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Authors: Paul C. Doherty
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to those bruises he had seen on Duket's forearms.
No, he concluded, the only possible explanation is that Duket did not commit suicide in Saint Mary Le Bow but was hanged in such a way to make it appear as if it was suicide. Someone else tied that noose round the iron bar in the church, and had put the noose round Duket's neck, taken away the chair and pinioned Duket's arms behind his back, dragging him down to hasten his death agonies. Hence those bruises on Duket's arms. Corbett made a rapid calculation. There must have been at least two or three people involved in such a murder. But why did Duket not cry out? How did the murderers get into the church? How did they get out?
Corbett sighed and wrote his conclusions: Lawrence Duket was murdered in the church of Saint Mary Le Bow by persons unknown, for reasons unknown, and in a manner unknown. He threw the pen down and stared at the meaningless conclusion while his mind began to drift back to The Mitre and the ravishing beauty of Alice atte Bowe.
Seven
Of course, Corbett returned to The Mitre over the next few days. Ostensibly he came 'on the King's business' but his real reason was to see Mistress Alice. The burly giant and his confederates knew this and so did Mistress Alice. Corbett did not care, he felt alive in her presence, free of the Chancery, the drudgery of each passing day and the pressure of the task entrusted to him. Sometimes he sat in the tavern or the small room behind it. When the weather turned fair, they walked in the garden. Alice cultivated herbs, sage, parsley, fennel, hyssop as well as leeks, gelves and onions. There was a pear tree with a sprinkling of early spring blossom, a plot of fine grass with the surrounding soil well tilled and expecting, so Alice remarked, an abundant crop of roses, lilies and other flowers when summer did arrive.
Alice talked about her former life; her youth as an orphan, a ward of old, distant relatives. Her marriage to Thomas atte Bowe, her early widowhood and her survival in the hustle and bustle of London's wine trade with Bordeaux and Gascony. She was well versed in politics and shrewdly assessed King Edward's policies towards the Capetian Kings of France whose possible interference with Gascony and their claims of overlordship over the Duchy could plunge both countries into war and so wreck the wine trade and her profits. She alluded to the huge giant and other men whom
Corbett had seen round the tavern as 'her agents and protectors'. She gently questioned Corbett about 'the King's business' he was on but then changed the subject, as if it was rather too boring or hurtful to listen to.
Corbett spent hours at the tavern. He talked as he never had before about his training in Oxford, his work as a clerk, his military service, his wife, Mary, and his young child gone, in what seemed to be a twinkling of an eye, taken by the plague. The pain of such a loss came out as if Alice was his confessor, prising open all the secrets of his mind. Sometimes, he would just sit and play the flute, solemn tunes, love songs or dances and reels, while Alice twirled and danced. Her body slim and smooth turned and moved with the music until both were breathless either at the tempo of the music or their own laughter. Then they would eat, dishes famous for their delicacy and flavour; muscade of marrow, baked herring, pike, lamprey, porpoise roasted on coals, fresh sturgeon and dates, jellies, or light dishes, hot apples and pears with sugar, wafers with hippocras and always the best wines to drink.
The days passed into a week and then another. Corbett became tired of the tavern and so he and Alice went walking through the streets of Cheapside. On one occasion he took her to the horseshows at Smoothfield, or Smithfield as it was vulgarly called. Here, every Friday, there was a wonderful show of the best horses for sale. Horses trained for ladies, the great coursers for knights, and mares with shapely ears and necks and erect, plump
No, he concluded, the only possible explanation is that Duket did not commit suicide in Saint Mary Le Bow but was hanged in such a way to make it appear as if it was suicide. Someone else tied that noose round the iron bar in the church, and had put the noose round Duket's neck, taken away the chair and pinioned Duket's arms behind his back, dragging him down to hasten his death agonies. Hence those bruises on Duket's arms. Corbett made a rapid calculation. There must have been at least two or three people involved in such a murder. But why did Duket not cry out? How did the murderers get into the church? How did they get out?
Corbett sighed and wrote his conclusions: Lawrence Duket was murdered in the church of Saint Mary Le Bow by persons unknown, for reasons unknown, and in a manner unknown. He threw the pen down and stared at the meaningless conclusion while his mind began to drift back to The Mitre and the ravishing beauty of Alice atte Bowe.
Seven
Of course, Corbett returned to The Mitre over the next few days. Ostensibly he came 'on the King's business' but his real reason was to see Mistress Alice. The burly giant and his confederates knew this and so did Mistress Alice. Corbett did not care, he felt alive in her presence, free of the Chancery, the drudgery of each passing day and the pressure of the task entrusted to him. Sometimes he sat in the tavern or the small room behind it. When the weather turned fair, they walked in the garden. Alice cultivated herbs, sage, parsley, fennel, hyssop as well as leeks, gelves and onions. There was a pear tree with a sprinkling of early spring blossom, a plot of fine grass with the surrounding soil well tilled and expecting, so Alice remarked, an abundant crop of roses, lilies and other flowers when summer did arrive.
Alice talked about her former life; her youth as an orphan, a ward of old, distant relatives. Her marriage to Thomas atte Bowe, her early widowhood and her survival in the hustle and bustle of London's wine trade with Bordeaux and Gascony. She was well versed in politics and shrewdly assessed King Edward's policies towards the Capetian Kings of France whose possible interference with Gascony and their claims of overlordship over the Duchy could plunge both countries into war and so wreck the wine trade and her profits. She alluded to the huge giant and other men whom
Corbett had seen round the tavern as 'her agents and protectors'. She gently questioned Corbett about 'the King's business' he was on but then changed the subject, as if it was rather too boring or hurtful to listen to.
Corbett spent hours at the tavern. He talked as he never had before about his training in Oxford, his work as a clerk, his military service, his wife, Mary, and his young child gone, in what seemed to be a twinkling of an eye, taken by the plague. The pain of such a loss came out as if Alice was his confessor, prising open all the secrets of his mind. Sometimes, he would just sit and play the flute, solemn tunes, love songs or dances and reels, while Alice twirled and danced. Her body slim and smooth turned and moved with the music until both were breathless either at the tempo of the music or their own laughter. Then they would eat, dishes famous for their delicacy and flavour; muscade of marrow, baked herring, pike, lamprey, porpoise roasted on coals, fresh sturgeon and dates, jellies, or light dishes, hot apples and pears with sugar, wafers with hippocras and always the best wines to drink.
The days passed into a week and then another. Corbett became tired of the tavern and so he and Alice went walking through the streets of Cheapside. On one occasion he took her to the horseshows at Smoothfield, or Smithfield as it was vulgarly called. Here, every Friday, there was a wonderful show of the best horses for sale. Horses trained for ladies, the great coursers for knights, and mares with shapely ears and necks and erect, plump
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