The Dead Don't Wai Page 3

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  The Coroner’s eyes were very shrewd. When he set them on me, I felt as if I had been pinned to the wall by a pair of stilettos.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘It’s just that he said you would say something of that sort.’

  ‘He would, wouldn’t he? He knows how badly he served me!’

  ‘Aye, well, I can see that,’ the Coroner said thoughtfully.

  The tipstaff and his two companions were sulkily listening to us, but their expressions lightened visibly when Raphe suddenly appeared in the doorway, glowering about him like a man who had just been woken from a comfortable doze before the kitchen fire after drinking strong wines. He brought a tray with him, on which were several cups, while a large flagon hung from his hand. It was an enormously heavy flagon when full, I knew, and he handled it with the care of a man to whom a drop of wine spilled was a drop of liquid happiness lost forever. He poured, but was two cups short, which surprised me. He had not seen the two with the tipstaff; even so, the flagon, when full, should have held more than enough to fill all the cups twice over. I reflected that he must have only half filled the flagon. No wonder he could handle it with such ease.

  I said, ‘Raphe, what are you …’ but he passed one cup to me, and left to refill the flagon and fetch two more cups.

  Manners are important, I have always believed, so I passed my cup to the second man with the tipstaff. The knight, I noticed, had taken a sip of his wine and now smiled broadly.

  As soon as Raphe returned, he filled two fresh cups, and when he saw me without a cup, he was flustered. ‘Give me the cup, Raphe,’ I said sharply. I was growing thirsty. ‘What are you doing with a mutt in my house?’

  I took a sip while I waited for his response, and all but spat it out. Raphe was carefully avoiding my eye. I had bought a firkin of good Bordeaux only a day or two ago, but if this was Bordeaux, I was a Cardinal. I could feel it strip the flesh from my throat as it passed into my stomach, where it tried to set up a happy conversation with any ulcers it could find. The other man who had been forced to wait for wine had also taken a sip and was surveying the cup with the wide-eyed horror and suspicion of a monarch who believes he has been poisoned.

  ‘Dog, master?’ Raphe asked innocently.

  There was a scrabbling noise at the kitchen door. A bark soon followed. I eyed Raphe with stern disapproval. ‘Well?’

  ‘It was just hungry. I gave it some food,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Do you have any comments, Master Blackjack?’ Sir Richard said.

  Pulling my thoughts back to the issue at hand, I said, ‘So you say Atwood has accused me of having something to do with this poor fellow’s death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s more likely Atwood killed the man. Who was murdered, anyway?’

  ‘Father Peter. He was vicar of St Botolph Without.’

  I shook my head. ‘Where is that?’

  ‘It’s east of the city by some few miles. It is a sad story. His woman was in the area, and she stumbled over something when she was in the road. She raised the alarm when she realized it was her husband. Except it wasn’t, of course, since they were declared unmarried by the Queen. So she found him, and the hue and cry determined that he had been stabbed in the back, repeatedly.’

  ‘How do you mean, “repeatedly”?’

  ‘Nine times. That’s pretty much as repeated as any stabbing I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like him,’ I said, musing. ‘Atwood is a bold fellow, and I can easily imagine him killing a man, but not like that. He would merely stab the once, then a second time to make sure, and perhaps a third if the first two didn’t suffice. But nine times? That sounds more like a frenzy.’

  ‘I agree. That was me own reading. However, he said that you got frenzied when you were in a hot temper.’ Sir Richard emptied his cup and sat looking at the jug hopefully. I motioned to Raphe, who reluctantly approached with the flagon. He poured and sidled away in what looked like a hurry. Sir Richard sipped and pulled a face, glaring into his cup. ‘’S’lids, what is this? Piss water from a privy?’

  Raphe’s eyes remained fixed on something in the far distance beyond the walls. I stared at him and sniffed my own cup. Sir Richard was right. It did smell of piss.

  ‘Ye need to get rid of that little streak of shit! You have foul luck when it comes to hiring your own people,’ Sir Richard said, as I told Raphe to find some decent wine and throw this away. ‘First you have this Atwood, who you say drank all your good wine, and now you have this disreputable little squeeze-grab, who seems to want to do the same, and serves you and your guests the foulest wringings of a child’s clout!’

  He goggled at his cup again and clearly tried to set aside the thought of what could have been in there. ‘If Atwood served anything similar to that, I’m surprised you allowed him to go. He’d have deserved a week in the stocks and then a rope about his throat, rather than dismissal!’

  ‘He undoubtedly deserved it, but I am a man of peace,’ I said. It was plainly true.

  ‘My apologies, Master Blackjack. That foul concoction was too much of a shock to me blood for me to be able to contain meself. Looked fine, but damme, they were different as a pea from a bean. Reminds me of the story of the fellow who was talkin’ to a friend, and said, “My woman is lovely. Beautiful, affectionate, and ever prepared to go to bed.” “Aha!” said the second, “If she had a twin, I could enjoy myself, too.” “She does have a twin,” said the first. “Can you tell them apart, then?” asked his companion. “Well enough. She has long hair and a figure of perfection,” the man said, “and her sibling has a beard!” Eh? See? Her twin was a man, eh? Ha ha ha!’

  I tried to smile, both ears ringing.

  Sir Richard’s mind swiftly turned to important matters. ‘Where’s your boy? He should be back by now with the wine. We can drink that, and then we must take a walk.’

  ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘Aye, well, the dead don’t wait, do they, master?’

  Thus it was that a scant few minutes later I found myself bellowing for Raphe, who had finally found a decent wine, which he set about pouring into fresh cups. Sir Richard took up one and sipped it with a black glower fixed to his face, which was suddenly washed away and replaced by a beatific smile. ‘Hah! That’s more like it, boy! Next time I come, you will make sure that you find that barrel again, won’t ye? And next time we come here and find you’re serving dregs to your master, I will have you taken to the stocks personally. Understand me, boy?’

  ‘Y–yes,’ Raphe said, and I was delighted to hear him stammer. It was the first time in months that I had seen him lost for words or anxious, and it was a salve to my soul.

  ‘The dog,’ I said before he could scurry away. ‘You will have to put it out. I don’t want some mangy cur in my house. It could have rabies, for all you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  That itself was a major success. He tended to avoid calling me ‘sir’, as if that was to concede that his own position was inferior. I watched him with narrowed eyes. I didn’t trust his sudden conversion to politeness.

  He walked out carrying the two dirty cups and the empty flagon before I could comment further.

  ‘So you deny knowing this dead man?’ Sir Richard said.

  ‘Yes! I don’t even know the place you’re talking about. I’ve never been there. I spent all day today here in London.’

  ‘What about yesterday?’

  ‘I was in the Boar most of the afternoon. Why, when was the man killed?’

  ‘He was found earlier this morning, but he was as cold as a tombstone. I suspect he could have died yesterday and—’

  There was a flurry of barking, shouting and cursing, and suddenly a disreputable, wiry-haired black dog, with white patches over one eye and his shoulder, burst into the room, barking and trailing drool. He rushed to me and jumped up, making me spill my wine over my jack, and when I roared, he flung himself at the tip
staff, still barking, apparently in joy at meeting so many people. Sir Richard bellowed for Raphe, and the dog ran to him, but without the pleasure he had shown at his first appearance. He crouched lower, and his hackles rose; he stopped barking and showed his teeth, eyes narrowed, like a lion stalking his prey. When Sir Richard stood, the dog backed away, still snarling and growling.

  Raphe appeared, apologetically flapping his hands, trying to get a grip on the monster. It evaded him, still glaring at Sir Richard, who eyed it with glowering distaste. I have to confess, I warmed to the mutt. Anything that would dare to stand against the knight was deserving of respect, I felt.

  Throwing himself on the dog, Raphe managed to grip it about the belly and throat. He stood, with difficulty, four legs struggling manfully – dogfully? – to escape his grip, but Raphe knew when he had gone too far. Red-faced and bitter, he retreated, while sounds of rage and defiance issued from the hand he had clamped over the animal’s mouth.

  ‘Be off with you, then. Ye must have duties to attend to,’ Sir Richard said equably. ‘And I would kill that thing. It’s clearly dangerous. You don’t want to be reported to the City for owning a dangerous dog, do you?’ he added, looking at me.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Raphe said.

  Sir Richard eyed him benevolently as he scurried away. ‘Little urchin! Ye need to keep both eyes on squeakers like him, Master Blackjack. He’ll try every trick under the sun to gull you, that one. Keep him under a close observation, and trim his wings every so often, whenever the opportunity allows. Ye’ll find it worthwhile to strap him once in a while, too. He’ll need it. And make sure you have the brute killed.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, but, truth be told, I felt almost affectionate towards the thing. It had been braver than me when facing Sir Richard.

  We walked on towards Aldgate’s great … well, gate. ‘What is that at your belt?’ Sir Richard asked as we walked.

  ‘This? A gun. I was given it a little while ago,’ I said. It was true enough. I hadn’t wanted the thing, but it was foisted on me, and could easily have cost me my life.

  He grimaced. ‘Don’t like the things. They make an ungodly row, and rarely hit what ye want. Knew a man once, fired it, and the thing didn’t work. He thought he hadn’t put in the powder and ball, so he shoved both in and fired again. Still didn’t work, so he tried tipping even more powder down the barrel, and another ball. In the end, he had it loaded four times, and finally put a bigger charge in the pan, only to have the damned thing explode.’

  ‘Did it kill him?’

  ‘No, but it made him much more thoughtful in future. Now he sticks to plain steel, sharpened both sides. After all, at least with a sword or dagger, you know where it’s goin’. You push it into a man, you know you hit him. With those things, you can pull the trigger, but it may misfire, and even if it does go off, ye don’t know where the slug will fly.’

  Just then we reached the city wall, where we found that the gate itself was closed, it being after dark. ‘Hoi, Ballock-features,’ the knight shouted out.

  A warm, orange glow lit a chamber beside the gate, and now a wizened old man peered round the doorway. ‘What is it? Who are you?’

  ‘Who d’ye think, Oakley, you scraggy old rat! Me! Sir Richard of Bath. Now open the gate.’

  ‘You? Again?’

  ‘Queen’s business, Oakley.’

  ‘If you want something, you’d best keep a civil tongue in your head, you old goat.’

  Sir Richard swelled like an inflated bladder. ‘You dare call me a goat? I’m a Queen’s officer! Open the gate.’

  ‘Swive a goose, you old fool,’ the man said. ‘You know the City demands that the gates be kept shut from sundown to sunrise.’

  Sir Richard’s face suddenly darkened. ‘What did you say to me, fellow?’ he said, and although the first word was at – for him – normal volume, the rest of the sentence grew louder and louder with every syllable. I swear I could feel the ground trembling beneath my feet.

  The effect on the gatekeeper was pronounced. He darted into his room and returned with a pike that was almost twice his height. At my side, Sir Richard strode forward, and I saw the keeper point his weapon at the knight with a trembling hand. Gatekeepers are rarely the boldest of guards, and this one was about to meet with divine retribution in the form of Sir Richard of Bath, I was sure. While I dislike the sight of blood, I was interested to see how this bout would go. I scampered after the knight.

  ‘Fellow, did you tell me to go and do something unnatural to a goose?’ Sir Richard bawled.

  ‘It’s after curfew, ain’t it? I’m not allowed to open the gates to anyone. Not even a Queen’s officer!’

  ‘Are you a loyal servant to Her Majesty?’

  ‘Of course I am!’ the man said shiftily. It was difficult not to look shifty just now, with plots and rebellions on all sides.

  ‘There is a man over the other side of the wall who has been murdered. Do you value your immortal soul?’

  ‘Of course I do!’

  ‘The murdered man was a vicar, Porter. A vicar! Just think of that, hey? Poor fellow doing his best to look after those in his parish, and someone stabbed him nine times. Someone like that, who can kill a vicar, he doesn’t care about your soul, does he? He doesn’t care about anybody’s soul, not even his own. And he is more than likely a murdering rebel. If he can kill a vicar, then no one in the realm is safe from him, hey? Not even the Queen.’ Sir Richard’s head had dropped, as had his voice, and he stood sorrowfully shaking his head. Now it snapped up. ‘So if you don’t let me out there right now, I will have to report you for endangering the Queen. I don’t think I need tell you what the penalty would be for treason of that nature.’

  ‘Treason? Wait, you can’t tell me that—’

  ‘I am waiting. I expect that gate opened by the count of ten. One.’

  The pike was still pointing at Sir Richard, but now it wobbled alarmingly as the porter began to panic. His breathing was coming in shallow rasps, and I feared he might collapse, but then he came to a conclusion, swore a couple of times, span about and darted into his chamber. When he reappeared, he gripped an enormous key, which he thrust into his belt.

  We walked to the gate, and the porter slid back bars, shot bolts and generally made a din about trying to open the wicket gate. He tugged hard on a bolt to no effect whatsoever. Eventually, he threw us a disgusted look, before pulling the enormous key from his belt. He shoved the handle over the bolt’s handle, and with a heave against the thick barrel of the key, the bolt finally squeaked itself open. The porter threw the door wide with a sour glare, and as soon as we had all traipsed through, he slammed it shut again, and we heard the series of locks and bolts being shoved into place.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be getting back in there in a hurry,’ I said.

  The tipstaff gave a grunt of agreement. ‘I hope he knows what he’s doing,’ he said, nodding towards the figure of the knight, who was trudging off into the gloom.

  I have never been superstitious, but I don’t believe in taking risks either. I looked at the tipstaff and his two companions. They were all moderately sized men. Yet somehow they were not as reassuring as the burly figure striding off away from the city walls.

  ‘Oh, ’s’blood!’ I muttered, and set off after him at a trot.

  ‘Here it is,’ Sir Richard said, as we reached a large building some two miles from the city. In the dark, it was hard to make out much about the place, but a steady squeaking when the wind blew spoke of something moving overhead. When I looked up, there was a post with a weather vane that moved sluggishly with the breeze. Above it was a dim shape.

  ‘What is?’ I asked. I had never come this way. East of the city there were fields, and I knew of St Botolph’s, but when I wanted to go whoring, I would go over the river to Southwark, and if I wanted ale or wine, I would stay within the city. There was nothing out this way for me.

  ‘Haven’t you eyes in your head? There! The sign of the crown, isn’t it? This m
ust be the inn.’

  I stared up, but he must have much better eyes than me, for I could see little of the crown. He began to beat heavily on the door with a fist that made a noise like thunder claps in a heavy, humid summer’s evening, while I remained standing and gazing upwards like a philosopher seeking the stars. Not that there were any to be seen. A cloud hung low over the sky, adding to the general gloom.

  There was a rattling noise and a weedy voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I am the Queen’s Coroner. You have a stiff. Let me in.’

  ‘I can’t do that. You’ll have to come back in the morning.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want that, my fellow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if you send me away now, I will return with the posse of the county, and I will have your miserable inn closed and you and your master taken to Newgate in the morning.’

  There was a pause of some moments, and then I heard the slow movement of a bolt, then a second, and a bar being removed. Soon a gingerish thatch of hair appeared, closely followed by a pair of large, anxious blue eyes. Sir Richard thrust at the door with the flat of his hand and the owner of the hair and eyes disappeared with a bleat of alarm. There was a loud clatter.

  ‘What is it, in the name of heaven?’ Sir Richard bellowed in what he probably thought was a quiet, sympathetic tone.

  I followed him inside. There, on the floor, lay a young ragamuffin clad in scraps of old cloth and bare-footed, a rough three-legged stool at its side. The child was only some ten or eleven years old, and was wiping its nose with a filthy sleeve. Large eyes stared up at us. Sir Richard stood over it – and yes, I did not know whether it was male or female – and cleared his throat. The instant reaction from the child was to draw a breath in terror and try to shuffle backwards, but the stool was in the way.