‘Look, Master Cade, you know the French envoy, de Craon, and his companion, de Nevers, are in London? They are ostensibly here bearing friendly messages from their master to our King, but there’s no real reason for their presence.’
‘Are you saying they could be connected with Puddlicott?’
‘It’s possible. Puddlicott has been seen in the company of Master William Nogaret, Philip IV’s Keeper of Secrets.’
Cade went across and filled a goblet of wine for himself, to which he added a generous drop of water.
‘Oh, yes,’ he replied. ‘We know de Craon is in London. He attended a civic reception and presented his letters of accreditation to the Mayor. Since then, we have kept a quiet watch on his house in Gracechurch Street but we are now bored with him. He has done nothing untoward, apparently, being more interested in our shipping along the Thames than anything else. And, as there’s no war with France, there’s no crime in him doing that.’
Corbett rose and stretched. ‘So,’ he sighed. ‘Where shall we begin?’
The under-sheriff spread his large hands. ‘As my master said, I am at your service.’
‘Then let’s follow Master Cicero, Et respice corpus?’
‘I beg your pardon, Master Corbett!’
‘Let’s look at the corpse.’ Corbett picked up his own cloak. ‘May I borrow the list of names of the women killed?’
Cade handed it over.
‘This last victim, is she already buried?’
‘No, she lies in the charnel house of St Lawrence Jewry.’ Cade drained his cup and strapped on his sword-belt. ‘If you wish to look at her, you must hurry. The good priest intends to bury her next to the others later this morning.’
‘What’s that?’ Ranulf stuttered. ‘You said, “next to the others”?’
‘Well,’ Cade replied. ‘The dead whores are always brought in a cart from a small outbuilding in the Guildhall. We pay the priests of St Lawrence Jewry to bury them — a shilling a time, if I remember correctly.’
‘And everyone,’ Ranulf remarked, ‘except Lady Somerville, has been buried there?’
‘Yes. And for a shilling, they don’t get much: a tattered canvas sheet, a shallow hole in the ground and remembrance at the morning Mass.
‘Doesn’t anyone ever claim the body?’
‘Of course not. Some of these poor girls are from Scotland, Ireland, Flanders, towns and villages as far west as Cornwall and as far north as Berwick-on-Tweed.’
‘And no one attends their funerals?’
‘No. We thought of that and kept a careful watch.’ Cade gave a shiver. ‘They are buried like dogs,’ he murmured. ‘Not even their regular customers come to bid a fond farewell.’
Corbett finished his wine and handed the cup back to Cade.
‘I’ll ignore your blushes, Master Cade, when I say the King has high regard for you.’
The under-sheriff looked embarrassed and shuffled his great, booted feet.
‘However,’ Corbett neatly closed the trap. ‘Isn’t it strange that you have failed to draw up a list of customers of these whores? Who frequented them? After all, your informants can tell you about the emergence of a rogue like Puddlicott but not about the customers of dead whores.’
Cade’s smile faded. ‘Look,’ the under-sheriff sat down on a stool and ticked his points off on stubby fingers. ‘First, some of these whores were high-class courtesans. Oh, yes, they are poor in death but, when alive, they were favoured by some of the rich and powerful men of the city-’
‘Wait,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Some of these young ladies earned silver and gold. What happened to it?’
Cade pulled his mouth down. ‘Most of them immediately spend what they earn. Once they die their property is plundered by people who should know better. Finally, they have no heirs or relatives so any remaining property is immediately confiscated by the Crown.’
Corbett nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, as I was saying, the lords of the soil, the prosperous merchants, would not take too kindly to having their names linked with, what they now term, common street-walkers. Secondly,’ Cade drew in his breath, his eyes turned away and Corbett sensed the under-sheriff was not telling the full truth. ‘Secondly,’ Cade repeated, ‘it’s the manner of their deaths which makes me guarded: most of them were killed in their own chambers, so they must know their killer or they wouldn’t open the door. Master Corbett, I am an under-sheriff, my fees are paid by the wealthy burgesses, I do not want to be the official who finds that one of my pay-masters visited a whore on the night she died.’ Now Cade did blush with embarrassment and he rubbed the side of his face with his hand. ‘Yes, yes, I admit,’ he continued, ‘I am frightened. I’ll catch any rogue — be he priest, merchant or lord — but, Master Clerk, this is different. I can discover that the Lord Mayor himself visited a whore but what does that prove?’
‘You could search for a pattern, a name, common to all the killings.’
Cade jabbed a hand at Corbett. ‘No, Master Clerk, you are the King’s confidant, you were recently knighted by him. You find out! You point the finger! For God’s sake, man, that’s why you were sent here and I say that without intending any offence!’
Corbett chewed the inside of his lip, he stretched over and touched Cade gently on the hand.
‘I understand,’ he muttered.
In fact, Corbett did, and appreciated why an under-sheriff had been appointed to deal with something none of his superiors would touch with a bargepole. Corbett smiled to himself; he also understood why the King had sent him back to London.
He stared at the list Cade had given him. ‘You are most observant, Master Cade,’ he remarked. ‘These whores must have known their killer; shown a great deal of trust. Even this last one, Agnes, whose corpse we are about to inspect. She was killed in a church,’ Corbett continued, ‘I suspect she was invited there by her killer.’
‘Possibly,’ Cade replied. ‘But let’s put the deaths of these poor girls to one side. How do you explain Lady Somerville’s murder?’
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett muttered. ‘Perhaps the old woman knew something. But I tell you this, Cade, your anxieties are well founded. When we arrest this killer — and don’t worry we will — I wager it will be some high-born bastard with a great deal to hide.’
‘Sweet Lord!’ Cade whispered.
Corbett stared at the far wall. ‘What puzzles me,’ he continued, ‘is why the killings have increased. According to your list, Master Cade, a whore dies on or around the thirteenth of each month but in May the pattern changes: Somerville is killed on Monday the eleventh of May; the priest the following evening; a prostitute, Isabeau, on Wednesday the thirteenth of May and then, soon afterwards, the girl in Greyfriars. What crisis has forced the murderer to change his pattern?’
‘Unless. .’ Cade interrupted.
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless there is more than one murderer.’
Chapter 4
Corbett and Ranulf waited for Cade to collect his belongings. They left the Guildhall and went down to Catte Street, the area round Old Jewry and the dark, looming mass of St Lawrence’s Church. A crowd had gathered near the stocks placed outside the wicket gate of the cemetery. Most of the onlookers were city riff-raff who were baiting a man locked in the stocks for selling faulty bow-strings, whilst his shoddy merchandise was piled in a heap and burnt under his nose. The poor unfortunate, his head trapped in the wooden slats, was forced to breath in the acrid smoke which irritated his mouth, nose and eyes. Now and again he would yell abuse at his tormentors before falling into a fit of coughing which jarred his head against the slats.
Corbett and his companions pushed through the crowd into the derelict cemetery. Cade went across to the priest’s house, he knocked at the door and talked to someone inside. A few minutes later a small, portly figure emerged, a huge bunch of keys in his hand. Corbett threw a warning glance at Ranulf to behave himself for the priest’s broad girth, rosy face and womanish waddle indicated he was a man of the cloth more interested in the fruits of the earth than the salvation of souls. He wore a cloak of Lincoln green, edged with bright squirrel fur, whilst cheap jewellery glinted on wrists and fingers. His beady little eyes glared at Corbett. There were no introductions. Instead the priest opened a small leather bag he was carrying and drew out three sponges soaked in vinegar and herbs.