The Point of Death (26 page)

‘You
can be grateful for that,’ he replied matter of factly. ‘Otherwise I’d have awoken you a good deal earlier.’

We
had been hugging the Middlesex bank as it curved gently northwards, but now the oarsmen began to strike out into the middle of the flux towards the opposite, low-lying shore. The boy suddenly stiffened and, pointing, cried ‘Over there, sirs’.

I
squinted into the distance. There was the shape of what looked like a huddle of men, but what was more arresting was a tall, thin object situated on a spit of land where the river turned southwards. As we pulled nearer, it gradually became clear as a multi-coloured wooden pole, roughly twelve feet high, with a sizeable pair of deer’s antlers fixed at its apex. Other animal bones and skulls were attached up and down its length with ribbons, whose brightly-coloured tails fluttering in the wind were the only things moving in that desolate spot. I glanced at Nesbitt, who had pushed his hood back and was eyeing the spectacle distastefully. The backdrop of the low marshes certainly provided an incongruous setting for this strange feature in the landscape, which had an eerie air of paganism about it.

Our
reverie was broken by one of the men walking to meet us.

‘Joseph
Pinchkin, Captain of the Rotherhithe Watch, at your service sirs.’ He doffed his flea-bitten cap in our direction and then pulled his son roughly from the boat, giving him a clip round the ear for his trouble. A less inspiring ‘Captain’, one could hardly hope to encounter. ‘If you were pleased to follow me, the parcel is along ‘ere.’

I
prepared to disembark, mindful that my old boots had holes in them and thus determined to place my first footstep on dry land. I stood at the front of the boat, waiting for an opportune moment, but just as I thrust forth, a larger than average wave caught the boat, causing it to pitch sharply, and I fell face first into the freezing surf. Momentarily confused and disorientated, I scrabbled about in the mud, the water soaking to my skin, before I felt the wrench on my shoulders as Pinchkin Senior extracted me roughly from the water and heaved me onto the shore. I stood on the bank displaying a comedic mixture of stupefaction and anger, as the men of the Watch gaped at me and barely smothered their sniggering.

Nesbitt,
having successfully negotiated his way to dry land, hadn’t time for such niceties. ‘Come now, Lovat. Enough fooling,’ He strode off towards the ‘parcel’ letting me drip on the shore. So much for sympathy.

‘What
in a Jesuit’s name is this about, Nesbitt?’ I asked tetchily, as I caught up with him, any lingering feeling of tiredness and drunkenness now thoroughly dispelled. ‘You drag me out here against my will, and don’t even have the decency to tell me why. I’ve had enough of your damn reticence.’ Despite his position in the household, Nesbitt wasn’t a blood relation, which still gave me some sense of superiority. Sensing the newly found edge in my voice, he looked at me coldly but thought better of a rebuke.

‘As
I told you, a body in the river, Master.’ I decided to ignore his sarcastic stressing of the word ‘Master’, as he continued meaningfully: ‘There is suspicion of foul play, which is why we are here.’

‘How
did this rabble connect the body with Robert?’

‘A
posteriori …’ Nesbitt had practised as a lawyer before going into my brother’s service, and had an irritating habit of sprinkling his speech with legal phrases, ‘… they found this seal around the man’s neck.’ Nesbitt produced from somewhere under his cloak a seal attached to a thick, silver chain, which I recognised as sporting my brother’s insignia. ‘One of the men from the village identified it as your brother’s coat of arms and so, reasonably enough, sent word there. Sir Robert requested that you investigate the matter and report back to him forthwith.’

The
body was lying at the foot of the colourful column – twisted and inert. The face was badly disfigured and the clothes, although once rich in appearance, were badly torn. A closer inspection of the face showed one eye blankly acknowledging the sky – the other missing, revealing an open socket. All around the swollen, bloated hole, the flesh was cut and bruised and the man’s features were barely recognisable. From the gaping mouth a veiny, swollen tongue protruded, like some ancient creature that had died in its hole.

I
knelt down beside the man, drawn closer by a vague feeling of recognition, despite the disfigurement. I yanked the cloak, still grimly clinging to its owner, to one side, and, feeling the heavy, sodden material in my hand, it began to dawn on me. Despite the rough treatment it had suffered, I recognised the cloak with its fine red velvet and rich embroidery. A fresh glance at the shape of the cheekbones, the curve of the hooked nose and the colour of the skin, and I was certain.

The
dead man was, in a loose sense, known to me.

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