The Parliament House

    'He's not here,' she decided.

    'The market is still young. More people are coming in all the time.'

    'We can't stay here all morning.'

    'I can,' he volunteered.

    'No, Patrick. We've too much work to do.'

    'What's more important than catching Mr Field?'

    'Nothing,' she said. 'Nothing at all.'

    'Then we stay.'

    Bridget nodded. Bolstered by her son's resolve, she continued the search, going back to the first courtyard and starting all over again. It was painstaking work. The more faces that flashed in front of her, the more confused she became and the ear-shattering noise all around her was a further distraction. She seemed to be at the very heart of the turmoil. Pushed and jostled from all sides, Bridget started to lose faith in the whole enterprise yet again.

    Then a man's face passed within a yard of her. It took her a moment to register the shape of his head, the large ears, the colour of his complexion, the hang of his lip, the ugliness of the broken nose and that mole on the cheek that she had noticed at their first encounter. When she put all the elements together, she was certain of his identity.

    'That's him, Patrick!' she said.

    'Where?'

    'That man carrying the side of beef on his shoulder.'

    'Are you sure?'

    'As sure as I'll ever be - that's the rogue.'

    'Then let me get him,' said Patrick, bunching his fists.

    She held him back. 'No!'

    'We can't miss a chance like this, Mother.'

    'Follow him. See where he goes.'

    'He could easily shake us off in this crowd.'

    'Stay here!' she ordered.

    But she had reckoned without the strength of his ambition. Patrick McCoy was a young man with little in life beyond the desire to better himself. And the only way he could conceive of doing that was to be a parish constable. Here was a chance to display his abilities. In a situation like this, Jonathan Bale would not hold back. Ten yards away was a man who had committed murder from the vantage point of the Saracens's Head. He had to be apprehended.

    Pushing his mother aside, Patrick bullocked his way forward.

    'Stop!' he yelled. 'Stop there right now!'

    Like everyone else in the vicinity, the man with the side of beef over his shoulder turned to look in Patrick's direction. Then he noticed the woman who was trying to follow the youth and he realised who she was.

    'Wait there!' shouted Patrick. 'I want a word with you, Mr Field!'

    The man immediately took a defensive stance. As Patrick charged at him, he swung the side of beef so hard that it knocked his attacker to the ground. Flinging his cargo down on top of Patrick, he delivered several swift kicks to the youth's head to disable him. Then he fled at full speed into the crowd with a stream of abuse from Bridget McCoy filling his ears.

Chapter Nine

    Crimes and disturbances did not obligingly cease in Baynard's Castle ward to allow Jonathan Bale to devote his whole time to the murder hunt. That morning, he and Tom Warburton were called to Great Carter Street to intervene in a violent quarrel. A customer had visited the barber-surgeon, who, among his many talents, was able to draw teeth. It was a painful exercise but less of a torment than the bad tooth that had infected the customer's whole mouth and made his cheek swell to twice its size. The extraction was swift and decisive. On only one small detail could the barber-surgeon be faulted. He had removed the wrong tooth.

    When the constables arrived on the scene, the men were trading blows and roaring spectators were urging them on. Bale grabbed the barber, Warburton took hold of the customer, and they dragged the adversaries apart. Struggling for release, the two men continued the fight with robust language and dire threats. It was minutes before Bale was able to calm them down enough to hear the cause of their dispute. He was still trying to act as a mediator when he saw two people hurrying along the street towards him.

    Bridget McCoy was flushed and agitated but it was her son who made the constable stare. A hideous bruise darkened one side of Patrick's face and there was an ugly swelling on his temple. One eye was almost closed. Even the disgruntled customer felt sorry for him. A lost tooth did not compare with a vicious beating. Leaving Warburton to sort out the argument, Bale detached himself to speak to the newcomers.

    'What happened?' he said.

    'We saw him,' replied Bridget. 'We saw that bastard again.'

    'Where?'

    'At the market.'

    'Why did you not send word, Mrs McCoy?'

    'It would have taken too long,' said Patrick. 'So I tried to arrest him myself. I tried to be like you, Mr Bale.'

    Bridget indicated the wounds. 'You can see the result,' she said, rancorously. 'He almost kicked my son's head off. Wait till I catch up with the knave. I'll bite his balls off and spit them in the Thames.'

    'Tell me exactly what happened, Mrs McCoy,' suggested Bale.

    'I'll slice him into tiny bits and feed him to the dogs.'

    'We have to apprehend him first, and we can't do that while you're railing against him. Now, then, let me hear the full story.'

    Supported and sometimes contradicted by her son, Bridget gave a bitter description of events. The crowd had now abandoned the dental dispute and turned their attention to this new development. Given an audience, Bridget responded by introducing gruesome details, couched in the sort of language that most of them had never before heard coming from the lips of a woman. Bale seized on the salient details.

    'He's a porter,' he concluded. 'Mr Field is a porter.'

    Patrick rubbed his sore face. 'Mother says that's not his name.'

    'I think that she's right, lad.'

    'So we don't know who he really is.'

    'But we know where he works.'

    'Do we, Mr Bale?' said Bridget.

    'Yes,' he told her. 'If he had a side of beef with him, he was delivering it to market. So we can guess where he took his name from.'

    'Where?'

    'Smithfield. He's a meat porter from Smithfield. Take out the Smith and what do you have left, Mrs McCoy?' 'Field.'

    'I'll wager that's how he christened himself.'

    'Let's catch him, Mr Bale,' urged Patrick. 'Let's go to Smithfield.'

    'The only place you're going to is bed,' said his mother, tenderly. 'You must have a terrible headache. Wait until you see yourself in a mirror, Patrick. You shouldn't be abroad in a state like that.'

    'I agree,' said Bale. 'Take him home. I have to tell someone else what you managed to find out. Then we'll need to speak to you again.'

    'And to me,' insisted Patrick. 'I was there as well.'

    'You need to rest, lad.' 'I only did what you'd have done, Mr Bale.'

    'That was very brave of you.'

    'He used our tavern for a murder. That was sinful.'

    'It was a bloody disgrace!' asserted Bridget.

    'Take him away, Mrs McCoy,' advised Bale. 'I think a doctor ought to look at those wounds of his. They were got honourably, Patrick,' he said, hoping to cheer him up. 'But it's time to step aside now, lad. Leave this fellow to us.'