‘Richard Puddlicott.’
De Craon’s mouth opened and closed. ‘Ah, yes, Puddlicott.’
‘You know Puddlicott?’
‘Of course.’ The Frenchman smiled. ‘A well-known English criminal. What do you call his type, a confidence trickster? He is wanted in Paris by our Provost as he is in London by your Sheriff.’
‘For what reason?’
‘For the same reasons as in London.’
‘Then why?’ Corbett asked slowly, ‘was Puddlicott seen being entertained by your King’s closest counsellor, Master William Nogaret?’
De Craon refused to be flustered. ‘Puddlicott is a criminal but a valuable one. He sells secrets to us. What he thinks is valuable information, just as surely as your master buys secrets from traitorous Frenchmen.’
Corbett heard a sound and stood up. He felt nervous in this silent, dusty house. He turned, staring at the doorway, just as a stranger slipped like a shadow into the room.
‘Ah, Raoul.’ De Craon went round the table. ‘Master Corbett, or rather Sir Hugh Corbett, can I present Raoul, Vicomte de Nevers, King Philip’s special envoy to Flanders and the Low Countries.’
De Nevers shook Corbett’s hand warmly and the clerk took an immediate liking to him. In looks he resembled Maltote but was thinner, leaner, his hair was blond, his features regular, rather boyish, though Corbett noted the shrewd eyes and the firm set to mouth and chin. He could see why Maeve had liked him. He had a lazy charm and a frank, open demeanour which contrasted sharply with de Craon’s subtle falseness.
‘Before you ask why Raoul is in England, de Craon murmured, ‘I’ll be honest. Next spring King Philip intends to move into Flanders. He has certain rights there which-’
‘Which King Edward does not recognise,’ Corbett interrupted.
‘True! True!’ de Nevers replied in broken English. ‘But our master wishes to keep an eye on Flemish merchants. We know they come to London. We watch their movements and we bring messages for your King, how ill advised he would be to give these merchants any solace or comfort.’
Corbett stared at both men. They could be telling the truth, he thought, or at least part of it and de Nevers made more sense than de Craon. English envoys watched Scottish merchants in Paris, so why shouldn’t the French watch Flemish merchants in London? Corbett picked up his cloak.
‘Monsieur de Craon, Monsieur de Nevers, I wish you a safe stay in London but I also bring warnings from my master. You are protected by letters of safe conduct. Monsieur de Craon, you know the rules of the game. If you are found interfering in anything you shouldn’t be, then I will personally escort you to the nearest port and send you packing back to France.’ Corbett sketched a bow at both men and, before they could answer, made his own way out of the house.
Corbett stood in the street and breathed a sigh of relief. He was pleased that he had surprised both de Craon and his companion for he was sure that they were involved in some villainy, but only time would reveal what it was. He picked his way round the mounds of refuse and stared curiously at the empty dung cart, a tired-looking horse between the shafts, which stood on the other side of the street. He looked back at de Craon’s house. There was something wrong but he couldn’t place it. He’d glimpsed some detail which didn’t fit. He shrugged. ‘Only time will tell,’ he muttered.
Staring up and down the street, he noticed the mounds of refuse piled high on either side of the sewer, then he walked gingerly down the street, keeping a wary eye as windows above were suddenly opened and the contents of night pots thrown out to drench the cobbles and passers-by with their filth. He stopped at a cookshop on the corner of Wood Street and bought a pie but then threw it into a sewer when his teeth crunched on something hard.
‘Bastard officials!’ he grumbled. He wished the beadles and Guild members would take as much care on what was sold in the streets as they did about their precious reputations. He turned and went back up the Shambles, stopping for a while to watch a man, dressed completely in black, the whitened bones of a skeleton painted garishly on his garb, dance a macabre jig whilst his companion tapped a drum and a boy on a reedy flute blew an eerie death march. Corbett pushed his way through the crowds round the butchers’ stalls, keeping one hand on his purse and a wary eye on the rubbish underfoot. Outside Newgate a crowd had gathered to greet the death carts taking felons up to the scaffold at Smithfield or down the city to the Elms. He remembered the mad beggar man the night before and, shivering, he hurried on.
Corbett now wished Ranulf was with him. At the corner of Cock Lane, the blowsy harridans and common whores were already touting for business, the white paint on their faces so thick it cracked in places, their shaven heads covered with red or orange wigs.
‘A penny for a tumble!’ one shrieked at Corbett.
‘Tuppence and you can do anything you like!’
‘Don’t worry,’ another cackled. ‘It won’t take long!’
Corbett went over to the group. He smiled, trying to hide his disgust at the sour smell from their clothes, ignoring the black paint round their eyes which was beginning to run and stain their painted cheeks.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he greeted the group.
The women looked at each other speechlessly before bursting into shrieks of laughter.
‘Oh, good morning, sir!’ they chorused back, flouncing their bright red skirts and bowing in mock curtseys.
‘What do you want?’ A large fat woman, round as a barrel of lard, pushed her way forward, her lips, parted in a false smile, showing blackened stumps of teeth.
‘Which one of us takes your fancy?’ She turned and grinned at her companions. ‘For a shilling you can have the lot of us, a good baker’s dozen!
More shrieks of laughter greeted her sally. Corbett tried to hide his embarrassment and looked away.
‘My lady,’ he murmured, ‘I’d probably exhaust you.’ He smiled at the rest. ‘I mean all of you.’
The laughter and the catcalls died as a silver coin appeared between Corbett’s fingers. ‘For the moment, my beauties, accept my profound apologies for being unable to give you my custom, but this silver piece,’ he gazed round the group, ‘this silver piece is for anyone who can provide information about the death of Agnes. You know, the girl killed in the church near Greyfriars.’
The whores now shrank back like a group of frightened children.
‘I mean no harm,’ Corbett continued gently. ‘I am the King’s man. I work with the under-sheriff, Alexander Cade.’
‘You mean Big Lance!’ the tub of lard shouted back.
Corbett stared at her curiously.
‘Oh, yes, that’s what we call him. A good jouster, Master Cade. I can tell you.’
A young girl, no more than fifteen or sixteen summers, her thin bony body dressed in rags, pushed her way to the front. ‘I can tell you about Agnes.’
Corbett held the silver coin before her eyes. ‘I am waiting, child.’
The girl smiled; her pallid, white face suddenly looked pathetic and vulnerable. For a few seconds her eyes lost their watchful hardness.
‘Down there,’ the girl pointed. ‘Next to the apothecary. Agnes had a garret.’ She wiped her runny nose on the back of her hands. ‘She always claimed to be better than any of us. Oh, yes, a regular lady with her own chamber and her fine gowns.’
‘What else do you know?’
‘Agnes became frightened. She said she had seen something.’ The girl’s mouth became slack and she shook her head. ‘I don’t know what but it was after one of the other girls was killed. Anyway, she refused to go out. She paid one of the boys, an urchin, to watch the door.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all I know.’ Her grimy hand came out. ‘Please, sir,’ she whispered eagerly. ‘May I have the coin?’