Authors: Margaret Frazer
A Play of Heresy (23 page)
Whichever way it went, it was an ugly way to die, and by the look of it there had been no merciful shortening of it for Ned Eme.
Master Waldeve had got his mouth closed and joined Burbage in saying prayers for mercy half under their breaths. Joliffe was so choked with sickened anger at the evil of such killing he could do no more than silently cross himself. The crowner, firmly holding to business, said, “So your verdict, one and all, is that Edward Eme’s death was not self-murder?”
Master Waldeve and Burbage broke off praying to join Joliffe in a ragged agreement of, “No,” with Burbage adding fiercely, “Not by any means could this be self-murder.”
“So let it be written down,” Master Grevile said formally. As his clerk’s pen scratched the words, he nodded to his waiting servant. The man came forward to draw the shroud over the body while Master Grevile told him, “Take word next to Master Fylongley and Master Purefey that they’re wanted here. Do not say fully why. I’ll tell them myself. I think it best we let the world still think this was self-murder for the while. Say nothing otherwise to anyone. Understand?”
The man bowed that he did and left while Master Waldeve was asking, “Are we done here?” He gestured at Burbage and himself. “We’ve work that’s waiting for us. My forge. His shop.”
“Fylongley and Purefey will be here shortly. There’s no point to you going, just to be called back again before you’ve hardly turned around,” Master Grevile said. “But we don’t have to wait for them here. Upstairs will suit better.”
They went, greatly willing to be out of the cellar and away from Ned Eme’s body.
The parlor one storey up from the street had been readied for them, with drink and bowls set out on a table and three stools beside it. There was likewise a Franciscan friar there, seated on a bench beside the fireless hearth, telling over the beads of the rosary hung from his belt. He stood up as the men came in, his look questioning to Master Grevile who said, “Thank you for waiting, Brother. We’re done for now. You’re free to go pray over him.”
The friar bowed his thanks in return and made to leave, only paused by the crowner’s hand on his arm as he passed for Master Grevile to say something quietly in his ear. The friar gave him a startled look, crossed himself, and said, “The Virgin be praised for her mercy.”
“But keep it to yourself, I pray you, until we choose to give the word out generally. For this while, the bailiffs will want it kept quiet.”
“As you say, sir,” the friar said and left.
“Ned’s family,” Burbage said. “They’re beyond doubt in misery over this. They have to be thinking he’s damned. His body won’t even be let into a church while it’s thought he did away with himself.”
“They’ll have a longer misery if his murderer is never found,” Master Grevile returned. “They’ll know soon enough it was murder. Just not yet.”
He filled the waiting bowls himself and bade them sit. They did and so did he and so did his clerk who shortly joined them, although his place was out of the way in a corner where a small table would serve him for desk if need be. To fill the time Master Grevile asked about the plays, particularly drawing Joliffe out with questions. That was sharp of him, Joliffe thought. Burbage and Master Waldeve were of Coventry; there would be no trouble learning their reputations if the crowner did not already know them. Joliffe was the one from outside who had to be found out about, his part in all of this needing to be better understood. As if he did not know what the crowner was doing, he answered easily and readily about Basset’s company and the play he was in and the ones he had helped with and more about Basset’s company, making certain the crowner understood they had Lord Lovell for their patron. The questions and answers filled the time sufficiently until the servant who had been sent for the bailiffs appeared in the doorway, said, “I’ve brought Master Fylongley,” and stepped aside to make way for the bailiff who had come to the yard last night.
Another man plainly a clerk, writing materials in hand, came in after him, going aside to the table where Master Grevile’s clerk was willingly clearing out of his way, while Master Fylongley gave a sharp-eyed look around at all their faces, saying to Master Grevile as he did, “Master Purefey is gone to handle a fight near Spon Gate. He’ll come when he can. Meantime, what’s toward here? It wasn’t simple self-murder, I take it?”
Master Grevile had brought another bowl to the table from a shelf along one wall and was filling it as he answered, “No. We’re all agreed on that. Do you want to read what we have before going further?” He nodded at his clerk, who held up the several pages of parchment on which he had been writing this while.
“Surely.” Taking the bowl and the parchment, the bailiff sat on the bench beside the hearth to read and drink. He made quick work of both, set the bowl aside, and still holding the parchment, looked at the three jurors. “Master Waldeve I know. You must be Master Burbage then, because you”—with a forward jerk of his head at Joliffe—“don’t look like a townsman and must be the player.”
“I am, sir,” Joliffe granted respectfully. Bassett had always lessoned the players that it was better to start with respect when having to deal with anyone holding authority over them, it being easier to leave off respect if it was not warranted than crawl up out of a hole dug for oneself by ill-judged disrespect.
Maybe because the Corpus Christi plays were presently so much to the fore in Coventry, Master Fylongley gave no sign of the too-often scorn and suspicion given to players, merely nodded acceptance and turned his heed back to the matter at hand, saying, “Now. Master Waldeve, how did you happen to be there to find the body?”
“We were purposing to move the wagon into the yard today. One of the men was saying there was wear on an axle should be looked at afore we did. Guildmaster told me off to do it. To have look at it, see if it needed seeing to this year or could wait.” He startled. “I haven’t done it yet.”
“So you went into the shed and saw—” the bailiff prompted.
“Him hanging there. I could tell he was dead. You can’t mistake when they look like that.”
“That was why you didn’t try to bring him down?”
“Aye. I knew, too, someone else should see him. That I had to get help and someone to go for the crowner.”
“Why did you go for Master Burbage?”
“He’s a girdler. They have their pageant in the same yard, so we cross ways there every once in a while. He’s someone I know, and I knew he was just along the way at the weavers’ place, doing their play. I wanted someone as soon as might be, without I left the place too long. Didn’t want to chance anyone else coming in, like.”
“The rope. Is it the one that would have been used to hang Judas this year?”
“Yes. I mean, I suppose so,” Master Waldeve said miserably.
“You’ll need a new one now,” Master Burbage muttered.
Master Waldeve sent him an ungrateful look but finished, “I mean, rope is rope. It would be hard to tell one from another if they’re the same kind, but ours isn’t in the box anymore. The rope we use. So I’m supposing it’s the same. I looked this morning before I came.”
“That was well thought to do,” Master Fylongley said. “By what you say, though, the rope should have still been in its box, was not already hanging in place.”
“It’s kept with other things needful to the play, stored the rest of the year in someone or other’s loft. The box and all was shifted to the pageant house a few days ago.”
“Do you store it knotted or not?” Joliffe asked.
“Knotted. That way there’s never bother about the loop’s size. It’s always right for going over Judas’ head with slack enough to catch in the harness.” Master Waldeve turned his explanation to the bailiff and crowner. “There’s a harness used under Judas’ doublet, so when he swings, he doesn’t really hang.” He went on, explaining about the harness and the demons and how it was all done safely.
“Understood,” Master Fylongley said, stopping his assurances. He looked from one man to another. They all looked back at him. After a silent moment he said, “So the rope was in the shed with other things for the play, but it was not up yet. You found Eme hanging there and went for Master Burbage because he was close and had place in the same yard. He came because he knows you.” The bailiff shifted his look to straight at Joliffe. “And you came—because?”
Joliffe felt like answering “Because I’m an idiot,” but did not; instead he said evenly, “I’m in the same play as Master Burbage. We’re at a place where everyone is needed when we practice. Last evening we were already missing Ned Eme . . .”
“He was in this play with you both?” the bailiff asked.
“Aye,” said Burbage. “Although I don’t know Master Waldeve knew that when he came for me.”
“I didn’t, no.”
“Had there been any trouble with him?” the bailiff asked. “Among others in your play, I mean.”
“None,” Burbage and Joliffe said almost as one. Joliffe went on, “He was being the angel Gabriel.” He closed off thought of what Sendell was doing about that today—desperately trying to find someone else, undoubtedly. “He did it well and made no trouble.” Except sometimes goading his brother Richard, but Joliffe decided against saying aught about that because, after all, what else did brothers do?
“So when you heard Eme was found—” the bailiff prompted.
“I didn’t know it was him until we were already going. I went simply because Master Burbage looked sharply upset by whatever Master Waldeve had said to him and went without telling our playmaster why. Since I’m aiding our playmaster in most things, I wanted to know what was toward. If whatever had happened meant we might be losing Master Burbage, the sooner we knew, the better. Then Master Waldeve said who it was and after that there was no going back.”
That was full of enough truth to suffice, Joliffe thought. Master Fylongley seemed to accept it anyway, because he nodded, again looked at them one after another, and asked of them all, “Do any of you know of anyone with reason to have killed this Edward Eme?”
Joliffe joined Burbage and Master Waldeve in shaking their heads that they did not. That was, unfortunately, altogether true on Joliffe’s side. He had no thought at all of who would have killed Ned. On the other hand, he had no doubt that Sebastian would be at him to find out. Oh, yes, Sebastian indeed would, just as soon as Sebastian heard about it.
Joliffe had some hope the bailiff was done with them then, for a time at least. As first finders and therefore jurors, their first duty had been to determine whether a death was by accident, mischance, or crime. If they had determined there had been no crime, they would have been released from further duty. Having determined otherwise, they were now charged in law with finding out all they could about the matter. Witnesses to a crime, should there be any, were supposed to testify only to what they saw and nothing more, but jurors were supposed to gather all they could and bring their knowledge with them to the trial, should the matter come to that. If it should, more than three jurors would be wanted of course, and Joliffe’s present hope was that Master Fylongley would let him, Burbage, and Waldeve go for now.
But after sitting for a few moments, contemplating the floor boards in front of him, Master Fylongley looked up and said, “The morning is well along, and we need our dinners, I know, but I’d rather keep our questions going while our murderer still thinks we think Eme’s death was self-murder. So . . .”
“I have one of my men waiting to bring in food and drink,” Master Grevile said. “We can dine briefly and go about whatever you want next.”
The bailiff beamed at him. “That’s very well bethought. You’d best take care, Master Grevile, or you’ll be sheriff one of these fine years.”
“Mary and all the saints forbid,” Master Grevile said, sounding as if he meant it, and went to the door to call his man to come.
They ate a light meal of a warm lamb pottage and fresh-baked bread. Joliffe kept warily silent throughout it, leaving the talk to men who, despite they did not all know each other, all knew other men each knew, so that all in all, Joliffe heard deeper talk about Coventry than he had yet been able to gather from anything overheard in taverns or streets.
That none of it seemed to have aught to do with anything he needed to hear and held not even passing mention of Lollards or Lollardy was pity, but who knew what would prove of use or interest to Sebastian? Burbage’s trade as girdler put him nowhere so to the fore in city life as Master Waldeve’s smithcraft or the crowner’s or bailiff’s offices had them, but he had things to say, too, when it came to talk about repairs needed to the Earls Mill bridge and whether the new spire on St. Michael’s was going to prove too costly after all and especially about Corpus Christi being almost on them and how all was shaping with the plays. When Master Waldever jibed at him for being in the “Babe Jesus” play, Burbage called on Joliffe to witness with him that it was going to be far better than ever it had been, that they would not know it for the same play of other years.
Unhappily, that reminded them both that it was not even going to be the same play they had thought they had this time yesterday.
While Master Waldeve was taking a last long quaff of Master Grevile’s good wine, Master Fylongley said, “We must to work, then. I must ask you three gentlemen”—graciously including Joliffe in that—“to come about my questioning with me. At least I suppose you want to.”
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