Jane Bitomsky

Chapter One

Thursday, 28 July 1586

Guildford, Surrey

6 am

Coroner John Derrick’s hands are clammy and his collar uncomfortably tight as he seats himself at the dining table. The morning had started so well. No infant cries or knocks at the door to wake him after an evening spent viewing the body of a servant boy trampled by his master’s horse. Honestly, what idiot decides that the witching hour, in torrential rain, is a good time to try riding a bilious steed? He had to have been in the cups.

The pleasant aroma of freshly baked manchet bread teased Derrick into waking. Donning his apparel, he ventured downstairs, following the scent like a fox to a henhouse. Only to set foot in the dining room and be confronted with the crossed arms and glare of his wife and mother-in-law. Even Rebecca, a babe of five months, was of sour disposition in her cradle by the wall, though that could be on account of flatulence, of which she’s a prolific producer. Never has he been so struck with the knowledge that he’s outnumbered in his own household. He ought to apply himself to the making of a son.

‘Forgive me, Mercy love, Mother.’

‘For what?’ Mercy Derrick lifts an imperious brow.

‘For whatever it is I’ve done.’ He holds his palms out.

‘You don’t know?’ Mercy’s tone is clipped.

A vein throbs in his temple. There’s food on the table, plentiful stores of firewood, his soiled boots are outside, his desk orderly. Derrick’s stomach grumbles. He hasn’t even had breakfast.

‘Sir John Sands,’ she says, as if that explains everything.

‘The gentleman from Shere whose inquest I conducted yesterday?’

‘Sir John was a dear acquaintance of our family.’ Madam Fuller’s voice is taut as a maiden’s drawers. ‘We had to hear about his murder from that gossipmonger, Madam Wandlesworth.’

‘I was ignorant of your acquaintance with him.’ Madam Fuller makes a “hmph” noise as she spreads raspberry preserve on a slice of warm bread, her movements unnecessarily forceful. In the weak morning light, crushed raspberries are reminiscent of blood.

Derrick directs his attention to his wife – generally the more reasonable of the pair.

‘I spoke nothing of the inquest as I didn’t want to frighten you that his killer, Markworth Spore, remains at large.’

His dagger certainly hit its mark in Sir John’s gut, dealing a lingering mortal wound. Terrible way to die. Mercy uncrosses her arms. Praise be. Madam Fuller bites into her bread, and chews loudly. Derrick’s eye tics.

When an opportune moment presents, he ought to inquire as to when his mother-in-law intends to vacate their home. It’s been months. Rebecca’s of fair health, Mercy’s flourishing as a mother. Surely, Edward Fuller is missing his wife? Well, perhaps not. The henpecked fellow might be enjoying the reprieve. He was of jovial countenance at the Red Lion the other eve.

‘What does this Mister Spore look like?’ Mercy asks.

‘He’s of Albury. Brown-haired, tan complexion, piercing blue eyes,’ a female neighbour in Albury remarked on them, ‘a roguish manner about him.’ Derrick elects not to mention the comments made about Spore’s brawny arms. The neighbour’s husband would be wise to keep a close watch on his wife.

A smart rap at the front door has the coroner excusing himself. The tightness to his tall frame eases as he leaves the dining room.

Sheriff Stoughton’s footman John Fleet is on the doorstep, his countenance sombre and hands folded behind his back. Just once, Derrick would like a visitor to have come for a spot of friendly conversation rather than business.

‘Where am I to be called then?’ He scrutinises Fleet, trying to glean some clue as to who’s died and what manner of death befell them. The footman’s shoulders have filled out this past year, and his complexion’s cleared. He even has the sporadic beginnings of chin hair.

‘The Angel, sir.’ It’s in easy walking distance at least. Derrick glances back towards the dining room, which is unsettlingly quiet. Might be good to stretch his legs, and get out of the house. He can eat on the way.

‘Man or woman?’

‘A woman, sir.’ Melancholy settles like a sheet over Fleet’s features. ‘Young.’

‘Ah.’ While there’s no such thing as a happy death, there are some that provoke more sadness than others. Derrick wagers this will be the case at the Angel.

‘Natural causes?’

‘Innkeeper thinks not.’ Fleet rubs his nose with the back of his hand. ‘A lodger’s been charged with her death. They’ve contained him at the inn, but the man’s claiming innocence.’

‘I’ll fetch my satchel and be along shortly.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The women are watching the doorway when Derrick returns. Rebecca’s moved from her crib to Mercy’s arms. A wave of affection washes over him at the sight, replaced abruptly by a wave of something else when his wife exposes her swollen breast to nurse. He licks his lips. It’s been days since he’s had the pleasure of putting his mouth to them. Infants have a peculiar knack for knowing when their father desires to enter their mother’s customhouse, and prove effective obstacles.

‘I must away to the Angel. The inn, that is. There’s been a death.’

‘You haven’t had breakfast.’ Mercy frowns. He picks up a plump apricot and tosses it between his hands, barely managing to catch it. She shakes her head at him. ‘That’s not enough.’ Mercy butters a piece of bread with the hand not supporting Rebecca.

‘Bring some pie back,’ Madam Fuller commands. ‘Blackberry, if they have it.’ Could she not make a pie herself? It’s not as if she’s overtaxed.

Their maidservant, Alice, sees to the upkeep of the house, and a kitchen maid has been cooking the household’s meals since the latter months of Mercy’s pregnancy. The meals are palatable, but Derrick must confess he does miss his wife’s cooking. Particularly the wiggs she used to make for him to take on inquests. Now his satchel smells of leather and ink, and occasionally death, if he neglects to clean his gloves. Mercy saw to their cleaning before Rebecca was born. He misses a lot of things about his wife.

‘The last of the strawberry tart disappeared during the night,’ Madam Fuller says.

‘I hope we don’t have mice or rats.’ Mercy gnaws on her lip.

‘Just one rat,’ Madam Fuller meets Derrick’s gaze, ‘of middling size.’ More than middling in some areas.

‘I shall see what provisions are on offer. They may be doing a bustling trade.’ All of Guildford’s busybodies have likely been struck with a need for refreshment on this fine, summer’s day.

Derrick steps outside his front door, a half-eaten piece of buttered bread in hand. He lingers in a patch of sun on his doorstep, inhaling the fresh air and appreciating the moment of peace. A black velvet cloak is draped over his shoulders, with a matching black hat atop his sandy hair. Hanging on a strap across his body is a brown leather satchel containing the necessary paraphernalia for a coroner.

There’s no hint on the street that a murder has been committed a mere quarter mile away. Townspeople are walking about with purpose, on an errand or to call on a neighbour. Derrick tips his head to the Johnson’s maidservant, who’s picking anemones in the garden next door. He tears off a chunk of bread and pops it in his mouth as two young boys race past, chasing a ball rolling down the chalk hill that comprises South Ditch. Nostalgia for his own childhood hits him.

A glob of butter drops off the bread and onto Derrick’s brocade doublet in his distraction. He hastily wipes it off, leaving behind a small grease stain on the middle of his chest. Expelling a puff of air, he trudges out onto the street. It’s not shaping up to be a good day.

The chipping of stone sounds from Guildford Castle at the top of the hill, as it has for weeks. Its keeper, the Daborne family, have got it into their heads that adding brick windows to the walls and two chimneys will persuade Queen Bess to visit. Not that there’s been a royal in residence for centuries, as evidenced by the castle’s general disrepair.

Derrick prays the Dabornes don’t learn of Lord Carril’s plans to dig a moat around the manor of East Bramley. The Wey River’s not exactly on the castle keep’s doorstep. Think of how many buckets of water would need to be conveyed.

The coroner goes right, towards the town centre. Noises can be heard from inside the few houses he passes, the occupants preparing for the day.

The chalk road ends on the cobbles of High Street. Derrick comes to a stop, taking in the white-painted, timber-framed façade of the Angel Coaching House and Inn on the other side of the street. The angel statue affixed to the metal cross on the exterior is poignant. Hopefully the deceased young woman inside those white walls was delivered into heaven’s embrace.

Two palfrey horses clip clop out of the Angel’s livery stables and make their way down the street, each bearing a trimly dressed man with a portmanteau attached to the back of his saddle. Travelling to Portsmouth, presumably. Derrick crosses the cobbles to the Angel’s dark timber door, which is open in invitation.

Sounds of conversation, the scrape of chairs on floorboards and clunk of crockery carry from the dining hall to the entryway. Derrick takes off his hat, but refrains from adding it to the mildly concerning number of hats on the rack by the entry. Is this a millinery or an inn? He goes through the dim vestibule towards the noise.

While the Angel boasts twelve rooms upstairs, the tables on the ground floor contain twice as many bodies. There’ll be no difficulty empanelling a jury of men, should the inquest require it.

The proprietor, George Tippleton, exudes a satisfied air as he fills a flagon from the cask barrel behind the bar. Were the alleged culprit not apprehended, one would wonder whether the innkeeper had a hand in the death, as a ploy to drum up business. It’s unlikely that the other four coaching houses in town are seeing such traffic.

Madam Rosie “Rolling Pin” Tippleton comes out of the corridor by the bar with the ferocity of a wave crashing onto shore, her popinjay blue skirts swishing angrily and a crimson-stained rolling pin pointed accusatorily at the innkeeper. Can any husband do right by his wife today? It seems George has neglected to cut enough firewood to keep the oven burning till dusk. Derrick puffs out his chest. He cut a basketful of wood last eve.

‘Good day, Madam Tippleton.’

‘It assuredly is not, Coroner Derrick.’ Rosie crosses her plump arms, rolling pin still held aloft as her husband scuttles down the corridor from whence she came. Derrick endeavours not to let his gaze drop to her ample bosom, which her arms are also holding aloft. He focuses on the smear of pastry on Rosie’s flushed cheeks. She must be busy this morning, cooking enough bread, pottage, bacon and pies to fill the inn’s tables.

‘Indeed.’ He clears his throat. ‘Have you been making raspberry pie, Madam?’

‘Why would I make raspberry pie when the gooseberry bush is bountiful?’ Her tone is as tart as the fruit.

‘Of course. Have you made meat pie as well?’

‘It’ll be Mary’s head pie, lamb brains and mushroom, and a stir of the loins pie, bull’s pizzle and pepper, for dinner.’ Derrick makes a note to procure a slice of stir of the loins pie for Mercy. His carnal overtures might be better received. ‘But I haven’t made either. Too occupied feeding this lot.’ She jabs her thumb at the full room, which is less noisy than one would expect. Derrick wagers more than a few ears are listening to their conversation.

‘May I ask then what the crimson stain is on your rolling pin?’ Rosie inspects the smooth wood with a frown.

‘Oh, bother.’ She huffs. ‘He got blood on it.’ Derrick takes a discreet step back.

‘I thought the deceased was female?’ Several sizeable fellows are in the vicinity should the situation call for intervention. There’s a reason “Rolling Pin” was added to Rosie’s moniker, and it isn’t to do with her making of pies. She’s waded into no shortage of brawls at the Angel with it and come out the victor.

‘She is, her assailant isn’t. He tried to make a run for it.’ Rosie presses her lips together in a grim line. ‘Got a broken nose for his troubles.’ Derrick winces as he pictures the alewife in action. He can almost hear the crunch of bone.

‘Hardy wood that.’ He motions to the rolling pin.

‘Lignum vitae.’ Derrick’s brow rises. The wood of life. No wonder it’s so sturdy. He should see to the acquisition of such a utensil for Mercy. It could rekindle her inclination for cookery. ‘No better-quality is there.’ Rosie’s tone is admiring. ‘Hardly a mark to be seen after eight years use.’

‘I hope it cleans up as well as it hits.’

‘Warm water and vinegar and it’ll be good as new. Now, I suppose you’re wanting to see the body, Coroner?’ The tables behind Derrick are quiet.

‘Aye, Madam.’ Rosie dips her fingers into the edging of her bodice and gropes around her bosom. Derrick looks away, blinking rapidly, thankful that Mercy isn’t here to witness his momentary ogling. He’s not sure whose wrath would be greater, his wife’s or the alewife’s. What is it about red-haired women?

‘Here.’ Removing a brass key on a loop of twine from her bodice, Rosie holds it out in offering. ‘The key to room six. It’s locked. Didn’t want any riffraff taking a peek at the poor lass.’ She sweeps the room with a pointed stare, prompting several patrons to wisely lower their eyes. The brass is warm in Derrick’s palm. He tries not to think about why. ‘You can see yourself upstairs.’

‘Ah, Miss Jessica,’ Rosie addresses a young maid over Derrick’s shoulder, ‘bout time you arrived. These tables need their drinks replenished.’ The maid brushes down her apron and goes as quick as a wink to the bar. Rosie follows her, instructing Jessica to assist in the kitchen when the Angel’s loitersack of an innkeeper returns. Then, without further ado, she disappears down the corridor by the bar.

Derrick shifts his feet. Seems he’s been dismissed. Closing his fist around the key, he sets his shoulders back and makes his way around the tables to the staircase at the rear. Murmurs of God be with you, sir follow him.

He pauses at the foot of the plain timber staircase, and then begins to climb. The traffic the inn sees has caused a perceptible dip to form in the middle of each step. Normally a witness or kin of the deceased would escort him to the body, confiding titbits about the victim along the way, and he finds himself unsettled by the absence of company.

Turning right into a narrow corridor, the space upstairs reserved for the inn’s rooms, Derrick comes to a stop outside a dark door with the Roman numeral for six affixed to its frame, along with a small, engraved image of an angel.

No sound nor odour emanates from the room, unlike room three, whose occupants are awake and engaging in a bout of vigorous bedsport. Taking a breath, readying himself, he inserts the key in the lock, which turns with a metallic click. The door to room number six opens with a yawning creak. His eyes widen when he sees what’s inside.

‘God’s blood.’

Chapter Two: A Week Prior

Thursday, 21 July 1586

Angel Inn, Guildford

1 pm

The Angel has a different ambience in summer. The hearth is unlit, and the windows unlatched, admitting yellow sunshine and warm, earthy air. It’s the middle of dinner service and half the dining hall benches are occupied, mostly by men. A mixture of labourers and travellers needing a spot to rest their legs or horses, and food to fill their aching bellies. And drinks to wet their lips, of course. The selling of knock-me-down ale and sack is one of the Angel’s principal sources of revenue.

Resting her elbows against the front of the bar, Rosie Tippleton surveys the inn’s tables like a queen inspecting her subjects. She feels most handsome today in her lion’s colour bodice and skirts, which has garnered more than a few compliments. None from her husband, naturally. The coin in the coffers and contents of the cellar are all that seem to capture his interest. Men are such dull creatures.

Though there is an itinerant sailor of late who has piqued Rosie’s interest. Purely for aesthetic reasons. He reminds her of a marble statue with his chiselled face, not to mention the well-muscled, sun-browned arms earned from his vocation. Hopefully he’ll pay the Angel a visit this eve, and partake of the hospitality of a room for a moment. Or more. Rosie quashes a wistful sigh.

She abandons her scrutiny of a group of jolly labourers, whose cups will require refreshing shortly, to track a sparrow that has flown inside. The bird flits between the ceiling rafters, learning the lay of the dining hall, then swoops down to land on a windowsill where a metal birdcage sits, its door ajar. The sparrow hops into the cage, and pecks at the crumbs scattered upon its floor. The corner of Rosie’s mouth upturns. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

On light feet, she makes her way to the sill and closes the birdcage door with a clang. Tipping the cage, unbalancing the sparrow, she quickly opens the door and reaches inside, grabbing the bird around the middle. A practised twist and yank of its wee neck, and the sparrow stills without a trill.