Drew was a strong swimmer and he reached the bundle quickly. No time to disentangle the line before he was in the deeps, so he dragged the bundle to the far bank and caught an overhanging willow branch, bracing his feet on the sedge to stop himself being carried on by the river’s pull. Damn, this thing was heavy. He swung both hands upwards, gripping the bundle between his legs and jerked backwards, pulling the thing out of the water. It nearly slid back as he let go, but he just had time to grab it and roll it over. Then he screamed and fell back into the long grass.
It was late afternoon before Coroner Winterton reached the spot. He left his carriage on the north bank and plodded with his servant through the tufted grass to where the little knot of people stood on the banks of the Cam.
At his approach, they doffed their caps or curtsied according to their sex and stood looking as deferential as the sheep across the river.
‘Who found her?’ Winterton asked.
‘I did, sir. Nicholas Drew, ferryman.’
The coroner took in the man. No need to invoke the Sumptuary Laws here. He was dressed as a ferryman should be. ‘What were you doing here?’
‘Fishing, sir.’
‘Well, Master Drew.’ Winterton knelt with as much dignity as his age and his Venetian breeches would let him. ‘Today you have become a fisher of men. Or should I say woman?’ He peered at the sad bundle on the bank. What was she? Forty? Fifty? It was difficult to say. The water had done its work and she had been in the water for some time. He checked the hands. The skin was wrinkled, loose, as it was on the scalp where the once-auburn hair was partially detached and wrapped in her dress.
‘Any of you women -’ Winterton glanced up at the little crowd – ‘used to laying out?’
They hesitated. ‘I am, sir,’ one of them said, and a thin, angular woman bobbed to him.
‘Mrs Drew, sir,’ the First Finder said. ‘My wife.’
‘Good.’ Winterton got up. ‘We can keep this in the family, then. Both of you will accompany me to the Dead House. Knowles -’ he clicked his fingers to a servant – ‘rig something up, will you? We haven’t time to send for a cart and I don’t want . . . that . . . inside my carriage.’
Mrs Drew had done her work by candlelight in the Charnel House by the Grey Friars. She had peeled the sodden dress and chemise off the corpse, floppy and slippery as it was. She had washed the body carefully and dried it, combing what hair was left and she had placed the dead woman’s arms across her breasts, for modesty’s sake. Then she spread a folded shroud across her hips. Men should not look on such things.
Edward Winterton waited until the layer-out left the room and he went to work. He was a husband, father and grandfather, too, and he had the same sensibilities as the next man. But he had a job to do. He looked at each hand. Despite the wrinkled skin, he noticed the mark left by a wedding ring, but the ring itself had gone. Was this the mark of a robbery? He peeled back the cloth and looked at the abdomen. Had she ever borne a child, this child of the river? He didn’t know. He prised open her eyelids. The eyes were sunk, the sockets almost empty and he couldn’t tell the colour the irises had once had. The breasts were small and well-formed, but the skin was blackened now with exposure to the air. He checked her feet. The soles were thick and pale. She had been in the water, he’d wager, for four days, perhaps five. She had been found at Paradise, but where had she gone in? And who was she when she walked upright, talking and laughing, dancing and loving? Perhaps only God knew now.
Time and again he was drawn to the dead woman’s throat. The lips were tight and pursed and around her neck, embedded deep into the purple skin, was a crucifix. Whatever else she had been, the woman was a Papist.
That was the year when the carpenter, Joseph Fludd, was Constable of the Watch. In fact, it was rather more than a year because nobody else wanted the job. His cottage, with its adjoining workshop, lay off the road which ran from the south into Cambridge, a little below the ancient church of St Michael and St Mary, Trumpington.
And it was here, wading through fragrant wood-shavings and decidedly un-fragrant chicken droppings, that Jeremiah Butler and his wife came that Monday morning, a little after nine of the clock. They knocked on the little door below the thatch.
‘Are you the one they call Trumpy Joe?’ Butler asked as the door opened.
‘I am Joseph Fludd, carpenter and Constable,’ the cottager said, standing as tall as the doorway would let him. Each man eyed the other, assessing status. Butler was clearly a yeoman, well dressed but unarmed and his wife wore a French hood of intricate design over her coif. Fludd was still in his leather apron, splinters in his fingers and polish under his nails.
‘Jeremiah Butler, of Royston. My wife, Jane.’
There were nods all round.
‘Did you want a table, sir?’ Fludd asked. ‘A press, perhaps? Or a settle?’ He had no idea his reputation had reached as far south as Royston.
Butler looked at him with disdain. ‘I was looking for the High Constable,’ he said, ‘but it looks as though I’ve been misdirected.’
‘Love you, sir,’ Fludd chuckled. ‘We haven’t had a High Constable in Cambridge since Edward was king. Old Master Hipkiss went of the plague when I was a lad. Nobody’s replaced him since.’
‘Who do you report to, then?’ Butler wanted to know.
‘The Justice, sir, for most things. The Coroner if the crime’s severe.’
‘Who is the Coroner here? Still Edward Winterton?’
‘The same, sir. As good a man who ever drew breath.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ The yeoman turned on his heel. ‘Come, Jane; we’re wasting our time.’
‘If it’s a crime, sir, I can help.’ Fludd stepped out from under the eaves of thatch. He was a well-built fellow, with an earnest look about him and an air of dependability.
‘Can you?’ Butler asked.
‘Come this way, sir.’ Fludd ushered the couple into his humble abode, kicking chickens off the furniture. He pointed to a wall at the back of the parlour, from which scraps of paper floated in the breeze from the open casement. Fludd touched them one by one. ‘Not mending the bridge at Magdalene,’ he read. ‘Not hanging a lantern in Petty Cury; cutting turf off Parker’s Piece in the night time; not having a licence to sell ale; the nuisance of muck . . .’
‘How are you on missing persons?’ Jane Butler suddenly asked. She had had enough of her husband’s dithering and for all this Constable could clearly read, she was not at all convinced he was the man for job.
‘Er . . . yes,’ Fludd said. ‘I’ve had a few of those in my time.’
‘How long have you been a Constable?’ Butler asked, frowning. Fludd couldn’t have been more than thirty.
‘On this occasion, sir, fifteen . . . no, sixteen months. Before that, twice, for a period totalling three years.’
‘And in that time,’ Butler pressed him, ‘how many missing persons?’
‘Um . . . one. Well, two if you count the Master of Trinity. But he wasn’t so much missing as didn’t want to be found.’
‘I believe my sister wants to be found, Constable,’ Jane Butler said.
Fludd looked at her. She was of indeterminate years, but her hair which showed from under her coif showed only a light sprinkling of grey. Fludd judged her to be in her late thirties. Her eyes were at once calm and worried.
‘Could you give me some details, Madame?’ he asked. ‘A description of your sister. When she went missing. Any distinguishing marks. Anything you can tell me will be of use.’
The woman looked nervously at her husband and then spoke. ‘Master Fludd, I wonder if I could sit? I am feeling quite unwell with the worry and . . .’
Fludd was immediately contrite. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Would you like something to drink? Some ale, perhaps. Some water. I have my own well and the water is very sweet.’ He tried to keep the touch of pride out of his voice.