Saturday, 17 October
The shadows were lengthening, and Jack hurried. He did not want doors slammed in his face. How he wished for Ned’s help again. Or perhaps even Isabel’s.
Isabel. Such a pretty, young thing. And she seemed to like Jack. He liked her, too. Her cheerful eyes that he could see even now in his mind’s eye. Her kittenish smile.
He pulled himself up short with a shiver. No! He hadn’t time to think of her. And besides, what would Master Gilbert say? He was getting ahead of himself. Once Master Crispin was freed from gaol and only then would he consider … consider … ‘Blind me. What am I considering?’
He shook himself again. Nothing. He was considering nothing. Not while his master’s life was still at stake.
He came to the first door on Mercery, screwed up his courage, and knocked.
A woman answered the door and looked down at Jack. ‘Didn’t I talk to you the other day, lad?’
‘Oh, aye. It’s possible. For you see I am looking for a man …’
‘And I told you I did not know him.’
‘And right you did, but I have since discovered that he is using a false name. If I told you what he looked like, might you be able to tell me then?’
‘Oh, I see. Well then?’
Jack gave the description and the woman listened, her eyes shifting heavenward in thought. ‘That does sound familiar. But I cannot put a name to that face.’
‘But have you seen that man on Mercery?’
‘I’m almost certain I have. Almost certain, mind. I don’t want no trouble with the law.’
‘Oh, no, madam. No trouble at all. I thank you.’ He backed away with a curt bow and trotted to the next shop. Encouraged, he climbed the stair and knocked.
But after a few more houses, it became apparent that though the description seemed to sound familiar to the folk on the street, no name or address was forthcoming.
As the sun glided past the rooftops, he had to conclude that he had been wrong. He would not find the witness this way. At least not today. With a heavy heart, he trudged back up Mercery to Milk Street and thence to Catte. This was the murder Nigellus had told him of, and he set about to find some witnesses, those that might have known the woman. He came first to a female shopkeeper, carefully stacking the thick wheels of cheese up under her arm to bring inside for the end of the day.
‘I beg your mercy, demoiselle,’ Jack said with a bow. The woman, thin and pale with her cotehardie laced up tight to her throat, stopped. Her linen kerchief hid her face so well that only her cheeks, chin, and eyes were visible.
‘Eh?’ she said.
‘I understand you knew the woman who died the other day.’
She frowned, burling her chin. ‘And who’s asking?’
‘Jack Tucker, the Tracker’s apprentice.’
Her brows – or what he could see of them – flew up her forehead. ‘Tracker? By the Mass. But … the sheriff’s men already came round …’
‘As you might also know, me and my master are not with the sheriff.’
She nodded. ‘And so. What can I do for the Tracker’s apprentice?’
‘You can tell me about the woman.’
‘Avice Weedon. Well. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead …’ She crossed herself. ‘But we all knew the sort of woman she was.’
‘And … what sort was that?’
‘The sort what lay with men … for coin. That was a stew, after all.’
‘Oh. And … this was well known?’
‘Oh aye. We all knew it. And though many scorned it, they didn’t bother no one. The girls even went to church regular. To think they couldn’t find decent work. Or didn’t want to.’ She ticked her head. ‘She was a right sweet lass, too. Often gave over charity to those in need. Sweet lass. Oh, I know the stews belong in Southwark, and now that the sheriff’s discovered it they will be turned out, but they were good neighbors. Surprisingly quiet. Ah, what will they do now? I suppose it’s off to Southwark for them. And who knows who will rent the place after. If the law would only leave well enough alone …’
Jack bit his lip. ‘Then … did you or anyone see a man go up to her, er … lodgings Thursday last?’
‘Which one? There were many she’d bring up there.’
‘I imagine the last one.’
She squinted at him. ‘You’re cheeky for an apprentice.’ She sighed. ‘Who can say? Some men don’t care if they are seen with a whore. Some do care. She had regulars, too. They’d meet her on the street or at the stew.’
From Nigellus’s information, Jack knew the woman had been killed Thursday evening. Could have been before or after Elizabeth le Porter was dispatched. But why run from one woman to the next, killing them?
‘Did she have any regulars Thursday night?’
‘A few.’
‘How would you know the difference between the other customers and hers?’
‘Because she would always see them off at the step. Little wonder they came back to her. She had a good head for business.’
‘Any you know by name?’
She laughed. ‘Are you going to go round their houses and ask them? With their wives present?’
Jack felt his face flush. He certainly knew the mechanics of it. Hadn’t he heard enough rutting from Master Crispin and seen more in taverns. Jack himself, though bestirred as the best of men, had no taste for whores. He was as yet untried, and he wasn’t certain how he felt about that.
‘If I must,’ he said. ‘Can you … will you give me their names?’
She sobered. ‘Aye. If it will help. If one of them is responsible …’
Jack took out the parchment and ink that he still had in his scrip and took down the names. Perhaps being a clerk was a handy thing at that.
‘It’s a shame about Joan Keighley.’
Jack looked up, his quill stopped short. ‘Eh?’ Joan Keighley was the woman Jack had found along with Sheriff Walcote. ‘Did you know her, too?’
‘Oh, aye. She used to work in the stew … until she went out on her own.’
‘You wouldn’t know her clients, would you?’
‘No. Only Avice said her farewells to the men on the threshold.’
‘I see.’ He folded his parchment and slipped it back into his scrip. ‘I thank you, madam.’
‘Find her killer.’ She rubbed at her neck. ‘It makes us all a bit … shivery … thinking about it.’
‘Make sure you bar your windows and doors at night,’ he admonished before he walked away and headed toward Watling. If Avice and Joan Keighley knew one another, they might even have some of the same clients. But would Joan’s neighbors know their names?
He soon discovered that though Joan’s neighbors called her quiet and charitable, they, too, knew what she was up to. One nearby shopkeeper said he did not know the name of her clients but that a neighbor woman did, but she was not at home. Jack thanked him and vowed to return.
With thoughts rambling around in his head, Jack wandered back toward that private stair near the roper and eel monger. He paid a call to the roper, who was exasperated at being bothered again.
‘She’s more trouble dead than alive, isn’t she?’ He crossed himself. ‘Forgive me,’ he grumbled, ‘but she tried keeping to herself and now I’ve heard more about her than I have in the fortnight she lived here. She was a vixen, to be sure, but quiet, like I said. Though she wasn’t above using her wiles to wheedle money from me … and others. Always borrowing, that one. Now no one’s getting their money back, I suppose.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Jack. ‘But sir, if she had no money, how could she afford such lodgings? Two rooms? That’s fine accommodations.’
The roper shrugged. ‘I suppose. Her lodgings were paid for in full. As for income to live day to day, I know not. Lived on borrowing. But I don’t mind saying I always felt as if … well, as if it were all temporary. As if she was only in those rooms for a short while and intended on moving on.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘All sorts of things. Things she’d say. “Wait till next month, Master Roper.” Or “But you’ll miss me.” Strange things like that.’
Jack scratched at his curly mop of hair. ‘Do you know if she were betrothed?’
‘She said not a thing about it. Seems one would.’
‘It seems.’
‘I didn’t mean to rail at you, Master Tucker,’ said Croydone. ‘If you need any help from me, any at all, I’d be glad to offer my hand.’
He thanked the roper and stepped outside. If le Porter had secured these lodgings only temporarily, where had she intended to go? Was she getting married? Was it to the man who had strangled her?
Jack turned and started when Hugh Buckton suddenly appeared behind him. ‘Blind me, Master Buckton, but you gave me a fright.’
‘Sorry, Master Tucker. I just saw you there and wondered if you had gotten any further in your investigating.’
‘Not as far as I would have liked, sir. You said that Elizabeth le Porter owed you money?’
‘Aye. Is there any getting it back?’
‘Not according to what I hear of her. Looks like she borrowed from a lot of men.’
Buckton scowled and looked away.
‘I know it’s a hard thing …’
‘It’s just … you haven’t found the man what killed her. What if it was … well, they arrested the Tracker …’
‘That’s my master you’re talking about!’ He hadn’t meant to shout, but others along the street had turned to look, some straining their necks to peer above the crowds.
Jack chastened but faced Buckton squarely. ‘It isn’t my master,’ he said quieter, ‘and I am doing the best that I can. But these things take time. Be assured, Master Buckton, that I will find the culprit and I’ll make certain he hangs from the highest tree.’ He calmed himself, straightened his cotehardie, and took a breath. ‘And so, Master Buckton, would you be willing to come with me now to identify those I mentioned before?’
The man shook his head. ‘No. I have to get back to my work. You told me Sunday.’
‘That I did. I only thought that if you had the time now …’
‘No. Sunday.’ He turned abruptly away and shambled back to his shop.
Jack ran his hand up over his face. Not what he expected from the murdered women, no help about the third witness, and Buckton was putting him off. Could this day get any worse?
He gave it up, and with his apologies sent toward Newgate to his master, he set out toward home.
But he hadn’t gotten more than a few streets and down an alley when a man in a dark cloak accosted him. Jack spun, knife drawn, and leapt back from his attacker. It turned out to be a good tactic. Walter Noreys, teeth bared, glowered.
‘What do you want?’ Jack wished fervently that Buckton had agreed to accompany him for here was the first of many he wanted the man to identify.
‘I want that which is mine. I know who you really are and I know that Crispin Guest has the Virgin’s Tears. I know he has it! It is known he traffics in relics. There are countless tales of such. He must have it, and you know where it is.’ He pulled a long blade and crouched as if to fight.
Jack backed away. ‘Master Noreys, I am warning you now. Stand down. My master hasn’t the Tears. I saw the relic myself just yesterday at the house of the widow Peverel. And your father knows about your antics. Isn’t it bad enough that it got your brother killed?’
‘Don’t you speak about my brother!’
‘But it is true. You know it is. Give this up, Master Noreys.’
‘Here! What’s this?’
A man came into the alley and cried the alarm. Others came running and stood around them.
‘You see, Master Noreys,’ Jack urged. ‘You cannot win this. Go home. See to your family. It’s over and done.’
Noreys swept the crowd with a sneer and slammed his knife back in its sheath. ‘It’s not over, Tucker. While I live and breathe it’s not over. You just watch your back.’ He spun, his cloak whirling after him.
Jack slowed his breathing and carefully sheathed his dagger. The crowd watched him, while some stepped back out of the alley and followed Noreys’ retreat.
‘Are you all right, son?’ asked an older man, hand on Jack’s shoulder.
‘Thanks to you and your friends, sir. No harm done. Just an excitable fellow is he.’
‘Well I’d take his advice. To watch your back.’
‘And so I shall, sir. Thanks to you all.’ Jack saluted them and hurried on. But instead of heading home, he decided to stop by the Boar’s Tusk.
Blind me, I’m taking on my master’s habits, he admonished. No wonder Master Crispin drank. A little wine, a little ale went a long way to relaxing a man’s tensed shoulders.
He ducked inside the darker interior and found a place with a clear view of the room.
Gilbert arrived shortly thereafter and brought a jug and two cups. He sat opposite, not saying a word, and poured, scooting one cup toward Jack. He set the jug down and drank.
Jack cautiously took the cup and drank it down. It was enough to cleanse the day from his throat but a second dose helped his disposition. He set that cup down and wiped his mouth. ‘Thank you, Gilbert. That was needed.’
‘Any more word on the case, Jack? Are you any closer …’
He shook his head. ‘The more I dig, the more muddled it becomes. I tell you true, Gilbert, I never done a case on me own. And I surely never wanted that first one to be so grave a chore as to save my master’s life. It is harder work than I ever dreamed. I’d watch Master Crispin at it and he always seemed so calm, so precise. I feel like a bumbling, stumbling fool. At least his lawyer is confident that there is enough doubt not to convict. Is that so, Gilbert? Do you think there is a chance?’
Gilbert filled his cup again and set the jug down. ‘Well, as I’ve heard it – and there have been many at the Guildhall this day – there are some that hold fast to the witnesses, saying it could be none but Crispin, but there are still others who took your testimony to heart. They are not keen to convict, but they don’t know if they can acquit either.’
‘Damn!’ Jack stared sourly at the table. ‘I must try again tomorrow. Sunday or no, there is no rest while my master languishes in gaol.’
Gilbert patted his arm. ‘You’re a good lad, Jack. And so … I wish to ask you something of great import.’
Jack drank another dose of ale and set his cup down, waiting for Gilbert to speak.
‘Jack, my lad. It has come to my attention that … well, that Isabel might have been in your company the other day when she went missing.’
Jack straightened to his full height. He swallowed hard. ‘Now, Gilbert … there was nothing amiss. The lass wanted to help me in my cause. And once she did, I sent her back right quick. I did try to send her back right away but … she’s a bit … headstrong.’
Gilbert sagged, nodding. ‘Aye. That she is. Then … no harm done I suppose …’
‘Master Gilbert.’ Jack cleared his throat again when it suddenly thickened. ‘Master Gilbert, I was wondering. If a lad, such as m’self, someone who hasn’t quite got great prospects, should …’ He suddenly grew shy and couldn’t raise his eyes to the man. Instead, he drew circles in the rings left by his cup. ‘Should, say, want to … woo her. What would you say?’
The tavern keeper looked around and then hunkered down over the table, keeping their talk private. ‘Well now, Jack. A man like me must take into consideration that he’d want the best for his ward. He’d look for a man with a proper house and vocation. Someone who could support her and her children. I’d be a poor uncle indeed if I considered any less for her.’
Jack’s shoulders fell. He frowned and stared at the drawings he had made with the spilled ale. All nonsense. ‘I see. Aye, I should do no less for my own kin. One would have to be a fool to … to …’ He swallowed again and kicked the bench back as he rose. ‘Maybe I should be getting back home …’
Gilbert reached over and grasped Jack’s arm. ‘Sit you down, lad. I wasn’t done talking.’
Jack sat reluctantly, feeling like the biggest fool. His face felt burned like it was afire, burnished red and warm. He should have talked to Master Crispin first. He should have pled his case, and then his master would have talked him down, eased his mind with his clever words and sage advice. Maybe the two of them were meant for a solitary life like two monks in a cell.
‘But …’ Gilbert began, ‘I would also be a fool if I didn’t take into consideration the measure of the man. For a man could have all the gold in the world and be a villain. What sort of match would that be if my kin were soured and trodden? Her babes would be sickly, and if they lived would turn out to be scoundrels and shrews. No, it’s a fine responsibility being a guardian, for parent I am not, but I do love her like a child of my own. A fine upstanding man would be my choice for her. Even if he did make a meager living. For one day, this tavern and all that is in it, she would inherit, so it isn’t as if she would be left with nothing if this lad – whoever he is – didn’t make the living he should. He would be honest and true to her, and keep his oaths. That is the gold no man can keep in a money pouch.’
Jack flicked his gaze over Gilbert’s kind, round face. ‘Sir?’
Gilbert smiled. ‘If the lass is willing … I’ll … give my consent.’
Blinking Jack rose again. ‘Y-you … you will?’
Gilbert stood, leaned over the table, and slapped the boy’s shoulder. ‘Jack Tucker, did you ever doubt it?’ He laughed out loud, grabbed the jug, and made his way through the customers toward the back of the tavern.
Jack watched him go, his open mouth growing into a smile, and his chest swelling with pride. ‘God blind me! Did you ever!’
He headed toward the door, body straight and tall with expectation … until he shuddered to a halt. If the lass is willing, Gilbert had said. And what if she weren’t?
Jack swung around, eyes searching for Isabel, horror on his face. He’d only just met her. How presumptuous of him to assume, with so little acquaintance, that she might think him a good prospect. For what was he? An apprentice and servant to a man who had no prospects of his own. And that was fine for the two of them, but add a wife into the mix and babes, it was a sour thing indeed. He had little to offer, earning only a farthing for each job he and Master Crispin took on. How was a wife to put that away for their retirement? Or a dowry should they have a girl!
But then his gaze fell on Isabel as she carried in the wood for the fire. She happened to look up in that instant and caught Jack’s gaze. A smile, all dimples and mischief, tore across her face, and her eyes shone with the brilliance of a spring day.
Jack’s heart melted. She does like me, he consoled himself. He gave her a shy little wave that she tried to return, though her arms were burdened. Instinctively, he moved toward her to help. And then a man burst through the door of the tavern, yelling, ‘Where’s Crispin Guest?’
Jack swiveled to look, and the man caught sight of him. He pushed his way forward – since the tavern customers began moving to discover what the matter was – and stood before Jack. ‘You must come quickly! Your house is on fire.’
‘What?’ Jack shoved him and cast open the doors. He ran and heard the footfalls of others following. Above the rooftops toward the Shambles, Jack saw angry black curls of smoke rising. ‘No!’ He ran harder, skidded around the corner, and saw the flames leaping from the tinker shop. He stopped before it, assessing. Red and gold flickered within the now black-rimmed windows. He peered inside, but hands grabbed him from behind, and he beheld the tinker and his family cowering in sooty clothes.
‘We’re all right, Jack. We worried over you.’
‘Then you are all well?’ His eyes tracked over Matilda, the tinker’s pig-faced daughter, and Alice, Martin’s shrewish wife. She did not seem to have anything to say today. Instead she wept and held her daughter.
The fire licked upward, quickly reaching the rafters; Master Crispin’s lodgings!
Jack made for the stairs, but some of the citizens of the Shambles held him back. ‘You can’t go up there, boy!’ cried the poulterer from next door. ‘The fire will be there in no time.’
Jack’s desperate search of the street saw men running forward with buckets of water, and soon a line formed. They tossed the water through the burned opening of the tinker shop, passed the empty bucket back, and got a newly filled bucket.
But all Jack could think of was their goods – Master Crispin’s sword! The man couldn’t lose it a second time. Not while Jack lived and breathed. He tore away from the gripping hands and shouts of the others and leapt upon the stairs, skipping every other one. He wasted no time with a key but kicked the door hard, once, twice. The third time broke the jam and he pushed inside. It was full of smoke. He raised his tunic over his face, went to the peg by the door, and grabbed the sword in its scabbard, hoisting it over his shoulder. He was turning to leave when he thought of their cache. Jack’s retirement of gems and coins, and Master Crispin’s family ring.
Coughing, he dug into the floor, hot already from the flames just inches beneath his feet, and pried up the boards. He reached in for the tightly bound bags. They were smoldering, but he quickly stuffed them into his scrip. He looked around. The Aristotle! His master prized it so. He threw open the coffer, gagged on the smoke and coughed until his eyes watered, before he reached in and grabbed the precious little book. There was no more room in his scrip, but his hands touched on the chess set from Abbot de Litlyngton.
And here he thought they owned nothing.
He scooped that up, too, under his arm, and made ready to leave when he thought at the last minute about the small portrait of his master’s lost love, Philippa Walcote.
Jack turned. Flames now burst up through the floorboards, and Jack nearly fell over from surprise. The heat was terrific and the smoke blinding. He slid on his knees before his master’s bed, shoved his arm under the mattress, and felt for the small frame. Where the sarding hell is it? Just when he was about to give up, his fingers closed on it and he pulled it free.
But when he turned toward the door, it was engulfed in flames like the gates of Hell itself. Everywhere he turned there was fire and smoke … and no exit.
You’re in for it now, Jack. Oh vanity! Why had he stopped to gather all these goods? They would all perish in the fire now, with him clutching them all.
His desperate search snagged on a vertical line of light through the smoke. The back window! He rushed toward it, barking his shin on the corner of his bed. Aw, my bed! That, too, was for the flames, and he’d only had it for a year.
Clutching the sword to his chest, the chess set under his arm, and the book and the portrait in his left hand, Jack closed his watering eyes and leading with his shoulder, he ran hard for the shutters and burst through them. Into the air he sailed, without the sweet earth beneath his feet. And still leading with his shoulder, he curled, and waited for the feel of the tiles of the roof on the shop behind them that slanted just outside their back window. Yet just as he was beginning to think he had miscalculated and was heading for the stony courtyard below, he landed hard on the roof, rolling and rolling, snapping the clay roof tiles as he went. Slipping farther, he slammed his foot down into the roughened tiles and stopped his progress over the side. His body came to a halt on the edge, his goods still wrapped tight in his arms and fingers.
He looked back, and a roar of fire burst from the window he had left only seconds before.
And though his shoulder ached, his lungs heaved from the smoke, and his hand was beginning to feel the heat of the burns he had received, all he could think was, What on earth will Master Crispin say?