The Gilded Lily (48 page)

Tindall saw Jay’s boxwagon appear three more times in the dead of night before he decided to enquire of the nightwatchman what he knew. The watch told him Jay’s men
drank in the King’s Head, so that night, instead of settling down in front of Walt’s warm fire, Tindall braved the sleet to position himself in an alley opposite the tavern.

The King’s was on a street in the East End with four other taverns, and so was notorious for its night-time parade of doxies looking for business. It was early yet, so there were few
people about. No moll would want to stand out in this weather waiting for her customers to get drunk enough to want a flutter. At the tavern door the snow had been scraped to the side of the
entrance where it had set into rigid combs of ice either side.

Tindall pulled his hat down over his ears to keep them from freezing and wrapped his long coat further over his chest. He watched several men go into the tavern from the saddlery next door
before the familiar boxwagon drew up through the slush. Foxy Foxall leapt off the front, landing awkwardly as his boots slipped, and led the horse and wagon around the back, and five minutes later
he and Lutch went in.

Tindall kept his hat pulled well down and his muffler up to his nose and slunk inside towards a dark corner behind a wooden spur where upturned barrels were set around a rough table. He was glad
to be indoors, the sleet stung his cheeks. Foxy was already rolling up his sleeves for a game of skittles on the other side of the bar, and his opponent, one of the saddlers, was standing up the
pins.

‘Jug of your finest,’ Tindall said to the wench in a low voice when she came over with the tray. When the ale arrived he poured it, but left it sitting in the tankard. He was not
much of a drinker; too much strong ale made him queasy. He preferred plain water when he could get it clean enough, which wasn’t often.

He watched Foxy’s sharp aim and the rolling skittles make the saddler more and more disgruntled until eventually he was forced to concede defeat and hand over his coinage, slamming the
door in such a temper that it rattled on its hinges. Tindall noticed that, like himself, Lutch did not drink much, but sat in a corner with a tray of dominoes, idly building the bones into a tower
and then flipping it with his finger to topple them down.

Time passed. Foxy and Lutch seemed to be just enjoying a night’s relaxation. The landlord knew them both and bantered with them over their orders, and several of the saddlers engaged them
in conversation. Tindall began to feel a little foolish, and besides, he stuck out like a signpost sitting on his own. But just after the bells tolled ten, Lutch nodded, and Foxy strolled out of
the door. After about fifteen minutes Lutch drew his arm across the table, pushing the bones to the side, and left. Tindall waited a couple of minutes before following.

He poked his head out of the door and at first could not see Foxy or Lutch. The street had filled up with itinerant hawkers selling pecks of oysters, roasted chestnuts, herbal elixirs and the
latest broadsheets. In amongst the hawkers were the women lounging against the doorways, most with the obligatory red ribbon around their ankle or their wrist.

‘Looking for a ride, mister?’ The woman laughed, showing a mouth full of blackened teeth.

Tindall shook his head and quickly moved off, searching for the top of Lutch’s head in the crowd. Further down the road he saw him. He was leaning against a shop shutter, watching
something. Tindall stayed where he was, but followed Lutch’s eyes. Foxy was cajoling and persuading one of the young women. He had his hand on her arm, and he could see her reluctance in the
way she tried to move away. But Foxy leaned over and whispered something in her ear, and she laughed and allowed herself to be brought over to where Lutch was waiting. A smallish fiery-haired maid
in a grey gown.

He heard her shrill voice. ‘You’re not kidding me? He’s not jesting, is he? And a full five shillings?’

‘I tell you, he often sends us down here. “Only the prettiest,” he says, and the minute I set my peepers on you, I knew you were the one. Lutch here’ll drive us, and
bring you back again afterwards.’

‘What’s in it for you? What’s he like?’

‘A proper gent. He pays us to select for him, so’s he don’t have to get his feet wet. Stands to reason that – why come out in this weather if you can pay someone reliable
to do it for you?’

‘Well, I –’

‘If you don’t want the work, then there are plenty of others who need the five shillings.’

‘You’ll bring me back here after?’

‘Course.’

And she linked her arm into Foxy’s and the three of them went into the back yard.

Moments later the boxwagon bowled past with the three of them sitting up front. The girl had her hand to her eyes to shield them from the sleet. Tindall cursed himself for not thinking ahead as
he ran over to the stableyard and thrust thrupence at the lad for the hire of a horse. Once mounted he kicked the skittish horse on and rattled out of the yard gates just in time to see the wagon
turn the corner at the end of the street.

From there he rode at a safe distance all the way past St Paul’s, until the wagon stopped outside a large house and Foxy and the girl went inside. Tindall tethered the horse round the
corner and kept a watch on the house from behind the building opposite. The area was well-to-do, he could see that from the width of the streets and the fact that all the horses were stabled out
back somewhere.

He shivered in his thin coat as he waited nearly an hour before the manservant waved at Lutch from the doorstep. From there it was all action. The door burst open and the girl was thrust out
onto the street. Lutch lifted her as though she were a feather and threw her in the back of the wagon, and clamped the bar down on the gates. He wielded the whip and the horses jolted the wagon
forward as Foxall leapt onto the front.

Tindall leapt for his horse, cursing that he was no longer a young man and the whole escapade was making him breathless. The wagon careered down the road, wheels skidding and skewing on the icy
surface. Suddenly it turned down Thames Street and was gone. He rode up and down but could not see it anywhere. At length he decided to turn down towards the river, and to his surprise he could see
the back of the boxwagon parked down the alley, next to the tannery. From his mounted position he could see it was empty and there was no sign of the girl. Surely she could not have wanted to be
let out here? There were no houses, only the long dark wall of the tannery and the loading pulleys jutting like gallows above.

A figure loomed out of the mist – Lutch, slapping a cane against his thigh, and he was alone. Tindall reined back his horse and retreated onto the main thoroughfare. He heard the doors of
the wagon slam and the wooden clunk as the lever was ratcheted home. The wagon trundled past him with Foxy and Lutch both sat up front. From the shadows Tindall watched its retreating shape
disappear round the corner before he pushed his horse into a trot down the alley towards the river. He looked from side to side but there was not a soul in sight. His horse snorted and shied at a
rag blowing against the wall, but he pressed it forward to the towpath, where he slid off and looped its reins on a hitching post.

He stared out at the river. It was sliding by more slowly than usual, barely moving under a surface slick with ice. This part of the river was quiet, there were no ferries or boatmen plying
their trade, just the coil of the hidden water. Near the bank it was a solid sheet, grey as polished pewter. Tindall stared. The ice here was broken as if someone had thrown something in. A shiver
trickled up his spine. He could see something pale floating in the river just a little further down. He could not reach it – it was floating too far away, submerged under the skin of ice. He
looked a long time but it did not move. He could not decide what to do. In the end, when he turned to go, his feet were numb. He had to hobble to his horse.

He returned to the King’s Head to hand back his mount and was surprised to see that the wagon was in the yard again. When he went for a good look around it though, he could see nothing
amiss. Perhaps he should look inside – but what would happen should Whitgift’s men return? He had a bad feeling about it. The pale shape in the water could have been anything, he told
himself, but he could not quash his misgivings.

He had had enough of this following in the dark; he needed to rest his aching joints. He rubbed his hands together to try to bring the blood back to them. Sombrely he headed back to
Whitgift’s, half a mind to call the constable. But what could he tell him? He had seen nothing – nothing except a phantom in the water. He walked slowly, pondering and gazing up at the
sky to catch a glimpse of the stars, looking for an omen or a sign. But the sky was charcoal grey, no stars were visible. By the time he had walked back to Whitgift’s yard, his teeth were
chattering and he could not feel his hands.

‘Get thyself inside, man, you look fair nithered,’ called the watchman and he gave Tindall a wink as he hunched past the gate, head bowed against the sleet.

Tindall lifted a hand just out of his coat in acknowledgement and headed for the warmth of the offices. Just as he was about to go in, he heard the sound of a horse and looked round to see the
boxwagon again parked on the road outside. Dodging into Walt’s office, he pushed open the window a crack to listen. He heard the sound of another door opening and Jay Whitgift’s voice.
‘Aye aye, lads.’

‘Wolfenden was satisfied, and there’s no loose ends.’

‘Good. He’s going to be a regular.’

Again, Tindall saw Jay hand over a purse. He swallowed, ducked down behind the window, filled with a sudden terror they might catch sight of him. Jay Whitgift was at the heart of their racket,
whatever it was. His mind went back to the river. He wished he could talk it over with Walt, but Walt would never hear a bad word against his son, and if Walt told Jay, he might have to watch his
own back. He chided himself. What was he thinking of, poking his nose into risky business that was no concern of his? He was getting too old for dealing with ruffians such as Jay Whitgift’s
henchmen. Happen he should draw up another horoscope, find out how the land lay before doing anything hasty.

At the Pelican on the ice, Jay Whitgift was crammed into the tented stall alongside Wycliffe, with Buckhurst and Sedley on the opposite bench.

‘Coming over to the cockfight, gents?’

‘Ah, good to see you, Wolfenden. You look a lot better,’ Sedley said.

Jay glanced round and saw a tall man in a heavy grizzled wig. His face was pitted and rotted by the pox, a tarnished silver cone was tied with a leather thong where once his nose had been. Jay
nodded briefly at Allsop, who hovered behind him and looked uncomfortable. And no wonder, his loans were still owing and Jay had been forced to send Lutch over to take his antique sword collection
as part-payment.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Wycliffe said. ‘Coming, Jay?’

The makeshift pit was a pallisade of planks. They forced their way inside, past the unruly crowd of prentices with their eyes glued to the gaps. Wycliffe insisted they place a
bet and Jay indulged him by pulling out his purse. The birds were mangy brutes but fought well enough. Wolfenden shouted and cursed alongside the common brewers and butchers, and when his bird
showed signs of flagging shouted, ‘Prick his bloody heels!’

Already the ice was daubed with blood and torn feathers, and though both its eyes were out, their cock fought savagely, ousting its three opponents. When one tried to escape the ring, Wolfenden
grabbed hold and twisted its neck, casting it down before them. He smiled apologetically to Wycliffe, who hung on Jay’s arm. Jay was surprised to see his companion looked mighty green. He
pressed Wycliffe’s hand proprietorially.

‘Best way,’ Wolfenden said. ‘No use for breeding unless they can fight their corner. No game without game cocks, eh?’

Allsop laughed. ‘They should set up pits for women. That’d be a sight to see, women fighting to the death.’