“Release the corpse to the charge of the coroner, Master Pettigrew, and say that I will speak with him anon, but to do nothing precipitate until I have done so.”
He was about to turn when he caught sight of something in the corner of the room that puzzled him. In spite of the fire having damaged this area, he saw that the floorboards were smashed and that, where they had been torn away, a rectangular hole had been dug into the earth. He moved towards it.
“Is this the work of your men, Master Pettigrew?” he asked.
The warden of the fire watch shook his head.
“Not of my men.”
Master Drew sniffed sharply.
“Then someone has excavated this hole. But for what purpose?”
He bent down, peered into the hole and poked at it with the tip of his long dagger.
“The hole was already here and something buried, which was but recently dug up and removed and…” He frowned, moved his dagger again and then bent down into the hole, carefully, trying to avoid the soot. With a grunt of satisfaction he came up holding something between thumb and forefinger.
“A coin?” hazarded Master Pettigrew, leaning over his shoulder.
“Aye, a coin,” the constable confirmed, scraping away some of the soot with the point of the dagger.
“A groat?”
“No, this is a shilling, and an Irish shilling of Philip and Mary at that. See the harp under the crown on the face…and either side, under smaller crowns, the initials P and M? Now what would that be doing here?”
“Well, Bishop Gardiner was a Papist during the time of Mary and approved her marriage to the Spanish King Philip. It is logical that he might have lost the coin then.”
Master Drew looked down at the hole again. He knew better than to comment further. Instead, he slipped the coin into his pocket and moved towards the exit of the blackened building. Outside, groups of people were already gathering. He suspected that some of them had come to forage and pillage if there was anything worth salvaging.
“Where are you away to?” called Master Pettigrew.
“To proceed with my investigation,” he replied. “I’ll speak to the fruit merchant who first saw the conflagration.”
“He has the barrow at the corner of Clink Street, selling fruit and nosegays to those visiting the folk within the prison.”
The constable made no reply but he knew Tom Shadwell, the fruit seller, well enough and often passed the time of day with him as he made his way by the grim walls of the old prison.
“A body found, you say, good constable?” Tom Shadwell’s face paled when Master Drew told him of the gruesome find. “I saw only the flames and had no idea that anyone dwelt within the building. Had I known, I would have made an effort to save the poor soul. So far as I knew, it had been empty these many years.”
“You would have been too late anyway,” replied Master Drew. “It is murder that we are dealing with. Therefore, be cautious in your thoughts before you recite to me as much as you may remember.”
Tom Shadwell rubbed the bridge of his nose with a crooked forefinger.
“The first light was spreading when I came by the corner of Stony Street to make my way to my pitch. I was pushing my barrow as usual. It is not long after dawn that the prison door is opened and visitors are allowed to go in. I usually start my trade early. I was passing the old house when I saw the flames…”
He suddenly paused and frowned.
“You have thought of something, Master Shadwell?” prompted the constable.
“It is unrelated to the fire.”
“Let me decide that.”
“There was a coach standing in Stony Street, not far from the house. Two men were lifting a small wooden chest inside. It seemed heavy. Even as I passed the end of the street they had placed it in the coach, then one climbed in and the other scrambled to the box and took the reins. Away it went in a trice. I then crossed the end of the street towards the old house and that was when I heard the crackle of the fire and saw its flames through the window. I pushed my barrow to the end of the street, for I knew Master Pettigrew, warden of the fire watch, dwelt there. I was reluctant to leave my barrow – prey to thieves and wastrels – but there was no one about, so I ran along to his house and raised the alarm. That is all I know.”
“This coach, could you identify it?”
Shadwell shook his head.
“It was dark and the two men were clad in dark cloaks.”
“Well-dressed fellows, would you say?”
“Hard to say, Master Constable.”
“And which way did this coach proceed? Towards the bridge?”
Shadwell shook his head.
“In this direction, towards Clink Street or maybe along to Bankside, not towards the bridge.”
Having ascertained there was nothing more to be gathered from the fruit seller, Master Drew turned past the Clink Prison to the adjacent imposing ancient structure of Winchester Palace that dominated the area just west of the Bridgehead. Southwark was the largest town of the diocese of Winchester. In the days when Winchester was capital of the Saxon kingdom, before London reclaimed its Roman prominence, the Bishops of Winchester were all-powerful. Even after Winchester fell into decline as a capital, the bishops remained within court circles and therefore had to be frequently in London for royal and administrative purposes. So the grand Winchester Palace was built on the south bank of the Thames.
Master Drew explained his business to the gatekeeper of the palace and was shown directly to the office of Sir Gilbert Scrivener, secretary to His Grace, Thomas Bilson, Bishop of Winchester.
“The house on the corner of Stony Street? We have large estates in Southwark, Master Drew, as you know. But I do vaguely recall it. Unused since Bishop Gardiner’s decease.”
“You have no personal acquaintance with the house, then?”
“My dear constable,” replied Sir Gilbert, “I have more things to do with my time than personally to acquaint myself with all the properties controlled by the diocese. As for the burning of this building, and the murder of foreigners, it is not to be wondered that they and empty houses are treated in such manner – since it is so, it may be a blessing for it has long been His Grace’s wish to rebuild that crumbling edifice and set up on the site something more useful to the church and the community.”
“So you are acquainted with the house?” replied Master Drew sharply.
Sir Gilbert spread his hands with a thin smile.
“I said, not personally. But I am His Grace’s secretary. I fear you do but waste your time for do we not live in Southwark, and is it not said that these mean streets are better termed a foul den than a fair garden? Its reputation is best described as notorious. Bankside itself is a nest of prostitutes and thieves, of cut-throats and vagabonds.”
“And playhouses,” smiled Master Drew grimly. “Do not forget the playhouses, Sir Gilbert.”
The secretary sighed impatiently.
“I cannot spare you more time, Master Constable. I wish you a good morning and success with your endeavours.”
Outside the gates of Winchester Palace, Master Drew paused, frowning, one hand fingering the golden chain that reposed in his breeches pocket.
He sighed deeply. It was going to be a long walk to where he felt his next enquiry was going to take him. His allowance as Constable of the Bankside Watch would not stretch to what the justices of Southwark might deem the unnecessary expense of a wherryman to ferry him across the river. So, with a shrug, he set off for the entrance to the London Bridge. He was walking towards it when a voice hailed him.
“Give you a good day, Master Constable.”
He glanced up to see old Jepheson, the tanner, guiding his wagonload of hides towards the bridge. Master Drew knew him well for he had prevented the old man and his wife from being attacked and robbed one summer evening in their tannery in Bear Lane.
“Good day, Master Jepheson. Whither away?”