The Traitor’s Mark (2 page)

While we stood in the courtyard waiting for all to be made ready, I pressed the girl for more details. ‘What were you saying about the Aldgate constable?'

Adie scowled, the flush on her cheek now one of anger. ‘I'd just helped your Bart to his feet. “We must get the constable ... raise the hue and cry,” he said. Only there wasn't
no need. A crowd had gathered outside and someone had already sent for Peter Pett.'

‘Your ward constable?'

‘Yes, but to hear him you'd think he was lord mayor. He's a braggart and a bully. “Peter Pest” people call him. He stood there asking stupid questions and making ... suggestions.'

‘What sort of suggestions?'

Adie lowered her head. ‘About me and your man,' she muttered. ‘He said that since we was the only ones there, we must have been up to something. Then, George must have found us and we'd all had a fight and your Bart must have pulled a knife ... Oh, the man's a flap-mouthed jolthead. He wouldn't listen to me and he wouldn't call the hue and cry. Just said he was going to put both of us in irons till the magistrate came. He would have, too, if some of our neighbours hadn't spoken for me. It was Goodwife Mays, next door, who made him see that I'm nurse to Master Johannes' children. Then your man said he was servant to, an important merchant and there'd be trouble if they harmed him. Well, that made the Pest think. He wouldn't let Bart go but he did say I could bring you a note. We found a stick of Master Johannes' charcoal and a bit of old drawing paper. Bart wrote the note and I left the children with Goodwife Mays. Then I ran all the way here as fast as I could.'

When Walt, my ostler, had the cart ready, he hauled himself into the driving seat and held out a hand to hoist the girl up beside him. ‘Where to, Master Thomas?' he asked,
waving a hand at the crowd of flies that buzzed around the donkey's hindquarters.

‘Aldgate,' I replied. ‘The gatehouse. It seems that our Bart has managed to get himself locked up there. You'll have to bring him back.'

His face creased into a black-toothed grin. ‘He'll be right enough, Master Thomas. He's used to taking rough knocks – thrives on 'em.'

‘Well, we must see what he's walked into this time.' Golding, my grey, was led out of the stable and I climbed into the saddle. ‘I'll go on ahead and see you there.'

I turned out of the yard and set off along West Cheap, eager to get the journey over, yet anxious about what I would discover at its end. What Walt said about Bart Miller was true. When he had come to work for me six years before he was a hothead of less than twenty, always on the lookout for a cause to uphold and ready to use whatever means came to hand. He had lost an arm fighting with the northern rebels in 1536. Marriage had somewhat sobered him. His wife, Lizzie, was a strong-minded woman, tough enough to curb his enthusiasms and clever enough not to let him know that he was being ‘handled'. Even so, Bart still saw himself as an adventurer. Like the knights we hear of in the tales of King Arthur, he could not help looking for dragons to slay. Anyone with a story to tell of injustice or cruelty or exploitation found in Bart Miller a ready listener.

When I sent him out that morning with a message for the
German artist, it never occurred to me that he could get involved in a murderous brawl. I simply wanted to know why my old friend Johannes Holbein was keeping me waiting for some tableware designs. I needed them urgently and it was unlike him not to have them ready on time. It was all very aggravating. The work was for an important – and wealthy – client. If I could not show him some designs within days he would, most assuredly, take his business elsewhere. Much as I was concerned about Bart, I was also bothered by what the girl had told me about her master. Could it be that the artist had deliberately ‘disappeared' – gone into hiding from enemies who would not stop at murder? But who would want to kill a foreign artist who enjoyed the king's favour and was patronised by most of the fashionable elite?

It was mid-afternoon – hot and humid, warning of a storm to come. The City was quiet, many people seeking the shade – if they had not already escaped the plague-haunted streets to pass high summer in the country, something I was impatient to do. It was annoying having to waste more time trying to locate Holbein or extricate Bart from whatever he had got into. In the West Cheap narrows by the Conduit a large wagon was being loaded causing some congestion. I waited for the donkey cart to catch up in order to ask Adie more questions.

‘Do you know where your master has gone?'

She fussed with wisps of hair, tucking them back under
the cap. ‘He's often away days at a time. Doing what he calls “sittings”.'

‘Making portraits of fine lords and ladies?'

‘Oh, yes, he's much in demand. Everyone wants a likeness by Master Johannes, what with him being the king's painter and all.' For the first time she showed a slight wistful smile. ‘He did a picture of me and the children – a year ago, before the little ones died. It wasn't a painting, of course, just a drawing. He's ever so quick. There was I trying to make the two boys sit still. Little Henry's a great wriggler. But it didn't matter. Master Johannes was so quick.'

‘And you've no idea where your master has gone this time?'

Adie shook her head. ‘He went off first thing Tuesday, as he often does, with all his gear on a packhorse.'

‘Is there no way you can get a message to him – a warning?'

Again the doleful, almost resigned, shake of the head.

‘What about you and the children – and their mother?'

Adie scowled. ‘Oh, she's been up and away long since. Packed her bags and left Master Johannes with four bearns, and one not yet weaned. Said she was tired of his comings and goings. Said she was for better things than bearing babies and looking after them. Slattern!' She spat out the word.

I rode on and was soon at the City wall.

There was only a trickle of humanity passing to and fro
through Aldgate. A few people stood beneath the rusted prongs of the raised portcullis, finding some coolness in the shade, where a half-hearted breeze shifted through the archway. I tethered Golding to an iron ring in the wall and announced myself to the duty guard. He was seated at the toll table just inside the open door of the guardhouse. He appraised me with an expert eye.

‘Good day, Master Treviot. We was expecting you.'

‘Good. Then I can take my man off your hands?'

‘Ah well, now, Sir.' He stood up – a tall fellow in a leather jerkin who had the courteous demeanour of an official who knows that politeness is not a weakness when backed by authority. ‘I'm afraid I have my orders. The prisoner is to stay here until the coroner arrives to question him.'

‘And when will that be?'

‘Constable Pett has gone to fetch him. They should be back soon.'

‘Well, I hope they are. I can't wait all afternoon. May I see my man, now? I gather he's been injured.'

The guard gave a deferential nod. ‘Certainly, Sir, if you'll step this way. You'll see he's taken quite a beating but I shouldn't worry yourself too much on his account. I've seen many a broken head in this job. His looks worse than it is.'

I was glad of the warning. The sight that met me when the inner door was unlocked and I stepped through into the narrow cell would otherwise have shaken me badly. A truckle bed stood against one wall. Bart was half-lying on
the bed, his upper body propped up in the corner. A grimy rag was tied round his head and his face was streaked with dirt and dried blood. The right side of his face was badly swollen and the eye almost completely closed. He squinted at me and winced as he eased himself off the bed. ‘Master Thomas! Thank God!'.

‘I came as fast as I could. What in the name of Mary and all the saints ...'

‘I'm sorry, Master Thomas. I didn't want to trouble you but it honestly wasn't my fault.'

‘So I gather. The girl you sent with the message told me something about it but I'd like to hear an account from your lips.'

Bart grimaced and sank back on to the bed, rubbing his hand gingerly over his ribs. ‘Jesus, but that hurts! I came to the painter's house, like you said, and asked for Master Johannes. There was only this young lad there and he said his master was away. Well, I was obviously not the only one looking for him. Three men came in and started ...'

‘Three men?'

‘Well, actually there were four. One stood in the doorway as a lookout.'

‘Can you describe them?'

Before Bart could reply there were noises in the outer guard room..

I turned to see the small space filling with people. Walt had arrived with the girl. As they stood in the outer doorway
another man pushed past them and strode into the cell. He was a burly fellow in a greasy jerkin and red cap set at an angle atop untidy dark hair. He went straight to Bart, grabbed him by his open doublet and yanked him to his feet. Bart yelped with pain.

‘Shut your snout, hedge pig! You've to come with me back to the scene of your crime. The crowner wants to hear what you've got to say. Can't think why. The truth's as plain to see as a strumpet's tits.'

I placed myself between the bully and the door. ‘Just a moment,' I said, as calmly as I could. ‘I take it you're the ward constable.'

‘That I am.' He glared as though inviting contradiction. ‘And you, I take it, are this rogue's master.'

I was in no mood to bear with the arrogance of this minor official. ‘Is this how you behave to your betters?' I demanded.

‘Only when they try to get between me and my duty to protect my neighbours!' He pushed past, dragging a shuffling Bart behind him.

It was only a few yards to Master Johannes' house. The three of us followed the constable. There were four or five people standing round the door. Doubtless there would have been more if the street's throbbing heat had not smothered their curiosity and sent them in search of shade.

We went inside and found a room furnished with a table, benches and stools. The fireplace had been cleaned out, An
open cupboard to one side held pots, pans and pewter plates – all tidily arranged. Everything suggested a well-ordered household. The scene that faced us when we went through into the inner room was very different. The first thing I was aware of was the noise, the buzzing of a myriad of flies. The second impression was of vivid colours. Reds, greens, yellows – they were everywhere – splashed on the walls, streaking the floor rushes, leaking from broken dishes. The artist's canvases had, similarly, been thrown about the room. A large easel lay face-down beside the window. The few items of furniture were overturned. Poor Johannes' studio had been wrecked, either deliberately or in the course of a very violent fight. In the middle of the room, sprawled on its back, was the body of a young man, lying in a pool of his own blood, on which the flies were hungrily feasting. Sudden anger welled up in me – anger and anxiety for my friend.

The only living occupant of the room was a small, spare man in a lawyer's black gown. He turned as we entered. ‘Nothing to be gained here!' He held a pomander to his nose and motioned us back into the outer room.

We stood in a circle. No one seemed to want to speak. No one, that is, except Constable Pett. ‘As requested, Your Honour, I've brought the culprit. And this' – he gave the slightest disdainful nod towards Adie – ‘is the person as found the body. Or so she says.'

The coroner nodded and turned to me. ‘This citizen I
recognise. We have met before, I'm sure. Where was it, now – Gray's Inn revels, last Christmas?'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘I remember. My name is Thomas Treviot.'

‘An honoured name in the City. I am James Corridge. What brings you to this sorry scene, Master Treviot?'

‘My assistant, Bartholomew Miller, has been mistakenly detained by the constable. I'm come to explain his presence here. He was on a matter of business for me and became the unfortunate witness of this appalling crime. He was certainly not its perpetrator.'

‘So he says!' The constable, who was keeping a tight hold of Bart, took a step forward, almost thrusting himself between the coroner and me.

‘'Tis God's truth!' Bart pleaded. ‘I had no hand in that man's death.'

Pett gave a snort of laughter. ‘You don't want to trust what this villain says, Your Worship. Why, you've only got to look at the man—'

‘Thank you, Constable. I will decide who is best believed and who not.' Corridge wafted the pomander beneath his nose and edged away from the man, who reeked of sweat, stale ale and onions. ‘What other witnesses do we have?'

‘None,' the constable replied promptly. ‘Very convenient for the murderer. He obviously knew when best to strike – when his victim would be alone.'

‘Witnesses?' Bart's angry response was more a frightened
whine than a shout. ‘Oh, aye, there were witnesses – four of 'em. They were the bloody knaves who did this thing.'

‘Well, that should be easy to determine, Constable. I take it you've made enquiry about these men. You've asked all the neighbours.'

‘I'd as soon spend my time searching for hobgoblins. There were no four men, Your Worship. This is just a tale to confuse the issue. Here's your murderer!' He thrust Bart forward. ‘Just give me an hour with him and I'll get him to confess the truth.'

‘I have told the truth, Your Honour,' Bart shouted, his face creasing with pain at the effort. ‘This fellow only wants to beat a confession out of me because he's too lazy to do his job properly.'

With a roar, Pett swung his right fist at Bart's face and caught him a glancing blow.

‘That will do, Constable!' Corridge asserted himself, not before time. ‘We will conduct this investigation in the proper manner. There will be a full inquest in seven days' time. And I will expect you to present there anyone who may have seen or heard anything that might be relevant. Until then, keep this man in custody – and make sure he has a physician to tend his wounds. If I hear that he has been ill-treated in your care ...' He left the sentence unfinished as Pett, muttering under his breath, pushed his prisoner towards the street door.