe, the testons – a bag of which were left outside the house of the Cardozas – the crosses which may or may not signify chaos: all in all a strange confection with no obvious meaning. Shock, confusion and obscurity.’
Christopher waved a finger at Wetherby as a schoolmaster might to admonish a pupil. ‘I do believe that you have been reading too much Rabelais. Damned Frenchman.’
‘I have. I brought him with me and the more I read of his fantastical creations the more I see of our enemy in him. Stories about giants should be simple tales for children but they are not. The vulgarity, for example, and Rabelais’s grievances against the Church are hardly fare for the young. Both Pantagruel and Gargantua are full of such outbursts. Odd, often incoherent, sometimes funny, sometimes instructional.’
‘Are you suggesting that Rabelais is our enemy?’
Wetherby laughed. ‘You know perfectly well that he has been dead for twenty years.’
‘His son, then?’
‘He was a monk. As far as I know he had no son.’
‘Then let us please abandon Monsieur Rabelais and turn our minds to the task before us. One of the men I questioned at the mint claimed to have seen Hugh Pryse with a rosary. Let us begin by asking the excellent Mr Lovell if he can suggest where we might start in that direction.’
‘How goes your search, gentlemen?’ inquired Lovell. ‘Have you heard any word of your quarry?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Christopher. ‘Neither market nor taverns proved fruitful. However, we do have a further request to make of you.’
‘Of course, doctor. And how may I be of service?’
‘We believe that the Pryses are inclined to the old ways of worship.’
Lovell frowned and pursed his lips. ‘Catholics?’
‘Just so.’
‘And you wish me to direct you to those of a similar persuasion?’
‘We do.’
Lovell sat back in his chair. ‘Of course, as a magistrate, I have taken the oath of allegiance to Her Majesty and am conscious of the grave threat posed by Jesuits arriving from France. I have no sympathy with the trappings of papism or outlandish popish pronouncements, never mind the monstrous papal bull calling on Catholics to rise up against our queen—’
‘But?’ interrupted Wetherby.
‘But, Mr Wetherby, there are men and women of the Catholic faith who worship privately and serve our community well. They are good people who cause no trouble and I would not wish to cause them any.’
‘Rest assured, Mr Lovell, that we are not here to seek out Catholics, still less to prosecute them for their beliefs.’ Wetherby glanced at Christopher. ‘Neither Dr Radcliff nor I hold strong religious views. The coiners we seek, however, are guilty of treason and they must be found and brought to justice before they can do further damage. For this we need your co-operation.’
Lovell nodded. ‘Counterfeiting is indeed a serious crime, but still I am reluctant to put anyone in danger on account of their beliefs. Before her excommunication, did our gracious queen herself not say that we all worship the same God and that how we choose to do so is mere detail?’
‘She did, Mr Lovell,’ replied Christopher, ‘and I am wholeheartedly in agreement with her. However, having found no trace of the Pryses by other means, we must try what we can.’
The magistrate’s face betrayed nothing and he did not reply immediately. At last he said, ‘Very well, gentlemen, with your promise that no harm will come to any man or woman simply on account of their faith, I will speak privately to a friend who may be able to help. Do I have that promise?’
‘You do, sir,’ said Christopher. ‘And we thank you for your co-operation.’
Lovell stood up. ‘Return this afternoon at about two. I will do what I can. But remember – I promise nothing and I want no blood-thirsty pursuivants in this town.’
‘No more do we,’ replied Wetherby. ‘And we thank you for your help, sir.’
‘A good man,’ remarked Christopher as they left the magistrate’s house. ‘Would that all justices were cut from the same cloth. Now, how shall we occupy ourselves until two?’
‘Unless you would like to discuss why it is that Rabelais tells us that Gargantua emerged into the world from Gargamelle’s ear, in the same manner as Minerva from the head of Jupiter, I suggest we see that the horses are being well taken care of before dining on the best our landlord has to offer at the Prince Harry. A pity you did not bring your lute. You might have passed yourself off as a travelling minstrel and paid for our dinner with a song or two.’
‘You try my patience, Roland. Horses first, then food.’
They were back in Richard Lovell’s parlour on the stroke of two. He wasted no words. ‘I have explained your purpose and given my personal guarantee that you are to be trusted. With that assurance, although today is Sunday, Lady Paulet has agreed to meet with you at her house.’
‘Lady Paulet? The name is familiar,’ said Wetherby.
‘You are too young to have known her, Mr Wetherby, but she was at court during the reign of Queen Mary. A notable beauty by all accounts. Perhaps you have heard the name at Whitehall. Lady Paulet is now past her fiftieth year and feels the passing of time. Her body is frail but her mind is still sharp. She will know at once if you are in any way dissembling and will tell you nothing.’
‘There will be no dissembling, Mr Lovell,’ replied Christopher, ‘and Lady Paulet will be treated with the respect her age and position merit.’
‘Good. You will find her house half a mile south of the town on the Portsmouth Road. It stands alone and set back from the highway. It is an old house, built a hundred years ago, and reached by a narrow path between two rows of elms. She is expecting you this afternoon.’
‘We are in your debt, sir,’ said Wetherby. ‘And have no fear that your confidence in us is misplaced.’
‘I have no such fear, sir,’ replied Lovell, ‘but I cannot say that Lady Paulet will be able to assist you. In the meantime, do you wish me to proceed with the notices we discussed? It did occur to me that they might have the opposite effect to that desired and frighten your quarry away.’
Christopher nodded. ‘Let us hold them back until we have spoken to Lady Paulet. A more discreet approach is probably better to start with.’
They took their leave. ‘Ride or walk?’ asked Wetherby outside.
‘Walk. It is only half a mile.’
‘I thought you would say that.’
They saw the grey-slated roof of the house through the bare branches of the elms as they turned a corner. It stood well back from the highway and without any other dwelling in sight. They turned up the path towards it.
It was two storeys high, the upper storey overhanging the lower, stone- and timber-built, with shuttered windows and an oak door that looked as if it would resist any amount of battering. In its day a grand house, but now old and strangely sad, as if it knew that the end of its life was near. Christopher used the handle of his poniard to rap on the door. Almost immediately they heard the clatter of shoes on a stone floor and the pulling back of bolts.
The door was opened by a white-haired servant, rheumy-eyed and slightly stooped. ‘Dr Radcliff and Mr Wetherby?’ he inquired and, without waiting for an answer, said: ‘Lady Paulet is in her library. Follow me, if you please.’
The library was not a large room and was made smaller by the shelves of books that lined three of its walls. A round table stood in the middle, with four plain chairs around it. On one of them sat Lady Paulet.
Past her fiftieth year, Mr Lovell had said, yet she might easily have been past her sixtieth. A narrow face, deeply lined around the eyes and from nose to chin, grey hair drawn back from the forehead and partly hidden by a black coif, a grey gown, and tiny hands resting on the table. Like her house, the beauty of youth now gone. ‘Be seated, gentlemen,’ she said, ‘I know who you are.’ The voice, however, was clear and precise – the voice of a lady accustomed to giving orders.
When they sat facing her, Christopher noticed her eyes. They were the palest shade of blue, unblinking and unafraid. ‘Lady Paulet,’ he began, ‘we are indebted to you for agreeing to see us, the more so on a Sunday. Be assured that we mean you no harm and are concerned only with finding the men we seek. Their name is Pryse, a father and his son.’
‘Why do you seek these men, Dr Radcliff?’
‘We believe that they are involved in treasonous coining.’
‘And why do you think that I can help you?’
‘We believe that they left London for Guildford between one and two years ago, and if they continue to worship in the old way Mr Lovell thought that you might be able to direct us to them.’
‘So he told me. Richard Lovell is a dear friend and if these men are counterfeiters, they must be found. False coins benefit no one, whatever their faith. I am old enough to remember clearly the problems caused by King Henry’s debasements. Silver coins were so contaminated that every man with a hammer and a fire seemed to be making them. I am not sure, however, that I can help you in your search.’
‘Coining of any sort is an act of treason, madam,’ said Wetherby, ‘whether by Puritan, Protestant or Catholic.’
The blue eyes held him in their gaze. ‘I am aware of that, sir, but I cannot direct you to two men of whom I have no knowledge. The name Pryse is unfamiliar to me.’
Christopher cursed silently. Why had she agreed to meet them if she could not help? Mr Lovell would certainly have mentioned the name. He stood up. ‘Then, madam, we will trouble you no further.’
Lady Paulet waved him down. ‘Be seated, doctor. I would not have entertained you without reason. Mass is said here for those who wish to take the sacrament in the true form of the body and blood of our saviour. Very few people are aware of this and Richard Lovell chooses not to interfere. It must remain so.’ Again he felt the blue eyes looking deep into his soul.
From somewhere inside her gown, Lady Paulet produced a rosary, which she twisted around her fingers as she spoke. ‘Almost two years ago, I was approached by a man who claimed to have recently settled in the area and wished to worship as I do. I do not know how he learned of me. His name was Jack and he claimed to have travelled here from London. He said little but I believed him if only because he did not have the wit to dissemble. He did tell me that he had no wife, but a son, Henry, who did not care to worship with us. Their name was not Pryse. It was Brooke.’
Christopher cursed himself for a fool. Of course a stranger might give any name and be believed. ‘What more can you tell us about Jack Brooke, my lady?’ he asked.
‘Not a great deal. We do not encourage conversation here other than with God and I do not know where they lived.’
‘Lived, madam?’ asked Wetherby.
‘I have not seen Jack Brooke these past six months. I assumed that they had moved away. I do remember, however, mention of a forge. One day Jack came with his hand bandaged. He had burned it in the forge.’
‘Did he arrive on foot or on horseback?’
‘On foot.’
How far might a man walk to attend Mass? A mile? Two? ‘At what time are your Masses held?’
‘In winter at six in the evening, in summer at ten.’ So a mile or two in the dark. Probably no more than a mile.
‘Is there anything more you can tell us about this man, madam?’ ‘His appearance was unremarkable and his clothes those of a working man. He spoke as a working man of London would – without artifice or pretence. That was partly why I trusted him. I remember nothing more about him.’
‘Nothing?’
‘As I have said.’
‘Then we thank you, my lady. We will leave you now. Come, Roland, we have tired Lady Paulet enough.’
The pale eyes held his. ‘Remember, Dr Radcliff, I have trusted you. Do not betray my trust. If the Brookes are innocent of any crime, do not pursue them.’
‘If they are innocent,’ said Wetherby, ‘be assured, my lady, that they will not be pursued or harmed in any way.’
‘Then God go with you.’
The ancient servant showed them out. They had barely walked down the path to the highway before Wetherby was complaining. ‘Have a care, Christopher. My legs are not as long as yours and you are testing me beyond endurance. For the love of God, slow down. A few minutes more or less will make no difference.’
Christopher slowed his pace a little. ‘We must speak to Mr Lovell. He will be waiting for us.’
Mr Lovell was indeed waiting for them. ‘Was Lady Paulet able to help?’ he asked.
Christopher nodded. ‘She was, sir.’
Lovell grinned. ‘That is a relief. It means she trusted you.’
‘It seems that we are not looking for Pryses but Brookes,’ said Wetherby.
‘Brooke, eh? A Henry Brooke is known to me. A young man with a temper and a taste for ale and women. If he has a father, I do not know him. Could he be the man you seek?’
‘That is what we must find out. Where does Brooke live?’ ‘There is a farmhouse a mile west of the town. I believe he lives there, although I have never had occasion to visit him.’
‘We shall need the services of two constables, Mr Lovell,’ said Christopher. ‘Are you able to provide them?’
Wetherby’s voice held a note of impatience. ‘Christopher, it is almost dark. It would be foolish to go now. Why do we not wait until the morning?’
The magistrate agreed. ‘Mr Wetherby is right, doctor. I could not send constables out at this time. Tomorrow at dawn would be more sensible.’
Christopher was outnumbered. ‘Very well. We will be here tomorrow at dawn, Mr Lovell. Two stout constables, if you please.’
It was a long night with little sleep. Christopher thought of Isaac and Sarah, of Joan in her Newgate cell, of Ell and of Katherine. He thought of the horrors of Paris and the traitor John Berwick. And he wondered if Jack Brooke would prove to be John Pryse and the key to unlocking the riddle of the Dudley testons.
Before first light he was up and dressed and waiting impatiently in the taproom for Wetherby, who appeared just as a weak winter sun rose above the horizon. ‘Make haste, Roland,’ he urged. ‘The sooner we are at the Brooke house the more likely that we shall find our man there.’
‘We will arrive sooner if we take the horses.’
‘It is only a mile. If we walk quickly we shall be there in no more than fifteen minutes. And we are more likely to be unobserved than if we ride.’
They collected the constables from the magistrate’s house. Both were broad-shouldered, heavy-set men, with swords at their sides. They greeted the two intelligencers politely but otherwise said nothing. Mr Lovell had chosen well. While the town was still quiet they set off on the highway leading west. Used regularly by drovers bringing their sheep in from the downs, it was a broad, well-trodden road, bordered on both sides by ditches which carried away excess water and kept it from flooding. In the distance they heard the glass furnaces being fired up.
They encountered but a single milkmaid trudging into town and a vagrant who jumped over the ditch and ran into the woods when he saw them. The few hovels they passed were deserted.
After twenty minutes or so they saw smoke rising from a building ahead. Christopher whispered to them to make no noise as they approached. Soon they could see that it had once been a farmhouse – straw-thatched, stone- and timber-built, and with a substantial wooden barn with a pitched roof beside it. The house was all but derelict. The window shutters hung loose on their hinges and part of the roof had caved in. The only sign of life was the smoke which drifted up through the gap in the thatch.
Crouching behind the mound of a stinking midden, Christopher whispered to the constables: ‘Remain hidden here while I approach from the front. Mr Wetherby will circle around to the back in case our friends try to make a run for it. Remember that we must be sure that they are the men we seek before we arrest them.’
‘There may be others in the house,’ said Wetherby.
‘If there are, we will soon find out.’ Christopher stood up and strode towards the door. Wetherby slipped cautiously around the house to the back.
Outside the door he called out. ‘Good day, master farmer. I was passing and thought to buy a beaker of milk from you.’
There came the rasping of iron upon iron and a rough voice replied from within. ‘Who are you?’
‘A traveller on the road to Farnham. I have not breakfasted and will give two pence for a beaker of milk.’
‘There is no milk. Be on your way, traveller.’
‘May I not rest here awhile? I have a long journey ahead.’
Bolts were pulled back, the door was thrown open and a young man of perhaps twenty-five stood menacingly on the threshold, a pitchfork in his hand. He wore a ragged woollen shirt, leather trousers and a leather apron. He was a few inches shorter than Christopher but thick-necked and muscular. His hair and beard were red. Both were filthy. He stared at his visitor through slits of eyes. ‘Did you not hear me, traveller? Be on your way.’
Christopher feigned disappointment. ‘I had heard that the Brookes were hospitable folk. It seems I was misinformed.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘The name of Brooke is well known in these parts. Jack Brooke and his son Henry – good men and good company, I heard.’ He waited for a reaction, saw none and added, ‘As is the name Pryse.’
In a trice, the pitchfork was pointed at his stomach. Pryse lunged but Christopher was ready for him. He stepped back and a little to his right and grabbed the shaft with his left hand. A sharp pull and Pryse shot forward. He stumbled and fell on his face in the dirt. ‘Constables,’ shouted Christopher, but the two men had been watching and were already beside him.
One held Pryse down while the other bound his hands behind his back and slipped a rope around his neck. ‘There,’ said a constable, ‘now you can lead us home. But take care. One stumble and the pitchfork will be up your fat arse.’
Pryse managed a strangled croak: ‘What is this?’
‘We are officers of the law, here to arrest you.’
‘What law have I broken?’
‘Why did you try to skewer me with that pitchfork? What are you afraid of?’
‘I took you for a thief. It seems you are worse.’
‘Where is your father?’
‘What business is that of yours?’
‘He too is to be arrested.’
Another coarse laugh. ‘That will be difficult. My father died six months since.’
The constables hoisted Pryse to his feet. ‘What did he die of?’ asked Christopher.
‘Who knows? Pox, plague, old age? Who cares?’
Christopher snapped. With a sudden backhand stroke across Pryse’s face, he brought blood streaming from the young man’s nose. ‘Where is he buried?’
Pryse put his hands to his bleeding nose and grunted. ‘Buried?’ he spluttered. ‘Inside the pigs’ bellies, that’s where he’s buried.’ With his sleeve he wiped his nose and spat out a stream of red spittle.
‘I see no pigs.’
‘All gone to market. Fetched good prices.’ Blood was still dripping from his nose but he managed a coarse laugh. ‘Perhaps you ate a leg.’
Christopher shuddered. ‘You fed your father to the pigs. A foul crime, Pryse, and an evil one that will surely see you burn in hell. Take this creature back, constables. I will speak to it more in the gaol. Where is Wetherby?’
‘I am here, Christopher,’ said Wetherby from behind him, ‘and look what I have found.’
Christopher turned. Wetherby was standing in the doorway holding a skinny girl by the elbows. Her face was streaked with grime and under only a thin shift she was shivering. ‘Do you live here?’ he asked her. She did not reply. ‘What is your name, wench?’ She wriggled but could not get free.
‘What is yours, you poxed prick?’ Her voice matched her face – rough, mean and foul.
Christopher bent down until his nose was almost touching hers. ‘It will go better for you if you tell us what we wish to know. If you do not, a plague-infested cell awaits you as it does Pryse. Who are you?’
She glared at him but there was a hint of fear in the voice. ‘Who are you?’
Christopher sighed as if speaking to a troublesome child and held the point of the poniard to her eye. ‘How many one-eyed whores do you know, Roland?’
‘Very few. They do not last long on the streets. Food for the rats within a week.’
‘Do you suppose our master would be pleased to receive a whore’s eyeball as a gift?’
‘I think he would be delighted.’
Christopher thought the woman was still going to resist, but when he touched her eyelid with the point, she screamed and struggled. ‘Let me go and I will tell you what you wish to know.’
He withdrew the blade. ‘You will tell us anyway. Take her inside, Roland, and hold her fast.’
Wetherby marched the woman into the farmhouse and sat her on the single stool that served as furniture. He stood behind her, holding her just above the elbows. A slight squeeze and she would squeal like a piglet. A pile of faggots lay beside the fire and a heap of rags in one corner. Otherwise the room was bare. Christopher had followed them in. ‘Now, woman,’ he growled, ‘what is your name?’
‘Agnes Fayle.’
‘Do you live here, Agnes Fayle?’
‘No. I come when he wants me. He is often in town. Tell your pretty friend to let me go.’
‘For how long have you been doing this?’
‘A few months. He told me his father had died and he was going to return to London.’
‘What work did he do?’
‘None, as far as I could see. Ouch. My arms hurt like buggery. Let me go.’
‘So he had money. Did you see it?’
Agnes Fayle snorted. ‘A miserly coin or two. I’ve had better payers.’
‘No hoard of silver?’
‘Would I have seen it if there was? Let me go, shit bucket.’
‘Mr Wetherby will let you go when you have answered all my questions. What did he call himself?’
‘Henry. Henry Brooke. Came from London.’
‘Had he an occupation there?’
‘Couldn’t say. He never spoke about it. Just wanted to swive. Good at that, he is. Prick like a bull’s.’
‘He didn’t speak about minting coins?’
‘Coins? Ha. Had precious few if he did.’
Christopher looked at Wetherby, who shrugged. ‘We’ll let you go now, but if you make trouble, the blade will be back at your eye. Do you understand?’ She nodded. ‘Let her go, Roland. She’s no more use to us.’
When Wetherby released his grip the slut stood up and rubbed her arms. ‘Pair of evil buggers you are. Could have taken my eye and broken my bones. And for nothing. Whatever it is you’re after, I haven’t got it and I don’t know where it is. Who are you?’
‘Never mind who we are. Get dressed and go. You won’t see him again.’
She found a smock among the heap of rags and slipped it over the shift. Her shoes were by the fire. She put them on, picked up a faggot, threw it at Christopher and ran. ‘I know who you are,’ she shouted from outside the house. ‘Two of the queen’s arse-lickers. Well, fuck off back to Her royal Majesty and earn your crust.’
Christopher put a hand on Wetherby’s arm. ‘Let her go. She knows nothing.’
‘Nothing, I agree. Once again I am astonished at your ability to turn from gentle Doctor of Law to monstrous inquisitor in the blink of an eye. You should have been a player.’
No, thought Christopher, not a player but a contented Doctor of Law who valued justice above all else and abhorred violence. But fate had chosen a different path for him. ‘Needs must and she was unharmed. Isaac Cardoza, remember, is dead.’ He looked around the squalid room. ‘Before we return to speak yet more harshly to Master Brooke or Pryse or whoever he claims to be, we must have a good look around this hovel. If there was coining here, there will surely be some sign of it.’
They threw aside the pile of rags and the heap of faggots and found nothing. Nor was there anything in the adjoining room that, judging by the blankets and straw strewn about the floor, served as a bed chamber. When the father was alive, one of them must have slept by the fire.
There was neither parlour nor kitchen. ‘Neither food nor drink,’ observed Wetherby, ‘nor beasts nor tools. Our man was not planning to be here for many more days.’
‘No. I fancy we were barely in time.’ He paused. ‘And we might have saved the whore’s life. A man who can feed his dead father to the swine would have no scruples about burying his whore under the midden. Let us try the barn.’
The south side of the barn was partly open to allow access to carts and beasts. Muck-splattered straw littered the floor, a stone drinking trough stood against one wooden wall and a pile of rusting scythes, shovels and pitchforks against another. The back wall was covered by heaps of empty sacks.
‘There is something amiss here,’ said Wetherby almost at once, before leaving the barn and walking down one side of it. He ran his palms along the timbers that formed the wall and every few steps rapped his knuckles on them. At the far end he turned and said, ‘I thought as much. This barn is a trick. The inside is too small for the outside. The back wall is false.’ He chortled. ‘Might have been designed by Rabelais.’
‘God’s teeth, Roland, I thought we agreed no more Rabelais. But you are right. Help me move some of those sacks.’
Starting in the middle, they heaved aside armfuls of sacks until the wall was exposed. They found nothing and carried on until they came to a corner. Christopher tugged at a sack on the top of the heap and jumped back in surprise. It tumbled down bringing all those underneath with it. The sacks in the corner had been cunningly sewn together so that they could be easily moved and replaced. Behind them was a low door. Christopher crouched down and entered. Wetherby followed.
The hidden room was in darkness and at first they could see nothing. Gradually, however, their eyes became accustomed to their surroundings and they could begin to make out what they had found.
In the middle of the hidden room, as far from the wooden walls as possible, stood a brick-built kiln which would have been used for melting down the silver and copper. Above it, a hole, invisible from outside, had been cut in the roof to allow smoke to escape. On each side were thick oak work benches, on which lay an assortment of tools – flat shovels, hammers, shears and dozens of iron dies. An old barrel was brimming with evil-smelling water. In such a place the risk of fire would have been great – a spark from the kiln or even from a hammer striking metal and the timber walls would soon feed the flames.
‘The ashes are cold,’ said Christopher, withdrawing his hand from the kiln. Wetherby held up a chipped minter’s iron trussel and pile. ‘Bring them outside and let us see what we’ve found, although I think we can guess.’
They ducked back through the hidden door and into the open part of the barn. Wetherby handed the dies to Christopher, who held them up so that he could see the designs clearly. He laughed. ‘A bear on the trussel and a ragged staff on the pile, both stamped into the iron, and as far as I can tell, well made. Certainly the work of a skilled man.’
‘John Pryse, no doubt. His son does not strike one as a man of skill.’
‘No doubt he would have kept the fire going and done the hammering and annealing while his father made the dies and trimmed the finished coins ready for use. The two of them would have been able to turn out as many counterfeits as their supply of silver and copper allowed. Someone brought them old coins and silver to be melted down. For other coiners this would not be profitable but it served the purpose of whoever was paying the Pryses.’
‘Their purpose not being profit but something more subtle,’ said Wetherby.
‘And more sinister. My guess is that Pryse ceased work soon after his father died and would have set fire to the farm and the barn before leaving.’
‘We have only Pryse’s word that his father is dead. The story of the pigs might be to explain the lack of a grave.’
Christopher scratched his chin. ‘It might. The father might simply have left.’
‘Or his son might have killed him. Either way, Pryse must have accumulated enough money or at least thought that he had. They would have been well paid and I’ll wager not all the silver ended up as bear and staff testons. Perhaps there’s a hoard buried nearby.’
‘If there is, we’ll leave Mr Lovell and his constables to find it. We have not the time although I doubt Pryse will tell us where it is. Give me one of the dies to carry and we’ll go and make sure he’s settled comfortably into the gaol.’
Guildford gaol had at one time been the dungeons of the now ruined castle. While the turrets and towers had long since collapsed and the ancient walls were crumbling, the dungeons, largely safe from wind and rain below ground, were still intact and usable.
At the top of the stone steps leading down to the cells, Richard Lovell was waiting for them. ‘Your man is ready for you, gentlemen,’ said the magistrate with a big grin. ‘I must say that he has not worn well since last I saw him. Drink and debauchery, I daresay. Odd that the father never came into town or, if he did, I did not come across him. Where is he now?’
‘Dead, according to his son. Of old age or pox or a pitchfork in the guts, we may never know. Nor will a trace of him be found.’
Lovell caught his tone and raised his eyebrows. ‘I see. What are your intentions now?’
‘I will speak to Pryse but I doubt he will tell us much here,’ replied Christopher. ‘If you are able to provide us with a cart and a constable to drive it, we will take him to London. A few nights in Newgate and the prospect of a traitor’s death should loosen his tongue.’
‘Dr Radcliff, are you quite sure that he is the man you seek?’
‘Quite sure, Mr Lovell. Go to the farm yourself and you will find a secret mint in the barn. That is where Pryse and his father produced the counterfeit coins, stamped with these dies.’
Lovell looked at the dies and nodded. ‘A bear and a ragged staff, just as you said. That is evidence enough. I will make the arrangements for tomorrow.’
Dark and dank and foul, yet the dungeons of Guildford Castle were less awful than the hellish cells of Newgate. There was a little more light and air and the stench was less gut-churning. And there were but a few prisoners crying out for pity. King John’s enemies, it seemed, had fared rather better nearly four hundred years earlier than did the gracious Queen Elizabeth’s.
A gaoler led them down to Pryse’s cell, where he sat in a corner on the stone floor. He looked up when they entered but did not move or speak. ‘Let us begin with your name,’ said Christopher. ‘Are you Hugh Pryse?’
‘I am Henry Brooke. I know no Pryse.’
‘Do not waste our time, Pryse. We know who you are.’ Christopher held up the two dies. ‘And we found these in your barn. How do you account for them?’
‘What are they?’
‘For the love of God, man, do not make matters worse for yourself,’ snapped Christopher. ‘I have no time for this. Try our patience more and you will certainly suffer a traitor’s death. Have you ever seen a man hanged, cut down while still breathing, his guts drawn from him and his body cut into quarters? Have you? Because that is what awaits you if you lie and dissemble. Tell the truth and you might yet be spared such an end. You know what these are and we know what they were used for. Where did you get them?’
Pryse shrugged and said nothing. ‘For whom were you working?’ Nothing. ‘For whom were you working?’ Louder this time. Still nothing. Christopher sighed. ‘As you wish. Tomorrow you will be taken to Newgate for questioning. Think on what awaits you there and, if you still refuse to speak, what awaits you in the Tower. Inside the curtain wall, not outside it in the mint.’ A flicker of fear crossed Pryse’s face. ‘And I suggest you start by telling Mr Lovell where your silver is hidden. It will save his constables much time in searching and might spare you a beating.’
They waited for a response but there was none. ‘Very well. Mr Lovell, he is well enough fed. I suggest neither food nor water. We will leave at dawn tomorrow.’ They heard the key turning in the lock behind them as they climbed the steps.
At the top Christopher asked if he might accompany the magistrate briefly to his house. ‘I have a task to perform and a small favour to ask of you,’ he said.
Seated at the magistrate’s desk and using one of his pens and his inkpot, he wrote a letter. It did not take long. He sanded it, folded it and handed it to the magistrate. ‘You would be doing me a great service if you would have this delivered to Lady Paulet,’ he said. ‘And my thanks also to you, Mr Lovell. The Earl of Leicester will be told of your part in capturing Hugh Pryse. Be sure of it.’
Lovell inclined his head in thanks. ‘Tomorrow at dawn, doctor. All will be ready.’
Outside, Christopher clapped Wetherby on the back. ‘Progress at last, Roland, and now it is time we paid a visit to the glass-blowers.’
‘With what purpose?’
‘I have been wondering why the coiners chose Guildford for their mint and how the coins were smuggled into London. Could it be that Guildford was chosen so that the testons could be hidden in a shipment from the glassworks? It would not have been difficult to ferry a crate or two of glass across the river and bring them in through Lud Gate or New Gate without arousing suspicion.’
‘It would not. Nor would we have ever known had Pryse not spoken of the town before they left London.’
Approaching the glassworks, the roar of furnaces reminded Christopher of the mint. And as they reached the cluster of low buildings in which the glass was blown and shaped and annealed, the heat from the furnaces greeted them like a burning blast of wind. Instinctively, they put their hands to their faces and turned away until the shock subsided.
To one side of the buildings stood a small dwelling – stone-built and tiled. Christopher hammered on the door, hoping that it was where they would find a supervisor or someone else in authority. It was opened by a tall man with a neat beard and dressed more appropriately for Whitehall than for a glassworks. His doublet was red and his hose white. ‘Good day, sirs,’ he said in a strong French accent. ‘Have you come to inquire about our glass?’
‘In a way, we have, sir,’ replied Christopher. ‘I am Dr Christopher Radcliff and my companion is Mr Roland Wetherby. We are in Guildford on my lord the Earl of Leicester’s business.’
‘I am Jacques l’Église, a sharer in this enterprise. Do you wish to order glass for his lordship? If so, it would of course be an honour to serve him. Be aware, however, that demand for our glass is high and we are very busy.’
‘The quality of your glass is well known in London, sir,’ said Wetherby with a slight bow, ‘and on another occasion it would be a pleasure to examine your wares. Today, however, we would like to inquire about a man we are seeking.’
‘What man would that be, sir?’
‘His name is unknown to us, but he would have made regular visits here and would have purchased glassware for his customers in London. Small amounts, probably.’
The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you seek such a man?’
‘That we cannot say,’ replied Christopher, ‘but the earl is most insistent that we trace him and will certainly look favourably on all who assist us in our task.’
‘If you were to furnish us with a sample of your glass – say a small flask – we would be pleased to present it to his lordship with a view to his placing an order for Kenilworth Castle,’ added Wetherby. ‘Next summer, the queen herself will be visiting Kenilworth on her progress.’
‘The queen’s progress? That is most gracious of you. I will certainly find a suitable item for the earl. A flask, yes. We are noted for our flasks. But as to the man you seek, we have many customers and I …’
‘He would have paid in silver coin.’
‘As do many of our customers.’ L’Église stroked his beard. ‘Although there was one man – we have not seen him for some weeks – who ordered glassware on each visit, paid in silver, and placed another order for the next time. Never a large order but he came every month. We understood him to be buying on behalf of London gentlemen.’
‘What was this man’s name, sir?’
‘He went by the name of Fossett. Gerard Fossett.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘A tall man, black hair and beard, finely dressed. Always courteous. One would not have guessed that he had travelled from London. He came by a coach which he drove himself. Unusual, but he was a regular buyer, so I said nothing about it.’
‘For how long was Mr Fossett a customer?’
‘About a year and a half, I think. I could check my records, if you wish.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur l’Église,’ said Wetherby, ‘that would be helpful.’
They followed him into the house where a thick ledger lay open on a table. L’Église turned back the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘There,’ he said, tapping a page with his finger, ‘Mr Fossett placed his first order on the tenth day of August 1572. It was for two dozen hock glasses at a price of ten pounds. He collected them on the twelfth day of September and paid in silver. On that day he also placed another order for hock glasses.’
‘His masters must have had a taste for German wine,’ said Wetherby. ‘Personally, I find it somewhat insipid.’
L’Église turned over the pages. ‘Mr Fossett returned every month until November of last year. I do not know why he no longer came after that.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur l’Église,’ said Christopher. ‘That is most helpful.’
‘A pleasure to serve the Earl of Leicester. Come now and I will find a flask for him.’
Christopher followed the Frenchman. Gerard Fossett, l’Église had said. Tall, well dressed, drove his own carriage, black-haired and courteous. And found with his throat slashed in a mean alley off Cheapside before his corpse was removed from the deadhouse and dumped in the river? Ell’s handsome customer? He smiled. First Pryse, then Fossett. A little more progress and each step taking them closer to their prey.
By the time they trundled over London Bridge, the church clocks were chiming five in the afternoon. The journey from Guildford with the prisoner bound on a flat cart pulled by a sturdy pony had taken almost twice the time of that from London.
Pryse had not revealed the whereabouts of his money and on the journey had said almost nothing. To the name Gerard Fossett he had shown no reaction. Not a glimmer. Even at a crossroads near the village of Esher, where the constable had pointed to a thief swinging on a gibbet, his eyes taken by crows and his hair by wig-makers, and had amused himself with remarks about the dead man at least having died in one piece, Pryse had not spoken.
On the way up from the bridge to Newgate, they encountered few stares. Felons on carts being taken to gaol were a common enough sight on the streets of the city.
They left him at Newgate with instructions to the warden to put him with the penniless wretches in the lowest cells on the common side, paid off the constable with more than enough for his work and for a bed for the night, and returned the earl’s coursers to their stable in Whitehall. Newgate had reminded Christopher again that poor Joan Willys was still held there. Somehow he must find time to visit her.
‘A carriage next time,’ he said, stretching his back. ‘The older I get the more I dislike riding. And now it’s time to face the earl.’
The earl, they were told, was with Her Majesty but a message would be given to him that they awaited him in the anteroom to his apartment.
The earl’s audience with the queen must have gone well. They had been waiting no more than twenty minutes when he strode into the antechamber and summoned them straight into his apartment. ‘You have returned sooner than I expected,’ he said. ‘I trust this signals good news?’
‘Mr Wetherby and I believe it does, my lord.’