Coronation? Then I recalled that Henry VI, at the age of ten or thereabouts, had been crowned king of France, the only English monarch — so far — to achieve that much coveted goal. Although I glanced once more at the wall with its deadly message that the grave is what eventually awaits us all, I now had other things on my mind. Firstly, what was Eloise doing there? Had she been following me? And secondly, if her presence was accidental, how did I get rid of her without arousing her suspicions? It would be the ten o’clock dinnertime in just over an hour, and after that we both had a meeting with Timothy. The obvious course was to return to Baynard’s Castle and eat together, but I had to return to Stinking Lane and speak to Humphrey Culpepper. What plausible excuse could I offer my fair companion for avoiding her company that would not make her curious?
Fortunately for me, Eloise made her own excuses. ‘You’re here to browse in the library, I suppose?’ And when I nodded with apparent enthusiasm, she gave a little grimace. ‘Poor entertainment,’ she said. ‘I shall return to Cheapside and look again at the goldsmiths’ shops. It’s what I’ve been doing for most of the morning and it was only with the greatest reluctance that I tore myself away. Being so close to St Paul’s, I couldn’t resist coming to look at La Danse Macabre, just to see if it was indeed a copy of the one in Paris.’ She treated me to a dazzling smile. ‘And now that I’ve satisfied myself on that score, I shall go back and tantalize myself by staring at all the beautiful jewellery that I covet but can’t afford to buy.’ To my astonishment, she reached up and kissed me on the cheek, at the same time gurgling with laughter. ‘If you could only see your face! There’s no need for such an outraged expression, I assure you. I’m just practising for when we’re pretending to be husband and wife. I’m sorry you don’t approve, although I’m certain Master Plummer would.’
She gave me no chance to answer, but whisked round and was soon lost to view among the crowd of lawyers and their clients, leaving me staring after her, not knowing quite what to think. Had she been following me, or was the meeting as unplanned as she would have me believe? Whatever the answer, it demonstrated how difficult it was going to be to avoid her even in a city as large as Paris, because in every town there is a hub of activity, a central area frequented by the vast majority of its population — a town, if you like, within a town — where, during the day, the press of people is greatest and where you are more likely to run across somebody you know.
I reminded myself that time was getting on, and only waiting until I felt sure that Eloise was safely back in Cheapside, I returned to the Culpepper house by way of Paternoster Row and Ivy Lane. As I approached it, my heart sank. There was the same sort of lifelessness about it as there had been about the Lampreys’ dwelling yesterday, indicating that no one was at home. I knocked, all the same, but with a gentle tattoo so as not to rouse the neighbours. There was no answer and I cursed roundly under my breath. Then I shrugged. If Humphrey Culpepper was out, there was nothing to be done and I should have to try again tomorrow. I had tried my best and Timothy couldn’t ask for more.
On the other hand, knowing him, he probably could: he was always an unreasonable little bastard. And it was with that thought in mind, as I turned to retreat thankfully from Stinking Lane, that I noticed a narrow alleyway, about shoulder-width, running between Culpepper’s house and the one on its left as I faced it. I hesitated, but only for a moment, then trod softly between the two cottages to find myself in another alley, which ran along the back of all the dwellings on that side of the lane. I turned right and stared at the rear of Culpepper’s house, where, surprisingly for such a mean hovel, there was a back entrance, a door made of rough planking that was ominously swinging open on its broken hinges.
My breath caught in my throat. Even before I investigated, I knew that I was going to find nothing good in there. My heart pounding uncomfortably, I pushed aside the broken planking and went inside.
It was a two-roomed cottage with a narrow staircase in one corner rising to the second storey. The floor of the living room was of beaten earth without even a scattering of rushes. The furniture was minimaclass="underline" a table, a stool, some shelves on which cooking utensils were stacked, a water butt and a rough, patently home-made armchair drawn near to the hearth, where a pile of sticks stood ready for lighting beneath a pot already partially filled with water. On the table stood a wooden bowl of dried oatmeal, ready to be made into porridge, alongside a plate and beaker. Plainly, Master Culpepper had prepared his breakfast before, or just after, going out to dispose of his rubbish in the common drain, when he had been spotted by his neighbour. But he had never made his meal, so what had happened to him since then?
The whole house was permeated by the stench from the Shambles, so it was the activity of the flies that first arrested my attention. I would have expected them to be congregated downstairs, where food was kept and where crumbs had dropped between the cracks in the table top, but the buzzing came from overhead, and I noticed five or six circling at the head of the staircase, far more of the creatures than one would normally find in late October. My heart began to thump again as I cautiously mounted to the upper room, treading as gently as if I were walking on eggshells.
Now the smell of fresh blood assailed my nostrils most powerfully, making me flinch. There was nothing in the room except for a clothes chest and a bed, both of which I could just make out in the gloom, for this upper storey had no window and relied, even in daytime, either on candlelight or on the faint glow that came up from the living quarters downstairs. All the same, I could see that the cloud of flies was hovering and settling on something sprawled across the bed. Instinct told me at once what it was — or, rather, who it was — but I had to be certain. I returned to the ground floor and lit a candle, which I found on one of the shelves, together with a tinderbox, and then went back upstairs, holding the flame aloft with a hand that trembled.
Humphrey Culpepper — for who else could it possibly be? — lay face upwards, his throat cut neatly and cleanly from ear to ear. It was beautifully done, if one can ever say such a thing about murder, the head almost severed from the body, but the sight made me retch and I almost dropped the candle. I clutched the bedpost for a moment or two, feeling dizzy, then managed to pull myself together, angry at such weakness. I forced myself to look around, taking in the details.
Humphrey Culpepper lay with his head towards the top of the stairs and was dressed in hose, shirt and boots, his right arm through a sleeve of his jerkin. I reckoned that after going outside to the drain, he had come upstairs again to finish dressing before going down once more to light his fire and make his porridge. He was sitting on the further edge of his bed, his back towards the staircase, and had neither heard his murderer entering the cottage nor creeping up to kill him. At his age, he was likely to be somewhat deaf, a probability of which his assailant had taken full advantage. Completely unaware of being in any danger — for what did he know of the machinations of Timothy Plummer or that I was on my way to interrogate him? — Culpepper had been seized from behind and despatched, with all the skill and precision of a butcher, to meet his Maker unshriven, which meant that he would have to spend a longer time in Purgatory. A cruel fate and one that made me angry, not merely with whoever killed him, but with Timothy and myself.
The thought of Timothy brought me up short. As a law-abiding citizen, it was my duty to raise the alarm, and I had almost been on the verge of doing so, but what if I were to fall under suspicion for the murder? The goodwife next door would confirm that I had been making enquiries about Master Culpepper earlier in the morning, and although I had no doubt that I would be cleared in time, the investigation would draw just the sort of attention to me that the spymaster and Duke Richard were anxious to avoid. No; although every fibre of my being called out for justice on the person who had committed this atrocity, I knew that I had no choice but to get away from there as quickly as possible, without being seen, and report back to Timothy at Baynard’s Castle.