‘I’m sure you are right, Master Coroner,’ Nicholas says drily, deciding this is neither the time nor the place to start a new disagreement with the Queen’s Coroner. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Willders’s body relax, like a man reprieved.
‘Anyway, the speed of the burial shouldn’t hinder the jury’s deliberations,’ says Danby casually. ‘I see you have already made a detailed report on what you observed.’ He nods to the sheet of paper on the table, next to the dish of marchpane comfits and the jug of hippocras set down for the important visitor from across the river. ‘Have you read it, Constable Willders? Does it accord with your recollection?’
Willders’s fingers start to fidget again. ‘I could not read it for myself, sir. Dr Shelby read it for me.’
‘But does it tally, Constable?’
‘Dr Shelby is correct in what he sets forth, sir, though I cannot comment on the medical nature of what he has written.’
‘But the scene, Constable – the scene. Is it accurately described? May a jury rely upon it?’
‘Oh, aye, sir. A most discomforting scene, it was. Master Mandel was upon the bed, bound with cords. Dr Shelby showed me where several strips of his flesh had been removed from the breast, with a blade of some sort.’ He makes a sideways sawing motion with his hand, as though he’s carving a ham at table. ‘Like someone had tried to skin him alive, I should say. In consequence, there was rather a lot of blood cast about. In all, it was most disconcerting. I’ve seen nothing of its like since young Jacob, Ned Monkton’s brother, was pulled from the river at the Mutton Lane stairs – but that was before I was made constable.’
‘Monkton? Is he relevant?’ Danby says.
Nicholas has an image of young Jacob Monkton’s body laid out on the Mutton Lane stairs, as empty as a carcass hanging in a Cheapside butcher’s stall. At the time, the Queen’s Coroner certainly hadn’t thought the poor of Bankside relevant for an instant. It would be justice, he thinks, to have Danby walk down to the Jackdaw right now and ask Ned to his face if he thought his little brother had been relevant.
‘Not in this instance, sir,’ Willders says. ‘I was merely referring to a past felony. Monkton has no bearing on this one.’
‘Could the wounds not have been sustained in what the law refers to as “chance medley” – a hot quarrel?’ Danby asks. ‘They are quite common here on Bankside, I understand.’
‘Mandel was a peaceable old man. He was liked. He had no enemies to get into a quarrel with.’
Willders nods in agreement. ‘It’s true, sir.’
Nicholas adds, ‘Besides, as Constable Willders has told you, he was lying on his bed, naked and bound. Even for Southwark, that’s an uncommon way to end an argument.’
‘Then to what do you attribute the wounds, Dr Shelby?’ Danby gives the breast of his doublet a lawyerly tug with both hands.
Nicholas can’t help seeing again the bloody rills sliced into Mandel’s flesh. ‘That’s simple: he was tortured. I think his killers wanted something from him that he didn’t wish them to possess.’
Danby considers this carefully for a moment with some noisy sucking of his tongue. ‘Have you not asked yourself this, Dr Shelby: that rather than being tortured, he was being punished?’
‘Punished for being a Jew?’
‘For being a heretic.’
‘I did wonder,’ Nicholas says. ‘The killers ransacked his chamber, but they left that Bible by his bed untouched. And I found two fragments of burnt parchment, close to where they killed him. One had the words Rouge Croix on it. The other made me wonder if Mandel’s killers called themselves “Followers of the Red Cross”.’
Danby lowers his head in thought. Willders taps his thigh, as if to encourage him in his wise deliberation. When the coroner looks up again, there is firm smile of enlightenment on his face.
‘There are those who hold that we should do more than simply condemn Mandel’s kind for our Lord’s death on the holy cross,’ he says. ‘Such people say we should actively chastise them for that heinous crime. Not my own view, as it happens – to my mind, the papist is far more of a threat to our immortal souls than the Jew. But, as I say, you should read Master Luther’s writings upon the matter.’ He picks up the jug and helps himself to a cup of hippocras. He doesn’t offer any to his host, Willders, or to Nicholas. ‘Well, we shall know the truth when we apprehend the perpetrator,’ he says confidently. ‘I shall speak to the alderman about raising a band to seek him out.’
Willders seems even more surprised than Nicholas by Danby’s words. ‘Am I to understand that one of the felons has been identified, sir?’
Danby takes a draught of the spiced wine. He swills it around his mouth before swallowing. ‘I’d have thought his identity was obvious, Constable Willders. Why else would the Moor abscond?’
For a moment Nicholas can’t believe what he’s heard. ‘The Moor? Are you speaking of Farzad? You think Farzad killed Mandel?’
‘Heathen passions are of a nature quite alien to a Christian man, Dr Shelby.’
‘They were friends! Farzad baked bread for Solomon’s breakfast every morning.’
‘Who knows how long a hidden enmity might slumber before it is suddenly roused? Have you not seen Master Marlowe’s Tamburlaine performed? The Moor is a creature of exceptionally hot blood.’
Nicholas can only marvel at Danby’s conviction. He thinks: so you’ve read Luther’s book and seen Marlowe’s play, and now you’re well enough versed to decide Solomon Mandel was killed for being a Jew, and Farzad is his murderer. And you accuse me of hasty diagnoses!
On St Olave’s Lane, Danby takes the reins of his horse from a servant and makes himself comfortable in the saddle, tugging his gloves tight in preparation for the ride back across the bridge. His horse fidgets beneath him, its hooves clattering on the cobbles.
‘Farzad Gul did not kill Solomon Mandel,’ Nicholas says, trying to remain calm. ‘I would stake my life on it.’
Danby favours Nicholas with a smile of faux-courtesy. ‘We shall leave that to the inquest to determine. I take it you will wish to be included amongst the jury.’
Nicholas asks quietly, ‘Did you know he had a name, Master Coroner?’
Danby looks down, a frown creasing his temple. ‘A name? I do not follow you, sirrah. Who had a name? The Moor?’
‘The crippled vagrant boy I told you about – the body you sent to Sir Fulke Vaesy, for his anatomy lecture.’
‘Oh, him. He had no name, Dr Shelby. I remember what I wrote in my report: unknown, save unto God.’
‘His name was Ralph Cullen.’
Danby stares at him, puzzled.
‘He has a sister, Elise,’ Nicholas continues. ‘For months she could not bring herself to speak, because of what had befallen them. But she’s alive. I found her. Now she’s a member of Lord Lumley’s household at Nonsuch Palace. I thought you might care to know.’
‘That is all very interesting, Dr Shelby. But I am not sure what instruction I am supposed to take from it.’
‘None whatsoever,’ Nicholas says despondently, surprised by the way his throat suddenly seems constricted and his eyes have begun to smart. ‘I know he was of no concern to anyone, least of all to the Queen’s Coroner. But I wanted you to hear his name – if only once.’