For several breathless moments the only sound to be heard in St Pancrate’s was the preacher’s footfalls as he descended from the pulpit. Then pandemonium broke out. Men cheered. Others shouted, ‘Shame!’ ‘Heretic!’ or ‘Lutheran!’ It was fully five minutes before sufficient order could be restored for the service to be concluded. After the coffin had been interred and we all spilled out on to the street, the congregation split into groups. Some stood in the narrow lane. Others made their way homeward. But all were talking excitedly about what they had heard.
Chapter 17
It was difficult to maintain the routine of the workshop in those days. The beaters often laid aside their tools to discuss the latest incidents in our divided city and I had to beat the furnace boy for neglecting his task and allowing the fire to grow too cold. People who came in through the door wanted to gossip rather than spend money. In truth, there were few customers to be had. The times were too uncertain for people to be thinking of buying plate or jewels. Some there were who came to sell precious items or raise money against them, so that they could conceal coin against a better time. Neither I nor my neighbours were much disposed to lend in such an atmosphere of uncertainty. The threat from the northern rebels seemed to have passed but the feeling of insecurity lingered. A common rumour persisted that the Emperor and the King of France were joining forces, at the pope’s behest, to invade the realm of England’s ‘heretic’ king. One could never be sure who might be thrown into jail for speaking against the doings of our sovereign lord; for expressing opinions that were either too Catholic or too radical. Panic was, in fact, led by the government. Orders went out from Cromwell’s office that every priest in the City was to be searched for ‘offensive weapons’. Any item so adjudged was to be confiscated, with the exception of ‘a knife for meat’. Citizens were abandoning their parish churches in favour of others where partisan preachers to their liking were to be found. Not that one had to listen to sermons to discover what the rival parties were advocating. The streets were awash with pamphlets and broadsides, printed or hand-copied, then passed surreptitiously from person to person or boldly nailed to doorposts at dead of night.
Saturday 18 November was the day appointed by the coroner for the inquest into Robert’s death. Along with other witnesses I took my reserved place in a crowded Mercers’ Hall. Punctual upon the appointed hour, Master Kernish entered with his clerk and called for silence. He swore in a twelve-man jury of solid citizens. It did not please me to see Simon Leyland of their number and I wondered whether we might expect some self-important intervention from him.
The coroner tried to conduct the proceedings in an almost icy calm but the atmosphere was hot with anger and speculation. The witnesses were called in order, starting with Doctor Drudgeon. We all repeated our recollections of Monday’s events and no one added anything new. There was one absentee; Ben Walling was present but there was no sign of his friend Bart. Kernish called the apprentice’s name twice and then asked if anyone knew his whereabouts. I noticed that Ben kept his head down and his mouth shut.
It was when Ben was giving his evidence that the almost inevitable question came from Leyland. ‘With respect, Master Kernish, might we have more information about the deceased calling out the name “Thomas”?’
The coroner looked quizzically at Ben. ‘Can you add anything to your testimony on that point?’ he asked.
The young man shook his head. ‘As I said, sir, Master Packington’s reply sounded like “Thomas” but I may have been mistaken. What followed was so sudden and unexpected that I could easily have got it wrong.’
‘Did it seem to you that the deceased was calling out to his friend, Master Treviot?’ Leyland demanded, in his whining voice.
Kernish frowned at the interruption. ‘I will question the witnesses,’ he snapped. ‘The jury’s task is simply to listen to the answers. If you wish elucidation on any matter you will ask me.’
Leyland put on an obsequious smile. ‘Of course, Master Kernish. I beg your pardon if I spoke out of turn. I simply wanted to be as clear as possible about the relationship between the deceased and Master Treviot. There is much talk of them being of the same religious party.’
‘That is nothing to the point’, Kernish replied. ‘You will oblige the court by keeping personal speculations to yourself.’
Leyland looked abashed by the reproof but he had done what he intended and I noticed the glances being cast in my direction by several members of the audience.
When all the witnesses had given their testimony, Kernish called upon the Chief Constable of Cheap Ward to say what progress had been made in tracing the killer. That official made a stilted, formal reply, grumbled about the shortage of manpower, hinted at ‘leads’ being followed. What it all amounted to was that he had not the slightest idea about the perpetrator of the crime and entertained little hope of discovering him. Kernish now summed up all that could be known about Robert’s death and virtually instructed the jury to declare a verdict of murder by person unknown.
At this point there was a sudden commotion at the back of the room.
‘We all know who did it!’ someone shouted. ‘The Dean of Paul’s and his popish crew!’
There was an immediate uproar. I turned in my seat and saw two of the constable’s men struggling with another, who continued to shout, ‘Send for the Dean of St Paul’s! Summon the bishop! Call for Canon John Incent! They know who killed Master Packington! Their gold paid for it!’ The protestor was still screaming his accusations as he was hustled out. I recognised him as the grocer who had spoken to me at the funeral.
When order had been restored Kernish resumed his address to the jury. After a brief consultation, they did as directed and reported that Robert Packington had been fatally shot by an assailant as yet unidentified. The coroner’s clerk entered the verdict in his records. Kernish explained that this verdict would be conveyed to the magistrates who would further pursue their enquiries.
As we all filtered out, I looked for Ben Walling and caught up with him beside the old walled orchard in Ironmonger Lane. ‘Where’s Bart?’ I asked. ‘Is he sick?’
‘Only in his head,’ the fair-haired young man replied, not slackening his pace.
‘What do you mean?’ I put out a hand to stop him and when he turned I saw the shadows beneath his eyes that betrayed a lack of sleep.
‘’Tis nothing,’ he muttered, and made to move on.
I gripped his arm. ‘Come and tell me this nothing over a jug of ale,’ I said and steered him towards an alleyway that led through into St Laurence’s Lane.
Minutes later we were seated in Blossoms Inn. I guessed that many days had passed since Ben had enjoyed a good meal so I ordered food as well as ale. When the maid had set before us a capon from the spit and slices of autumn-cured ham, together with wedges of maslin bread, I resumed my enquiry. ‘So what of Bart? Have you two fallen out?’
The apprentice spluttered something through a mouthful of meat and I had to ask him to repeat it.
‘Gone north,’ he said.
‘North?’
‘Aye, to join the rebels, or “pilgrims” as he calls them.’
‘But the rising is over,’ I protested. ‘The Duke of Norfolk has made a truce with the rebels at Doncaster and the Duke of Suffolk has pacified Lincolnshire. I have this on good authority from people at the royal court.’