The Dead Don't Wai Read online

  I burped, and immediately feared for my teeth. The acid from my belly tasted so concentrated that it was a miracle my breath didn’t dissolve them. I groaned again.

  ‘Hey! Master Blackjack! You slept well. Hardly a mumble from you. Do ye want some eggs and bacon? I asked for some kidneys and a pot of pease pottage, too; they don’t have any, but there’s some blood pudding and we can fetch you a quart of ale or cup of wine?’

  There was a sizzling, and my nostrils flared at the odour of cooking bacon fat. The thought of that, or any of his other offerings, was enough to make the acid in my stomach begin to roil. The bile rose, bubbling, and seared my throat.

  Making my excuses, I hurriedly left the room. I could not bear the smell any longer. Out in the rear yard there was a privy, and I sat inside it, trying to ignore the foul emanations that rose from the pit below, and voiding my bowels as best I might. With my hosen drawn up once more, my codpiece in place, I walked about the yard for some while, trying to get rid of the shivering that shook my entire frame like the ague.

  What had happened to me? I recalled some little drinking, and then Sir Richard had suggested a game or two – only simple jests, in truth, which involved minor forfeits for those who failed. I was sure I was no more prone to failure than the tipstaff – or Sir Richard himself, come to that. Yet my head felt as if it had been battered and misused from the inside as well as out. If I had been told that Sir Richard had opened my skull and scooped out my brains with a spoon, I would have believed it. I was glad that the weather was cool and overcast, because bright sunshine would have been reason enough to pluck out my eyes. The pain would have been intolerable.

  And then the realization hit me. The sun was out. Daybreak had been some little while ago, and I had intended to flee before Sir Richard had woken. I vaguely recalled thinking to myself that this would be an easy task: I would simply make the old knight drink himself to oblivion, and then I would wake early in the morning and be off before he could raise himself from his slumbers. That had been my plan, and it had seemed perfectly workable, but something had gone seriously wrong: my plan had gone awry, and I was caught here on a dagger point of my own making.

  I could hurry away now, though. Perhaps there was a horse I could hire or borrow? Surely an inn this close to London must have the means of providing some form of travel? Although just now, the way my stomach and head felt, it would be a miracle if I could ride ten yards without falling from the beast.

  ‘I heard you were here, Jack. It’s good to see you again.’

  Hearing the suave tones, I felt my back clench as though in preparation for a thrown dagger, or perhaps a crossbow bolt.

  I turned. ‘Good morning, Dick. I hadn’t expected to see you here today.’

  Which was true. I had expected to be many miles away before he appeared.

  Dick Atwood smiled. I didn’t.

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said.

  I glared.

  ‘My friend, what is the matter?’ he said.

  ‘I am here because, I understand, you accused me of murdering a priest. That, to me, does not seem like cause for celebration!’

  ‘Ah, but you will not mind when you hear why,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think I can guarantee that.’

  He grinned. ‘Would you like me to fetch you an ale while we chat?’

  There was a volcano in my stomach at the mere thought, but I did not think that anything could make my life appreciably more miserable. I nodded. ‘Yes.’

  I have often heard it said that a little of the drink that caused offence is the shortest route to a cure for the worst symptoms of excess, and so it seemed today. I forced down a quarter of a pint of ale and closed my eyes, fully prepared for the most unpleasant possible results, but, to my surprise, the monster in my belly appeared to be appeased by the arrival of a fresh onslaught. I sank another quarter pint, and then topped up my pot from the jug and sat on a bench, my back against the wall. Suddenly, the world seemed a great deal more pleasant. Well, bearable, at least.

  ‘Why did you accuse me of murder?’

  ‘It was an excellent way of distracting people from me.’

  I eyed him grimly. He wore a repellent grin, as though this was all a wonderful game. Dick Atwood was the sort of man who could see pleasure and enjoyment in the midst of a battle. I was all for pleasure and enjoyment, but I preferred to take both at moments of peace. Besides, Atwood had tried to murder me. ‘It was not an excellent way for me, was it?’

  ‘Oh, I knew you would be fine when you realized how important this opportunity was. You will have your own alibi, I am sure, and you can always blame a terrible form of London servant, so useless that I had to be thrown from your door and told never to return.’ He grinned.

  ‘What opportunity?’

  Atwood leaned closer. ‘You know this priest was murdered in the road?’

  ‘I had heard.’

  ‘Did you wonder why a man would murder a priest?’

  ‘No,’ I said simply.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘What if the priest had a box of gold that he took from an abbey before King Henry’s men arrived to take command? What if he was so revered by the abbot that he took the box for safekeeping, but the abbot is dead now, and the priest decided to sell the box to support his poor wife and five children? What if that gold was not on him when he was murdered, so the gold is still somewhere about here? What if you and I could be partners looking for the box, and share the winnings equally?’

  ‘A box of gold?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His eyes had lit up, and I could see the terrible greed in them. Not that it was a problem for me. I was sure that my own eyes had begun to gleam in exactly the same way. The thought of gold is a wonderful cure for all ills.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, and pulled a grimace. ‘That’s the one thing I don’t know yet.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know? You accuse me of murder, drag me across London in the company of this drunken Coroner, and all that just to tell me that you don’t know where the treasure lies? What sort of foolishness is this?’

  ‘Hear me out, Jack, before you do yourself an injury. Too much choler in you, you know. You should take some medication to soothe your temper.’

  ‘Don’t tell me I need to calm myself!’

  ‘I am sorry that I mentioned you, Jack, but it was important to keep that damned Coroner away from me. I thought if I sent him to find you, he would leave me alone.’

  ‘Why, what were you doing?’

  ‘I was hunting through the man’s belongings and his boxes in the church, of course. I’ve spent the whole of the last day doing that, but there’s no sign of any gold.’

  ‘Wonderful. So you have forced me to become involved for no reason, and all I can do is hope that the same good Coroner will not decide to accuse me of taking part in this murder?’

  ‘You will have a series of alibis, I am sure. Where were you the day before yesterday in the early afternoon? That’s when he was killed.’

  I turned my mind back. Recollections of Arch and Hamon, of the dog and the cat, seeing them in the Cheshire Cheese … and suddenly, an entrancing vision came into my mind: Cat the delectable, sitting close beside me, while the gorilla pointed his firearm at me.

  My face fell. I was supposed to be entertaining her, teaching her some of the more efficient ways of persuading men to give up their money, while also receiving payment of a different sort. She would be there waiting for me, and here I was, bound by an inquest, whether I liked it or not.

  ‘See?’ he said. ‘You have witnesses already to speak for you, so you have no need to worry, and I shouldn’t concern yourself with this Coroner. He’s only a country yokel, and it won’t be difficult to pull the wool over his eyes.’

  ‘You think?’ I said. I was doubtful, it has to be said. The Coroner sounded very loud and rough, but there was a shrewd glint in his eye that made me unwilling to cross him.


  ‘Of course he is! Listen to his voice. All he knows is how to bellow at hounds. A hunt wouldn’t need a whipper-in or blasts on the horn. Anyone would hear his whispers from the far hills! Besides, if you wanted to feel secure, all you need do is run. The man wouldn’t survive a chase of more than two tens of feet!’

  ‘How do you know of the priest’s box of gold, in any case?’ I said.

  ‘Ah!’ Dick Atwood laid a finger aside his nose. ‘I have friends everywhere, as you know. One fellow was the doorkeeper to the abbey at Ilford when it was sold off, and he saw the box himself. He told me it was worth a fortune, that it contained a valuable treasure.’

  ‘He said it held gold?’

  Atwood waved a hand airily. ‘He didn’t say it held three bars or four, or whether it was full of coin, but the man didn’t need to. When you see the glitter in a fellow’s eyes, when you see how he turns his gaze inwards … well, avarice is a terrible thing, but it’s understandable. Confront a man with a box of gold, and he will dream!’

  ‘Wouldn’t a fortune in gold be missed? All the cathedrals had records of their valuables.’

  ‘My doorman told me that the King’s auditors were late to the abbey, and when they arrived, much was already gone that they missed. My confederate wondered later where the treasure had gone, and then he remembered that Father Peter had visited the day before, and the truth came to him: the priest had taken the box.’

  ‘Where is Ilford?’

  ‘Some distance away.’

  ‘Where is this doorkeeper?’

  ‘Alas, he suffered an accident and died.’

  ‘What sort of accident?’ I asked sourly. ‘A fatal dose of steel in the heart?’

  Atwood looked hurt. ‘You’re not suggesting that I would do such a thing?’

  I looked at him, but as usual his features gave little away. ‘Who was this priest, then, in Ilford?’

  ‘Try to keep up with me here,’ Dick said in his most condescending tone of voice. ‘There was a priest at Ilford, who was young and married a woman from the area. The abbey was ordered to be dissolved some fifteen years ago. Are you with me? And then, recently, when our glorious Queen decided to reverse the direction of our English Church and return to Romanism, she decided that priests should set aside their women. Yes? You’re keeping up with me? And the priests were sent to new parishes – note that, Jack – where they must once more adhere to the rules of celibacy. The fellow who was sent here – guess where he came from?’

  ‘Ilford?’

  He slapped his thigh. ‘You see? I knew you would understand! There is a valuable hoard somewhere around here.’

  ‘Except that the priest himself died. Clearly, there is a contagion that affects those who hear of this treasure. Those who get too close might all suffer from the same fate.’

  ‘Jack, I was trying to help you. Wouldn’t a share of untold wealth be good?’

  The idea of a box of gold was most appealing, it was true. ‘An equal share?’

  ‘We can discuss that.’

  ‘So you decided to accuse me purely so that you could save yourself from being arrested? How will that help you? As soon as the Coroner sees I have a perfectly good alibi, he will be on to you again.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but that isn’t the main point. The key here is that there is a delectable young widow who has lost her husband, and who may well know his favourite places of concealment. And since she is young, impressionable, attractive and lonely, she might well respond well to a young man whose legs look good in tight hosen.’

  ‘What, you want me to seduce the man’s widow? He’s not even cold yet!’

  ‘I’m sure he is. He’s been out there overnight. Besides, warm or cold, he’s no good to her now, is he?’

  The inquest began just as a light drizzle began to fall.

  I took my place standing beneath an elm, from where I could see and hear the whole meeting while remaining moderately dry. Sir Richard stood before his jury, a group of sixteen sulky, solemn or stupid-looking boys and men. One in particular had the wide-eyed, slack-jawed appearance of the village idiot … although he still looked a lot brighter, naturally, than Raphe.

  They were all gathered about the figure of Father Peter, whom Sir Richard had ordered to be brought out and laid on some planks on trestles, to stop the linen becoming muddied. Not that it would matter. The winding sheet would soon be thrown into the mud at the church, after all. The men of the jury shrugged deeper into their jackets and hats against the rain, but they were all peasants and used to whatever the weather threw at them. Two or three began chatting, and I noticed one pair casting looks of disgust at the sky, but more than one threw similar looks at the widow. That was a bit callous, I thought. It was hardly her fault that we were all standing there, unless they suspected her of killing her husband, of course.

  Sir Richard stood before the jury, the tipstaff and his men ranged behind him, while at his side sat a clerk at a little rough table upon which he had set out his inks and reeds. The jury was asked if all who should be present were gathered, and only one man was absent, Saul Miller.

  The clerk began to write as Sir Richard pushed his hands into his belt and glared around at the jury, his gaze finally coming to rest on the clerk himself. ‘Are you makin’ a good note for the record?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Richard. I have to—’

  ‘You will pardon me, fellow, but the first thing you have to do is pray and ask God’s direction in this matter!’ Sir Richard boomed. I was quite surprised to see that his amiable demeanour was turned so swiftly to anger, but the clerk hurriedly rose to his feet and mumbled some incomprehensible Latin, which could easily have been a curse on all coroners, for all I knew. Sir Richard’s ire left him, and soon the knight was his usual affable self. He took a deep breath and addressed the jury.

  ‘Is the whole jury present?’

  ‘The miller is away in London, but everyone else is here,’ a man said. He had been elected their mouthpiece, no doubt.

  ‘Very well. We are here to hold inquest into the murder of the priest, Father Peter of St Botolph’s. You will listen to the evidence carefully, and when I am done, you will give me your veredictum. If you have any questions, speak up, but if you waste my time or try to confuse the inquest, I will have you arrested and taken to Newgate gaol. You will not like it there!’

  He stared about him with a glare that could have fried eggs. ‘Now, where is the First Finder?’

  Peter’s widow held her hand up and, on being beckoned, stepped forward. ‘I found him.’

  ‘Give your name.’

  ‘I am Dorothy. I was married to Peter.’

  There was a hiss at that, and when I cast about, I saw a prosperous-looking yeoman standing behind the jury near the inn’s door. A ruddy-faced fellow, he was very sure of his own status, standing with his thumbs hooked in his belt for all the world like a bishop’s steward. As Dorothy spoke, I saw his eyes glitter with contempt.

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘He lay in the roadway some few hundred paces from here, eastwards.’ She was not alone. About her were five figures. Clinging to her skirts were three small children, of whom the eldest was Ben. He stared at the figure on the trestles with such unconcealed grief that it quite touched me. The two oldest stood at either side of her. One was perhaps twelve, the other fourteen, I would guess, with the height of a man, but gangling. He had the look of a fellow who had suddenly grown tall, but without the food to support his new size. Mind you, I think most boys of that age look like that. Both these boys were staring at the jury as if daring the men to say anything to the detriment of their mother.

  ‘It was in the morning, very early,’ she continued. ‘I was out at the Ladywell, filling buckets, when I saw him. He passed by in the road, and I called out to him, but then he disappeared into the mist.’

  ‘It was foggy?’

  ‘A ground mist. We have them here sometimes.’

  Sir Richard nodded to himself. ‘And this was a
t what hour of the day?’

  ‘Only a little after dawn, sir.’

  ‘Was it full daylight?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  She looked down at Ben and her two younger children as though steeling herself. ‘I left my buckets and ran after him.’

  ‘Why? You knew that your marriage had been annulled. The Queen’s law—’

  ‘No law can change my feelings for my husband!’ she declared sharply, fists clenched as though preparing to fight the Coroner himself. ‘I made my vow before God – as did he! A law cannot change my oath, nor his!’

  The Coroner frowned at her tone, but he appeared to feel that there was little point in pursuing her at this point. ‘Tell us what you found.’

  ‘As I said, I ran after him. It could only have been a few moments, but he had disappeared into the mists. And then I saw him, and knew at once it was him.’

  ‘How could you know?’

  ‘Who else could it have been? There are not two priests in the village!’

  ‘The body has been washed and cleaned, his clothes removed, and he has been laid out for his grave. Did you do that? Did you wash all the blood from his wounds?’

  ‘Yes – well, no.’

  ‘Which is it?’

  ‘I did remove his clothes and tidy him and wash him ready for his burial, but there was little blood on him.’

  ‘The fellow was stabbed. There would have been blood all over his back. Perhaps his shirt would have absorbed some, but it would have been all over his back.’

  ‘There was little enough when I laid him out,’ she said doggedly.

  ‘I see. Who can confirm that?’

  ‘I can, sir.’

  It was Roger of Ilford, our fellow from the inn the previous evening. He looked concerned, but most men would when confronted by a speaking mountain like Sir Richard. The ruddy-faced yeoman cast a glance at him with his lip curled in disdain, I saw.

  ‘State your name for the clerk,’ Sir Richard said.