A Murderous Affair Page 4

  ‘Well let us keep it that way shall we?’ I knew that this request would most likely be in vain. I imagined that, even if Pinchkin’s protestations were true, the temptation to discuss it would soon overwhelm them.

  Wondering what to do next, I turned away from the group of men and gazed across the expanse of river towards the North bank. Since our arrival, the river had already receded a few feet further, leaving in its wake a thin expanse of glistening mud. By now the sun was in its dying throws, causing a yellowy-brown sheen on the clay filled water. Small fishing boats could be seen skirting the northern shore and a large merchant ship had moored itself half a mile away towards the sea, waiting for the tide to turn and help it run into the waiting ports of London, where it would disgorge its exotic goods.

  My main concern was what to do with the corpse. We couldn’t very well leave it where it was, but I wasn’t at all sure where responsibility for it lay. In the end I decided that, unpleasant as it was, we should row it to my brother’s house. I didn’t see why he should avoid the pleasure of viewing the mangled body, and at least he could confirm the man’s identity. It would also give me a chance to examine further the mark on the neck without an audience.

  Whilst deep in thought, I had leant back against the colourful pole towering over the dead body. Now I became aware of the men stifling laughs and exchanging glances with each other.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I demanded, my impatience obvious.

  Pinchkin Senior tried and failed to wipe the grin off his face before saying: ‘I take it you’re not married, sir.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ I said, taken aback for a moment by his impertinence.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to touch that, if you were married, sir – that there’s the Cuckold’s Pole.’

  At this, all the men burst out laughing, apart from Nesbitt, whose face was sour with disapproval. I had heard of Cuckold’s Point – a monument erected to the age-old custom of wives jumping into bed with men other than their, supposedly, impotent husbands. Evidently the foreign gentleman had washed up at that exact spot.

  I broke the merriment by telling the men to cover the body with the cloak and carry it to the boat. The body was completely stiff as they lifted it, but bent in unnatural ways. What on earth had happened to it?

  ‘I saw you noticed the mark on his neck,’ I said quietly to Nesbitt, when the men had cleared away. ‘I want to take a closer look at it away from the prying eyes of these oafs. If they see that he’s been strangled, we’ll never be able to shut them up.’ Nesbitt merely nodded in agreement. ‘Do you think he lost his jewellery before or after he went into the river?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt these cozeners wouldn’t hesitate to steal.’ Said Nesbitt, displaying little sign of that famed Puritan Charity.

  ‘Perhaps, though not easy getting a ring off that bloated finger, and why didn’t they take his boots as well? They’re a perfectly good pair of leather and they’ve had all morning to think about it.’ Looking down at the useless pair I was wearing, I hoped my true thoughts on the subject weren’t too transparent.

  ‘Perhaps they don’t value leather as highly as pretty trinkets,’ mused Nesbitt, looking at me sideways.

  Before we pushed off, I addressed the Watch as a group, asking them again to keep the discovery of the body secret, and telling them they could expect a reward for their vigilance and discretion. I tried to convince them that it was most likely an accident up in the city and that there was nothing untoward afoot. However, their faces told me they weren’t convinced. The state of the body, and the fact that two gentlemen from upriver had come down to cart it away, was enough to convince them that some greater mystery than a hapless stranger falling in the river had occurred. Their expressions contained a mixture of incomprehension and suspicion, not to mention disappointment that the morning’s entertainment seemed about to end. Only the verger was different, looking at me meaningfully as I finished speaking. I decided to ignore him and turned to get in the boat but as I did so he caught my arm and spoke to me in a tone designed to conceal his speech from the other men.

  ‘Your Honour, if Lord Rokesby wishes, I will happily call on him to give a description of the events that have occurred here. I believe that an eloquent account of what I have observed may be of use to him, and I am somewhat of an expert in the local area.’ An expert arse-licker more likely, I thought unkindly. ‘Perhaps I could accompany you and the body?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said, taking him into my confidence. ‘But if you could ensure that the men here keep their discretion, I am sure you will earn Lord Robert’s favour.’

  He smiled conspiratorially but still held tightly onto my sleeve. I began to discern what he wanted. ‘Send word to Master Lovat, sign of the watchmaker on the bridge, and I will ensure your reward is forthcoming.’

  This seemed to do the trick. He released my arm and I left him on the shore wearing a conspiratorial expression. I slung myself into the back of the boat and we set off with a firm shove from two of the Rotherhithe Watch. As we rowed away, the men stood for a moment staring at us sullenly, the strange pole with its antlers silhouetted against the gloaming sky above them, before turning and slowing starting their journey back to the village across the marsh. I watched the disparate bunch for a while as they reluctantly trudged off.

  I now had ample time to study the body, wedged awkwardly in the curved bottom of the boat. Nesbitt had taken a position in the stern allowing me the dubious pleasure of having the corpse to myself. I opened the neck and breast of his garments again and looked closely at the mark around his neck. Although at first it was hard to distinguish from the extensive bruising, there was one deep maroon line seared into the skin about half an inch thick. I had an idea about that and a quick comparison proved that the size of the mark corresponded exactly with the width of the chain to which my brother’s seal was connected. Not only that, as I turned the neck slightly, I could even identify where the seal itself had left an impression.

  I opened the clothing further to reveal the man’s chest and stomach. Again, there were marks similar to those on the face, neck and arms suggesting that the entire body had been badly battered.

  ‘Anything further of interest?’ Nesbitt asked me. He had been standing up and leaning over the backs of the rowers, much to their annoyance, trying to see what I was doing.

  ‘The tongue sticking out, the mark on the neck – it all points to strangulation. Apart from that nothing new.’

  ‘A nasty deed. Rokesby won’t like it one bit.’ Nesbitt sat back down and folded his arms with what seemed like grim satisfaction. He appeared to be relishing the task of delivering the bad news to my brother. I felt only apprehension. It was the first time I had encountered a dead body in such a manner and I was a loss to know what it might have to do with Robert.

  By now the weather had closed in and freezing rain was starting to spit down on our heads, but the tide had changed in a moment, making rowing far easier for the two oarsmen. Both of them had relaxed slightly and were talking as they rowed, turning to look at each other.

  Suddenly we heard the urgent clattering of a loud bell behind us. I turned sharply to see the bow of the huge merchant ship we had seen moored further downstream, coming out of the gloom only a few feet behind us and gaining quickly. We were directly in the ship’s path and I could clearly see the figurehead of a mythical sea creature as the vessel loomed up behind us. The two oarsmen chatting away had barely noticed the huge ship, sped on by the changing tide and increasing winds. They quickly scrambled with their oars to take us to one side, as Nesbitt and I looked back in horror at the great shadow towering above us.

  It was a close-run thing as the bow of the merchant ship cut past us but the men just managed to manoeuver the exposed boat out of the ship’s path, though not beyond its wake. As the first wave hit us, we rocked violently and Nesbitt and I, lacking the luxury of oars, both grabbed onto whatever we could to avoid falling over the sid
e and suffering the same fate as our passenger. In my haste to secure myself, I took hold of the dead man’s shirt but couldn’t avoid falling straight on top of him, my head disappearing into the space between his head and shoulders. The dampness and stench of the dead body caught me and for a moment I felt as though I was held in the grip of the dead. I broke into a cold sweat and the hairs on my back shot up in an animalistic terror. As I tried desperately to push myself away, another wave hit the boat causing me to fall helplessly again, awkwardly landing in a twisted mass and with my arm still clinging to the man’s shirt under my body. The irony of holding onto a dead man for dear life was not lost on me.

  Gradually, the waves from the ship became less severe as it pulled ahead of us. I unravelled myself and pushed myself upright, the colour drained from my face. Cold, wet, tired, hung-over – all in all it was too much excitement for one day. I cursed the men for allowing the ship to almost ram us and told them to concentrate on their jobs.

  I realised that I was kneeling on the dead man’s body with my white knuckles still clinging to his under-shirt. I was about to loosen my grip, when it occurred to me that the material I was holding contained an unnatural bulge at about the height of the man’s chest, under his left arm. Feeling my way around the area, which was about two inches thick, I turned the shirt outwards. On the inside was a pocket sewn into the shirt. I ripped the stitching to reveal two items: a brooch and a golden ring. It seemed I had discovered some valuables that had not been fleeced from the body by the river or the Rotherhithe Watch.

  I glanced back at Nesbitt to see if he had spotted my discovery, but he was busy watching the stern of the boat that had only moments earlier tried to carve us in two. I studied the items as discreetly as possible. The brooch was a delicate piece, about an inch in diameter, and of the most exquisite craftsmanship. I cupped it gently in the palm of my hand, admiring the concentric ring of opaque pearls, inlaid in gold, surrounding a bulbous red carnelian stone.

  By its narrow diameter, I judged the ring to be that of a lady. There was slight staining on the gold but the water had done it no harm. I gently rubbed my fingers around the band, tracing the inscriptions imprinted on both sides and strained my eyes to read them. On the outside were the words: RATHER DEATH THAN FALS FAYTH and the initials C.H. On the inside, the simple statement: MEMENTO MORI. These heavy-handed inscriptions somewhat cheapened the ring which must have been beautiful once in its simplicity.

  Memento Mori – remember you must die. I slipped the ring and brooch furtively into the sleeve pocket of my doublet and sat back heavily in the bow. The Latin inscription was common on wedding bands: ‘remember you must die’ and therefore live virtuously. The outside inscription only appeared to enforce this message of chastity. The wedding gift of a suspicious husband, perhaps, but what was it doing sewn into the dead man’s shirt? And who was C.H. – the wearer or the giver?

  It was only then that I realised my whole body was shaking, from the cold and the wet, from the shock of nearly capsizing, and from my brief encounter with the clammy grip of the dead.

  Chapter 4

  ‘The name of brother is indeed a beautiful and affectionate one.’

  (Michel de Montaigne; Essays)

  The Chancel House, my brother’s London home, was situated along the Strand, the principal route linking the city with the state buildings at Whitehall. It was one of a number of large estates laid out between the road and the curving stretch of river, which for years had been home to rich and influential families. This reflected their growing appreciation over the centuries that their fortunes (not to mention the opportunity of having some fun in life) were as closely linked to the sprawling city as their country estates.

  Formerly the residence of a Catholic bishop, the house had been appropriated for the crown during the dissolution of the monasteries fifty years earlier and bought by my father at a knockdown price, with the blessing of the boy King, Edward, as a reward for his loyalty. For thirty years my father had bucked the trend by more or less ignoring his London residence, preferring to spend his time in the countryside. Since his death, however, its ownership had passed to my brother, who spent a great deal of his time there. Compared with the flashier estates on either side, the Chancel House still had a certain antiquated charm, although I knew my brother was planning to redress this as soon as funds allowed.

  Cold, damp and tired on that November morning I was hardly in the mood for my brother’s company, let alone the little jaunt down the river that he had sent me on. For much of our upbringing, our relationship had been one of mutual antipathy. Robert and I were only half-brothers. We had the same father but different mothers and there were eight years between us. When my father sired my brother he was careful to do it with the agreement of his then wife, her Ladyship, and my brother burst forth into the world squalling and screaming as the legitimate heir to a title, a fortune and a life of uncomplicated ease, at least so it seemed to me. I never knew my brother’s mother. She had died by the time that my ageing father went for one final fling with a servant on his Cotswold estate. The result of this frowned-upon conjugation – my good self – came timidly into a life characterised by lack of prospects, uncertainty, and the constant reminder of being a bastard, both for the amusement of friends and the advantage of enemies.

  I never knew my own mother, either. The act of my birth was the final part she played in life. I am told she was a pretty girl with a winning smile but that’s all I ever gleaned. Not surprisingly perhaps, no one in the household wanted to talk about her. It wasn’t all bad news though. My father, kindly and generous in his dotage, was happy to accept me into the family and my childhood was spent in his house, where I had the run of his large country estate, and was able to learn all of the trappings of being a gentleman, a title that the circumstances of my birth barred me from ever obtaining.

  My father’s indulgence of this unexpected late arrival had been the main source of antagonism between myself and Robert, who felt, somewhat condescendingly in my opinion, that I should be brought up in the cowshed attached to my late mother’s family cottage in the local village. It was only when I was about five years old that my teenage brother started to see how I might become useful to him as a dogsbody and our relationship changed to one of unerring superiority on his part and a life of drudgery on mine. At least I no longer had to worry about my back becoming the target for his daily archery practise.

  To begin with, my brother began to employ me as a glorified servant, carrying his coat of arms at pageants, fetching his horse, polishing his armour. It amused him to have his bastard brother act as a slave in a way that my father could hardly object to. The one time I complained to my father about it he laughed heartily and said in his enigmatic manner:

  ‘A man’s character, John, can be determined by how he deals with servitude both as servant, and master.’ I looked at him for explanation but he merely clapped me on the back. ‘Come on, get the cards out. There’s a new dodge I’ve been dying to teach you.’

  Perhaps mindful of the struggles I would face later in life, my father was always keen to instruct me in the ‘black arts’. His particular enthusiasm was for sharp-practise with cards but he also took great delight in teaching me how to cheat at dice and even pick locks.

  In the meantime, my brother continued to refer to me loudly as his ‘pageboy’ whenever we were in company and make use of me at all opportune moments. My early childhood was littered with instances where I remember standing alone at some joust or fair feeling isolated and aggrieved, while my brother amused his friends by sending me on some laborious and demeaning errands. There was to be no sudden reverse in fortunes, as in the King Arthur stories I consoled myself with at night; no sword to draw from the stone to prove myself a worthy gentleman after all – or simply to run my brother through with!

  Fortunately, this period was relatively short-lived. Well-to-do families have unusual ideas about how to raise their children and Robert was invited to spend long pe
riods in the homes of other aristocratic friends and relations. As illegitimates like myself were hardly considered good role models for other children, these aristocrats conveniently forgot to invite me, much to my relief. I stayed at home learning dubious skills from my rogue of a father, and making strategies for avoiding my brother when he returned.

  It wasn’t long before Robert left home permanently to continue his education at Oxford. From Oxford he had gone up to London and, after not too long, a seat on the Privy Council. He was a rising star of Queen Elizabeth’s court and for a few years it seemed as though he had quite forgotten about my existence.

  Then two things happened in quick succession to bring me back into his sphere. My father, whose health had long been threatened by his excessive way of life, died suddenly. His death left me with a mixture of profound grief, and fear of what was to become of me. Despite his indulgences, his acceptance did not extend to anything by way of an inheritance, apart from a small bequest of money and the few items from the house that I now treasured as my prized possessions, most of which I had simply taken without asking. I knew I could expect little else. As a bastard, according to the laws of the land, I could legally neither own nor inherit property, or marry into it. My prospects seemed bleak.

  Then, unexpectedly at my father’s funeral, my brother offered me the chance to come to London with the promise that some work could be found for me. The arrangement included him funding lodgings for me on London Bridge and finding me part time work in a publishing house, where I could put the language skills I had learnt during my childhood to good use.

  It soon transpired, however, that he was most interested in rekindling our former relationship; the one where he said ‘jump’ and I asked ‘how high?’ Mostly the tasks he employed me for involved benign matters such as delivering letters of state, bringing him information, or accompanying him as a kind of bodyguard.