Jane Bitomsky

Chapter One

Monday, 29 April 1585

Guildford, Surrey

6 am

Madam Mercy Derrick has a most intoxicating scent. An olfactory panacea to all my woes. Camomile, marjoram and some intangible ingredient that is uniquely her. I know no better way of waking up than in the embrace of one’s wife. Particularly if I can persuade Mercy into certain activities before rising. Running my nose over the freckled flesh of her graceful neck elicits a girlish giggle, Mercy’s pleasantly plump body shifting as she pulls my face up to meet hers. Success.

A knocking at the front door has me stilling. Praise God I had the foresight to lock it. A reedy voice comes through the door.

‘Master Derrick? Are you in?’

‘Come back in an hour,’ I call.

‘Beg pardon, sir,’ the voice continues, ‘a dead body’s been discovered out by Bramley Mill.’ My heart sinks. ‘You’re needed, sir.’ Damn whosever to hell for having the indecency to die at such an early hour! I give Mercy an apologetic look.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

The road to Bramley is quiet. No market or Sunday service to draw folk into town. Old Faithful’s breath makes little white clouds as she trots, the sun’s weak rays filtering through the trees behind us. I clench my fists in the leather gloves Mercy gifted me at Christmas, trying to quell the cold numbness in my fingers.

In the outskirts of Bramley, villagers are huddled outside their houses, heads bent in conversation, exchanging the morning’s news. I touch my hat to them as I pass by, hearing whispers of coroner, John Derrick and Guildford. Straightening my spine, I hold my head higher. Never would I have imagined a trade in death to inspire awe in others. It certainly proved a boon when I courted Mercy. Rather than shy away from the gruesome details, like weaker members of her sex, she took a peculiar delight in discussing inquests. Of course, such stimulating conversations often led to other equally stimulating pursuits. A rare creature is my darling wife.

As the cluster of houses thickens, the faded brick façade of Bramley Mill comes into view. A short, portly fellow stands with his arms crossed outside of it.

‘Off with you lot!’ He rebuffs a group of lads approaching the mill with a wave, his countenance stern. The lads grudgingly turn around, craning their necks as they go, searching for a glimpse of the deceased. Then the fellow sets his gaze on me, looking me up and down, taking my measure.

‘Good morrow, sir,’ he says, his tone more cordial. ‘You must be the coroner.’

‘John Derrick at your service.’ Swinging my leg over Old Faithful, I flick my cape behind me and dismount. One fall to the ground on account of a cape was enough to ensure such humiliation is never repeated.

‘Arthur Stiffe, I’m the miller’s son. My father discovered the body.’

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance. Has anyone been reported missing?’

‘Not yet, though it’s still early.’

‘And the body hasn’t been moved?’ I tie Old Faithful’s halter to a fence post.

‘No, it’s still in the water.’ He gestures for me to follow him down a path by the side of the mill, towards the sound of people conversing. I adjust the satchel over my shoulder, praying I haven’t forgotten anything at home.

‘Surely, then, this is simply a case of drowning?’ What luck. Well, perhaps not for the dead person. I might be returning to Mercy’s side, and bed, sooner than expected.

‘The thing of it is, sir,’ Mr Stiffe grimaces, ‘he’s naked.’

‘The corpse is male then?’

‘That or a very unseemly woman.’ Mr Stiffe gives himself a shake, presumably picturing the corpse in his head. ‘It’s floating face down.’

A baker’s dozen of men are gathered around a crackling fire at the back of the mill, sharing flagons of ale and conversing cheerily. The older men are sitting on stools, the others have dragged over fallen logs to sit on. All they are missing is a table. I cast my eyes over the Wey tributary behind them, seeing only ducks and a pair of swans with their cygnets.

‘Good morrow, John,’ Father Abbott calls from a log. ‘Drink?’ he proffers a flagon.

‘Good morrow, Father. I best not partake until this matter is resolved.’

‘Aye,’ the rector’s expression turns sombre, ‘a terrible business.’ His gaze moves to the mill’s waterwheel, beside which a body is floating. Ah.

The wheel’s paddles knock against the corpse as I approach, pushing it to the water’s edge. Body’s male, based on the torso, fair-skinned and naked. There are no visible injuries. Boot impressions cover almost every spot of the surrounding dirt and the grass is flattened in parts, likely on account of the men assembled. It is conceivable the man might have fallen in and struck his head, rendering him unconscious in the shallow water, wherein he drowned, but then where are his clothes? The area around the tributary will need to be searched.

I return to the group and claim a seat on the end of a log, extracting my notebook and writing box from the satchel. Arranging everything to my satisfaction, I balance the inkpot carefully on the log and clear my throat, drawing everyone’s attention.

‘Who among you is the miller?’

One of the older men on a stool raises his hand. ‘That would be me, sir.’ He hiccups. ‘Edward Stiffe, Bramley’s miller.’ The miller bears a marked resemblance to his son. His face is round and ruddy, with red spiderwebs of burst blood vessels across his cheeks, and his belly of even greater girth.

‘About what time did you discover the body?’ I dip the quill’s nib in the inkpot.

‘Was dark. Bloody thrushes were singin’ in the trees. Must ha’ been earlier than five o’clock.’ I write down four o’clock in the morning.

‘Did you touch or move the body?’

‘Of course I did.’ He looks at me as if I’m dim-witted. ‘It was bloody stuck under the waterwheel, wasn’ it?’

‘Stuck under the waterwheel?’

‘Aye, the wheel wasn’ workin’ so I came out to investigate. Jumped in the freezin’ water I did, grabbed onto what I thought was a log caught between the paddles, gave a great heave, and up ’ere popped a dead body. Gave me quite a fright, aye.’ The miller shudders in memory. He accepts the flagon from the man beside him and takes a healthy guzzle.

‘Did you notice anything unusual or out of the ordinary?’

‘Other than the dead naked man?’ Mr Stiffe shakes his head, jowls flapping with the motion, and has another drink.

‘Right,’ I set my notebook down on the log, rolling up my sleeves, ‘let’s get the body out of the water and see who it is.’ The men perk up with interest. Surveying the group, I point to one of the younger, more robust men.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Joseph Fitzwilliam, sir.’

‘And you, what’s yours?’

‘Richard Puttenham, sir.’

‘Fitzwilliam, Puttenham, roll up your sleeves, I require your assistance.’ The two men share a wary glance as they get to their feet, and follow me cautiously to the waterwheel.

‘I need you to raise the body very carefully out of the water,’ I look at them seriously, ‘taking care not to knock it against anything.’ Fitzwilliam swallows audibly.

‘Are you sure we won’t catch anything from touching a dead body, sir?’ Fitzwilliam eyes the corpse anxiously. I press my lips together, endeavouring to keep my expression bland. It never fails to be amusing when a sturdy fellow is faint of heart in the face of death.

‘It won’t bite, Fitzwilliam. Now grab his arm. Puttenham, his leg.’ They stoop down, flinching when their hands meet the icy water, and grasp hold of cold, dead flesh. ‘One, two, heave.’

With a grunt, they partly lift, partly drag the body from the water, dropping it none too gently onto the grass. I wince at the dull thud. A ripple goes through the corpse’s flesh before it lies unnaturally still. Thankfully nothing foul is expelled from any orifices.

‘Fitzwilliam, Puttenham, do you recognise this man?’ They look down at the body, then at each other, brows raised.

‘No, sir,’ they say together.

‘And why is that?’

‘I’m no coroner, sir,’ Puttenham musters up a smirk, ‘I cannot tell a man’s identity from his buttocks.’

‘Precisely.’ I give them a patient look, waiting. They stare at me blankly. ‘Well, turn him over so we might see his face.’ Idiots! There’s some snickering behind us. Puttenham’s cheeks redden.

The two men drop to their knees, heaving the body over.

‘Zounds.’ Fitzwilliam makes a retching noise and scuttles backwards, emptying his stomach into a nearby bush. Puttenham stands shakily, taking several decisive steps away from the body, his face pale but stomach evidently of stronger constitution.

Minor abrasions are littered about the corpse’s face, probably from being scraped on the ground beneath the wheel, but it is a far more shocking wound that snares my gaze. It is a wound I have never seen before. A bloody gaping hole right where his yard ought to be. I adjust my trousers, discomfited, and observe Puttenham put a hand protectively over the front of his.

There’s the sound of boots approaching, then a sharp inhale.

‘Where in God’s name is his manhood?’ the younger Mr Stiffe exclaims in horror. The rest of the men get to their feet, murmuring amongst themselves. I glance back at the waterwheel.

The younger Mr Stiffe holds the waterwheel immobile as Puttenham and I search the three-foot-deep water. A flash of movement captures my attention. An eel is coiled around one of the paddles under the water, a large one. I picture its sharp needle-like teeth tearing into our victim’s flesh. God’s bloody bones.

‘We’re going to need to catch that.’ I point into the water. My companions are silent. A silence that echoes.

Chapter Two: One Week Earlier

Monday, 22 April 1585

Evans household, Bramley

10 am

‘He’s here,’ Lizzie says suddenly, looking out the window to the garden. I go to stand beside her, watching a man in a brown hat dismount his horse and greet our master with a boisterous embrace.

‘I’ll go tell Mistress.’ She’ll be pleased. She might even get out of bed. I rinse the smell of onions from my fingers and dry my hands on my apron.

A rush of cold air hits me when I open the kitchen door. Stepping out into the dim corridor, I go quickly to the dining room, where the hearth fire has dwindled. Taking out two thick logs from the tinder basket, I position them atop the glowing embers, moving back hastily as the fire briefly flares. Flakes of hot ash dancing in the air.

The flame rekindled, I make my way to the stairwell and climb the steep staircase to the first floor. Fresh clumps of dirt are scattered on the stairs. Master Evans must have ventured inside and forgotten to take off his boots at the door. Again.

Coming to a stop outside the only closed door along the first-floor corridor, I take a breath, preparing myself. Then rap sharply, hearing a weak, ‘come in.’ It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark of the master bedchamber. The curtains are closed, keeping out the sun, making night seem unending. There’s a stale, stuffy smell to the room, and I can detect the distinctive odour of urine. It is in desperate need of airing. Mistress is in bed, coverlet raised to her chin, her pale puffy face ghost-like in the dark. I move to stand at the foot of the bed, wary of venturing closer. Unsure am I whether melancholy is contagious.

I clear my throat, the sound inordinately loud in the silence.

‘Master Evans’s cousin has arrived,’ I say, putting on false cheer. Mistress continues to stare miserably up at the ceiling, then abruptly sits up, like a corpse come to life. I cannot suppress my flinch.

‘He’s here?’ Mistress pats her hair, grimacing at the limp matted strands. She sniffs her nightdress, making a face.

‘Fetch my apparel, Rebecca. Not black.’ Her voice hitches. ‘The popinjay green dress, that was Juliet’s favourite colour.’

‘Yes, Mistress.’ I go to the wardrobe, removing a clean smock, the popinjay green bodice and skirt, and stockings.

The bed is empty when I turn around, clothing draped over my arm. A yellowed nightdress lies discarded on the floorboards. Swallowing, I reluctantly look towards the sound of movement. The sight of Mistress brushing her hair naked by the dresser, arms wobbling with each brush stroke, is one I could have foregone. Her expanse of pale, lumpy flesh reminds me of unrisen bread dough. I wonder if Master Evans takes pleasure in the kneading of it. Their lack of progeny suggests he’s spent more time tilling his own fields rather than hers.

Steeling myself, I go to assist Mistress into her apparel. It is remarkable how a bodice elevates one’s breasts. I fervently hope mine weather the years better, and keep above my navel.

I strip the bed after Mistress leaves, wrinkling my nose at the sour smell of sweat embedded in the linen. It best be soaked for longer than usual. Gathering the sheets and coverlet into a bundle, I tuck them under my arm, then I stoop down and reach gingerly under the bed, pulling out the chamber pot. Ugh. Would that asparagus were not in season.

A pleasant savoury aroma permeates the corridor outside the kitchen. I’m surprised my nostrils are still capable of smell. The steamy fragrance of bacon frying rushes out when I push through the door. Lizzie looks up from the stove, her cheeks flushed. I give her my best glare as I make my way to the wash tub.

‘What’s that look for?’ She seems more amused than anything.

‘The next time Mistress succumbs to melancholy,’ I submerge my hands in the cold water, vigorously scrubbing them with lye soap, ‘you’re responsible for cleaning up after her.’ Lizzie laughs.

‘I can’t imagine it will happen again. She has no more sisters to lose.’

‘No, but she has a husband, nieces, nephews.’ Lizzie looks contemplative.

‘Maybe she’ll die before them. You’ve seen how she eats. Master Evans is lucky to have anything left to sell at market.’ Taking the bacon off heat, Lizzie scrapes it onto a plate, patting away the excess grease with a cloth. Delicately picking up a small rasher between her fingers, she blows on it and takes a bite, making an approving noise. Ambling over to the wash tub, she offers me the rest with an impish smile. I eat it out of her hand. It’s perfectly crispy. Licking the salty grease from my lips, I gaze wistfully at the rest of the bacon. It's unlikely there will be any leftover for Lizzie and me.

Dinner is carried to the dining room. As I cut up this morning’s bread on the board at the table, I inhale the scent of cooked flour, and think of my mother. And those mornings we spent together in the kitchen baking. She would let me eat the bread fresh out of the oven, breaking hot chunks off for me. It practically melted in my mouth. Soft, moist and yeasty. I touch the silver chain hidden under my smock, taking comfort in the memory of it on my mother’s neck.

The table set, we return to the kitchen. Lizzie and I position ourselves by the window with our cups of ale, and watch the Evanses and their cousin come through the garden. Mistress leads the way. The men look to be engaged in serious conversation.

‘What do you think?’ Lizzie nods at my cup.

‘It’s good. Fruity. We should infuse it with bramble leaves again.’ There’s a clamour outside as the group stamp their feet by the front door, dislodging grass and mud from their soles. Mistress gestures sternly at our master, who grudgingly removes his boots and dons the cleaner pair she thrusts at him.

‘Wash up before dinner.’ Mistress’s prim voice carries to the kitchen. ‘You’re more dirt than skin.’ There’s some nonsensical grumbling from her husband. No doubt about henpecking women. Even when washed, Master Evans’s hands have a grimy look about them, as if dirt is ingrained in his skin after so many years of digging in it. The hairiness of his hands probably doesn’t help.

I crack open the kitchen door so that we might listen in on conversation as they eat. There’s a squeaking noise of chairs being pulled back across the flagstone, followed by a perfunctory grace, then a cacophony of thuds and clinks as the Evanses avail themselves of dinner. Master Evans is first to speak, asking his cousin if he can recall where to sow each vegetable. ‘Root vegetables in the eastern field,’ a man’s voice says, ‘leafy vegetables in the western field. The seeds planted in rows about one foot apart.’

‘And how deep do you plant the seeds?’ I picture Master Evans crossing his arms, bushy eyebrows raised, surveying his cousin sceptically.

‘Carrots and parsnips one quarter inch deep, turnips half an inch, leafy greens one inch.’ The weighted silence can be felt from the kitchen.

‘What of beetroot?’

‘Um. One inch?’ Lizzie and I lean in, listening intently. This is the most excitement we’ve had in days. Easter Sunday was uncommonly subdued. The return of meat to the table is ordinarily a cause of great rejoicing.

‘Correct,’ Master Evans says eventually, tone gruff, as if he wanted his cousin to be wrong. I imagine it is difficult to let another take over his work. In the year I’ve served here, I cannot recall our master being gone from the property longer than a few hours. I suspect nothing short of death could have dragged him away.