I turned to the letter with a sigh. It contained notes made by Singleton and letters to Cromwell about his progress with Mark Smeaton. They made it clear a coldly calculated plan had been set to trap the young musician with perjured evidence and kill him. Alleging the queen had bedded with someone of such humble origins would be particularly shocking to the public, Singleton said, so it was important to have him in the net. He referred to Smeaton mockingly as a silly creature, a lamb to be led to the slaughter. At Cromwell's house they had smashed his lute against the wall before his eyes and left him naked in a cellar all night, but it had taken torture to make him swear a false confession. I prayed he was safe in heaven.
There was a memorandum from Singleton about the boy's family. His mother was dead and there was only his father; no other male relatives at all. John Smeaton had an older sister out in the country somewhere, but there had been a quarrel and he had not seen her for years. Singleton told Cromwell the lack of relatives with connections would make it easier to deal with the boy as they liked, without questions raised.
I put the letter carefully back in its envelope. I recalled Singleton's funeral, the sight of the coffin lid shutting on his face, and I confess now I was glad. I called for the horse to be brought round; it was time to set out for Whitechapel. I was glad to get into my coat and step out of doors again, with a goal to follow. It released me from the whirling chaos in my mind.
CHAPTER 29
It was a long ride out to Whitechapel, well beyond London Wall; a fast-growing area, filled with the wattle- and-daub hovels of the poor. Thin smoke from a hundred fires rose into the still air. Here the bitter weather was more than just a serious inconvenience; looking at the pinched, hungry faces I reflected that for some here this would be one hardship too many. Such wells as they had must have frozen, for I saw many women carrying pails of water up from the river. I had changed into my clothes of cheapest cloth, for gentlemen were not always safe out here.
The street where Smeaton had had his forge was one of the better ones, housing several workshops. Singleton's papers said he had lived in a two-storey building next to a smithy and I found it readily enough. It was no longer a carpenter's; the shutter covering the shop-front had been nailed down and painted over. I tied the nag to a post and rapped on the flimsy wooden door.
It was opened by a poorly dressed young man with untidy black hair framing a pale, hollow-cheeked face. He asked what I wanted without much interest, but when I said I was a commissioner from Lord Cromwell's office he shrank away, shaking his head.
'We've done nothing, sir. There's nothing here to interest Lord Cromwell.'
'You are not accused of anything,' I said mildly. 'I have some enquiries, that is all. About the last owner of this place, John Smeaton. There will be a reward for those who help me.'
He still looked dubious, but invited me inside. 'Excuse my home, sir,' he muttered, 'but I've no work.'
In truth it was a sorry chamber he led me into. It had obviously been a workshop in the recent past, for it consisted only of one long, low room, the brick walls blackened with years of soot. A carpenter's bench now served as a table. It was cold; the fire consisted of a few stony coals that gave off as much smoke as heat. Apart from the bench there was no furniture save a few battered chairs and straw mattresses on the floors. Around the poor fire three thin children sat huddled together with their mother, who nursed a coughing baby in her lap. They all looked up at me with sullen, indifferent expressions. The room was dim, the only light coming from a small rear window now the old shopfront was nailed up. The place smelt strongly of smoke and urine, and the whole scene filled me with a chill sadness.
'Have you been here long?' I asked the man.
'Eighteen months, since the old owner died. The man who bought it lets us this room. There's another family in the living quarters upstairs. The landlord's Master Placid, sir, he lives in the Strand.'
'You know who the old owner's son was?'
'Yes, sir. Mark Smeaton, that lay with the great whore.'
'I presume Smeaton's heirs sold it to Master Placid. Do you know who they were?'
'The heir was an old woman. When we moved in there was a pile of Master Smeaton's belongings, some clothes and a silver cup and a sword-'
'A sword?'
'Yes, sir. They were in a pile over there.' He pointed to a corner. 'Master Placid's man told us John Smeaton's sister would be coming to collect them. We were not to touch them or we'd be out.'
'Nor did we, sir,' added the woman by the fire. Her child coughed harshly and she hugged it to her. 'Quiet, Fear-God.'
I fought to suppress my excitement. 'The old woman? Did she come?'
'Yes sir, a few weeks later. She was from the country somewhere, she seemed nervous in the city. Her lawyer brought her.'
'Do you remember her name,' I asked eagerly, 'or what part of the country she came from? Might it have been a place called Scarnsea?'
He shook his head. 'I'm sorry, sir, I only remember she was from the country somewhere. A little fat woman, past fifty, with grey hair. She only said a few words. They picked up the bundle and the sword and left.'
'Do you remember the lawyer's name?'
'No, sir. He helped her with the sword. I remember her saying she wished she had a son she could give it to.'
'Very well. I would like you to look at my sword – no, don't be alarmed, I'm only taking it out to show you – and tell me if this might be the one the woman took.' I laid it out on the bench. The man peered at it and his wife came over, still hugging the child.
'That looks like it,' she said. She eyed me narrowly. 'We did take it out of its scabbard, sir, but only to have a look, we didn't do anything with it. But I recognize that gold-coloured handle, and those marks on the hilt.'
'We said it was a fine piece,' the man added. 'Didn't we, Elizabeth?'
I sheathed the weapon. 'Thank you both, your information has been helpful. I am sorry your child is ill.' I reached out to touch the baby, but the woman raised her hand.
'Don't stroke her, sir, she's alive with nits. She won't stop coughing. It's the cold, we've lost one already. Quiet, Fear-God.'
'She has an unusual name.'
'Our vicar is strong for Reform, sir, he's named them all. He said it would help us in the world now, to have children with such names. Here, children, stand up.' The other three stood on rickety legs, revealing bloated wormy stomachs, and their father pointed to them in turn. 'Zealous, Perseverance, Duty.'
I nodded. 'They shall each have sixpence, and here are three shillings for your help.' I counted out the contents of my purse. The children grabbed the coins eagerly; the father and mother looked as if they could not believe their good fortune. Overcome with sudden emotion, I turned and left them quickly, mounted the horse and rode away.
The pitiful scene at the house haunted me, so it was a relief to turn my thoughts back to what I had discovered. It made no sense. The person who had inherited the sword, the only person with a family motive for vengeance, an old woman? There were no women over fifty at the monastery, apart from a couple of old serving women, tall thin old crones who did not answer the young man's description. The only person who did that I had encountered in my time at Scarnsea was Goodwife Stumpe. And no short old woman could have dealt that blow. But Singleton's papers had been definite there were no male relatives. I shook my head.
I realized that in my preoccupation I had let the horse wander and it was heading down towards the river. I did not feel like going home yet and let the nag take the lead. I sniffed the air. Was it my imagination, or was it, at last, getting warmer?
I passed an encampment on a snowy piece of waste ground, where a group of workless men had made a
