Death at the Jesus Hospital (11 page)

‘I don’t suppose, Warden, that we know if Number Twenty had any money to leave?’

Monk knew from long experience that wills, along with the weather and the looks and other physical attributes of the barmaid in the Rose and Crown were among the most popular subjects of conversation in the Jesus Hospital.

‘He left a lot more than you might think,’ Monk replied.

‘How much?’ said Number Twelve.

‘Well, if you thought of a figure round about two thousand pounds, you wouldn’t be far out.’ Monk always liked
showing
off about his knowledge of the hospital and its inmates.

‘And where did the money go?’

‘Half went to a brother to Canada.’

‘And the rest?’

‘Let me just say that the rest ended up nearer to home.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t feel I can reveal any more at this stage,’ said Monk, turning a pale shade of pink in the face. ‘Poor man’s not even in his grave yet.’

Henry Wood, Number Twelve, popular with his
colleagues
in the Jesus Hospital, had worked for most of his life in the fish business. He had long ago decided that human beings were much more slippery than the fish he traded in. A private game of his was to decide what kinds of fish other inmates resembled. Bill Smith, Number Four, known as Smithy, was a trout, John Watkins, Number Fifteen, was a lemon sole, Josiah Collins, Number Seventeen, was a perch. From the very first day he had met Monk, Number Twelve had him down as an eel.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ he said suddenly, staring at the
changing
colours in Monk’s face. ‘He’s left the money to you. Or so you say.’

‘I have no further comment to make,’ said Monk stiffly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a report to prepare for the Prime Warden of the Silkworkers Company.’

Monk strode off, cursing himself for his folly. But worse was to come. Henry Wood, Number Twelve, missed the evening meal in the dining hall because of a doctor’s appointment in the village. He took a pie supper in the Rose and Crown and began telling everyone about his
conversation
, just as Johnny Fitzgerald arrived, full of cash and curiosity. Johnny let the conversation take its course at first.

‘You can’t be serious, Number Twelve,’ said Freddie Butcher, Number Two. ‘You’re not suggesting that the Warden has been playing tricks with our wills?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Number Twelve,
taking
a long draught of his beer, ‘but if you had a couple of thousand, or even a couple of pounds, would you leave half of it to Monk?’

There was a pause while the old gentlemen thought about this. Most drank deeply to aid the thought processes. So rapid was the decline in the level of the glasses that Johnny felt obliged to order another round. The barmaid, unaware of the passions she roused in the old men, smiled sweetly at him as she pulled the final pint. Christy Butler, Number Thirteen, a printer in his previous existence, could not take his eyes off her, especially when she leant forward over her work.

‘It’s a mistake, surely,’ said Peter Baker, Number Ten, his hand on top of his head, searching for the few remaining hairs. ‘Warden Monk must be remembering things wrong.’

Number Ten was widely believed to be the most stupid person in the almshouse. There was no reply. Then Andrew Snow, Number Eighteen, whose sight had nearly gone, tapped the table with his fist.

‘My friends,’ he said, with the air of one making a great announcement of state like the Speech from the Throne or the Budget, ‘I have an important statement to make.’ Everybody turned to look at Number Eighteen, the wisps of white hair left on his forehead, the deep lines like a map around his mouth and his forehead, the white shirt he always wore under the silkmen’s coat. Then he looked confused. ‘The only thing is,’ he looked around suddenly, ‘I’m not sure I can tell you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Of course you can tell us.’

‘Don’t be so silly.’

‘You can’t lead us all up the garden path and then not tell, it’s not fair.’

Johnny Fitzgerald wondered how it was going to end. He felt he might be on the verge of discovering something at last. Andrew Snow, Number Eighteen, looked more confused than ever. When he turned to Johnny, an answer to his dilemma seemed to come to him.

‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ he said, ‘you’re a man of the world, I should say. Could you advise me on what I should do?’

‘I can’t really, unless I know exactly what it is you might be going to say. Why don’t we hop outside for a moment and you can tell me all about it, if the company have no objection?’

Hop would not be the first word to spring to mind about the progress of Number Eighteen from the back bar of the Rose and Crown to the road outside. He walked very slowly, holding on to the backs of the chairs as he went.

‘It’s like this, Mr Fitzgerald,’ he began, after Johnny had steered him a few paces away from the pub. He paused briefly. ‘I had a conversation with Abel Meredith, Number Twenty, a couple of months ago. It’s not often I
remember
conversations these days but I can remember this one very clearly. We were talking about our wills and I said my money, not that there’s much of it, was going to my nephews and nieces. He said – I’m certain of this – that all his money was going to his brother who lived in Canada, Saskatchewan or Alberta, one of those places. What do you think of that, Mr Fitzgerald? Should I tell the colleagues about it?’

‘Of course you should,’ said Johnny cheerfully, sensing that a profitable hornet’s nest was about to open up. ‘They have a right to know, those men. Who knows how many other wills have been changed, if that is what is going on?’

There was an expectant air as the two of them returned to the Rose and Crown. Number Twelve was trying to start a flirtatious conversation with the barmaid, whose blonde hair and pale brown eyes looked particularly fine this evening. Jack Miller, Number Three, who had spent his life working in a bank, was staring expectantly at his empty glass as if it might be refilled by the workings of divine providence. Number Eight’s head was beginning to slip forward as if an evening nap might be about to start only a couple of hours after the afternoon one had ended.

‘Well?’ said Freddie Butcher, Number Two.

‘What’s the news?’ asked John Watkins, Number Fifteen.

They all stared at Andrew Snow, Number Eighteen, as he repeated his moves on the way out, holding on to the chairs as he made his way back to his seat. He took his place with a great sigh and took a long pull at the remains of his pint. Johnny Fitzgerald, always quick to detect the advent of thirst in himself and his drinking companions, offered to buy another round before the news broke. He was duly despatched to the bar, where the barmaid showed off her wares once more to the great delight of the old gentlemen.

‘I was just saying to Mr Fitzgerald here,’ said Number Eighteen, ‘that I remember a conversation I had with Number Twenty a couple of months ago. I’d be the first to admit that I don’t remember all my conversations that well these days’ – there was a general nod of agreement at this point from the company – ‘but I do remember this one. I remember it very clearly. We were talking about wills. I said that I was going to leave all my money to my nephews and nieces, not that there was very much of it. Abel Meredith told me he was going to leave all his money to a brother in Canada, Saskatchewan I think he said, wherever that is. They always told us at school that Canada was a very big country so this Saskatchewan place could be anywhere. He didn’t say anything about leaving money to Monk, not a word.’

The old men stared at him for a moment as if they had been hypnotized. Then, virtually in unison, as if obeying a hidden conductor, they raised their glasses to their lips and drank deeply. Johnny Johnston, Number Nine, beginning a fresh pint from his refill, had a ring of creamy foam round his mouth. Stephen Potter, Number Fourteen, was wiping beer off his moustache with a bright red handkerchief.

‘God bless my soul!’ said Number Twelve, the man from the fish trade. ‘He didn’t mention Monk at all, Meredith, I mean?’

‘He did not,’ said Number Eighteen.

‘Man’s a bounder,’ said Jack Miller, Number Three. ‘Always thought so.’

‘Do you think he robs us every time somebody dies? This has got to be stopped.’ Josiah Collins, Number Seventeen, the man who read his bible every morning, made his first contribution of the evening.

‘What are we going to do?’ said Andrew Snow, Number Eighteen. ‘We can’t let it lie. Mr Fitzgerald, can you give us some advice?’

Johnny had been tying to make a link between forged wills and murder and found the connection difficult. He established, to his great surprise, that some of the old men delivered their wills into Monk’s keeping when they arrived at the hospital. The Warden told them, he was assured, that this way was preferable to the quarters of the recently dead being searched in the quest for a last will and testament.

‘Well,’ Johnny began, ‘the first thing to do, I would
suggest
, is that all those who have entrusted their wills to his care should ask for them back. Then I think you should take them all to a reputable solicitor close by. That way
everybody
will know at once where to look for anybody else’s will. More important, I think, is that you need to ask Monk for his version of events. So far we only have a guess, a very intelligent guess, mind you, from Henry Wood, Number Twelve, about what has been going on. I think it might be premature to condemn the Warden as a blackguard without any hard evidence.’

‘How do we do ask him what’s been going on?’

‘I’m sure he’s a blackguard!’

‘The devil! I shan’t speak to him ever again!’

‘What a thing to do!’

The old men were all talking at once. The barmaid popped her head round the corner to see if anything strange was going on. Johnny suddenly felt very sorry for the
inhabitants
of the Jesus Hospital. Here they were, away from their families, if they had any left, in a strange place, with decay and death waiting for them. That was all that was left. They were like children, he said to himself, too innocent to know
what to do in difficult circumstances. But children grow up, they grow wiser, they put away childish things. They grow into maturity, secure in the knowledge that their powers should increase over time and that their future is in front of them. The future had shrunk to a seventeenth-century quadrangle and evenings in the Rose and Crown for the men of the Jesus Hospital. Even the young knew that death would come in the end, but for them death was so far away they never thought of it. Here it could come tomorrow, a stroke in the night, a failing heart, a murderer’s knife.

‘Did I give my will to the Warden when I arrived?’ asked Christy Butler, Number Thirteen, with a spill from his glass spreading slowly down his shirt. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘Neither can I,’ added Colin Baker, Number Six, his wooden leg tucked under the table, staring into his beer.

The old men of the Jesus Hospital fell silent. Memory, as so often, was failing them. They were losing touch with their own past. Johnny Fitzgerald thought the evening might degenerate into melancholy and a pitiful series of complaints about time.

‘I don’t think you should worry about that,’ said Johnny cheerfully. ‘I forget my own door keys about once a month. And that’s when I’m stone cold sober. Don’t worry about not being able to remember, don’t worry at all. It happens to us all. I don’t think it makes any difference if you left your will with the Warden or not. You can still go and ask if you can have it back. If he hasn’t got it, he’ll tell you. This is what I think you should do.’ Johnny, who had followed Powerscourt’s instructions not to mention affairs at the
hospital
to the letter up till now, felt he had to take command of this strange company of veterans. ‘Just go in one at a time after breakfast or whenever you know he’s going to be in his office, and ask the Warden if you can have your wills back. When you’ve got them, take the wills round to the nearest solicitor’s office, every single one of them. We can meet here again tomorrow evening and decide how to proceed.’

The old men stared at Johnny as if he were some Old Testament prophet leading them out of the wilderness. They nodded and drank deeply of their beer. The barmaid popped her head round the corner.

‘Nearly closing time, gentlemen. It’ll be last orders in a minute. Is there anything I can get you?’

Johnny raised his hand. Thirteen old men stared greedily at Barbara Wilson as she pulled another round. Johnny reflected sadly that for most of these inhabitants of the Jesus Hospital last orders were not very far away.

The staff at the Athenaeum in London’s Pall Mall prided themselves on their knowledge of their members’ wishes, which bedroom a country member preferred if staying overnight in town, where the members liked sitting for lunch, which of them took wine by the glass at lunchtime and which took it by the bottle. By now they had years of experience of dealing with the Permanent Secretary at the Home Office. Sir Fitzroy Robinson Buller liked the corner table in the garden room for luncheon with his guests, he always ordered lamb, cooked rare, he usually took a glass or two of Pomerol with his main course and if he was in a really good mood he would have a glass of Barsac with his pudding. Now his overcoat had been safely deposited in the cloakroom and a glass of the club’s driest Amontillado was in front of him as he perused the menu and waited for his guest. The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police was late. His cab was stuck in traffic. Sir Edward Henry complained to himself that he was meant to be in control of traffic movements in the capital. The two men shared a political master, Herbert Gladstone, son of the famous Prime Minister of the previous century.

Pleasantries were exchanged over the soup. Light
skirmishing
began with the main course and the Pomerol. When his lamb was nearly over, Sir Fitzroy made his move.

‘Let me tell you in confidence,’ he began, ‘that I am
seriously worried about the Home Secretary and his
position
in the government. Having a Gladstone in the cabinet may have been a gesture towards the glorious Liberal past, but our Herbert is a pale copy of his famous father. Having one leading institution operating on the hereditary
principle
might be thought strange, but to have two is surely a mistake. By now, after centuries of experience, the
vicissitudes
of successive monarchs should have warned us off perpetuating that system anywhere else.’ Sir Fitzroy paused for a sip of his wine. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I digress. My real concern is with these recent murders, the ones where the victims have strange markings on their chests. I fear that knowledge may seep out, and the newspapers will know that the three cases are linked. I fear there may be a public outcry. Three police forces trying to catch one murderer. What a waste of public money! Is it for this that we pay our taxes? Why do we not appoint a single man from the ranks of the Metropolitan Police to take charge of the affair? I have made this suggestion in a memorandum to the Home Secretary but I have had no reply. He sits, yet again, on the fence, Herbert The Unready, unable to make his mind up. What do you say, Henry?’

Sir Edward Henry had realized long ago that politics played as large a role in his job as policing. Over the years he had tried to maintain as much freedom of action for his force without alienating his political masters. In theory the Home Secretary could order him to do something. In
practice,
if he was careful, he could keep his distance. Occasional scraps had to be thrown down, apparent concessions that might keep the authorities quiet while giving little away.

‘I fully understand your anxieties, Sir Fitzroy,’ Sir Edward began, thinking about his defences. ‘I am sure you would agree that a rational man might organize our policing very differently if he were given a clean slate. Other countries have a national body which can investigate cases which cross the boundaries of separate forces. But, as things stand,’
he paused to polish off the remains of his roast beef, ‘I have no powers which would enable me to take the case over. I have a most efficient and imaginative man on the case of Sir Rufus of the Silkworkers, murdered in his own hall. But I cannot order the Norfolk Constabulary to hand over the case to one of my officers, any more than I could instruct the Buckinghamshire force to hand over the death in the Jesus Hospital. Only the Home Secretary has the power to do that. The ball, I fear, is in your court rather than mine, Sir Fitzroy.’

‘Surely you must agree that such a course of action would be the right one in these circumstances?’ Sir Fitzroy was beginning to tap the table with the fingers of his left hand, a sure sign, to those that knew him well, that he was growing angry.

‘That’s as may be, Sir Fitzroy, but we in the Metropolitan Police have long memories. People still remember the case of Inspector Whicher and the Road Hill murders half a century ago. A detective was called in from the Met. He identified the killer. He was not believed. Indeed, he had to abandon the case and his career in the police force. Local rivalries played a part in that. Only later did it transpire that Whicher had indeed identified the murderer correctly, but his theories were ignored by the local authorities. We do not look forward to a repeat of such incidents.’

‘I see,’ said Sir Fitzroy, his fingers tapping ever harder. ‘This is most unsatisfactory.’

Sir Edward Henry knew that to make an enemy of the Permanent Secretary at the Home Office was as dangerous as making an enemy of the Home Secretary himself. All kinds of minor but irritating obstacles could be put in his way, lack of cooperation over police pay, threats of public inquiries into controversial cases.

‘There is one thing I can do,’ he said finally. ‘I am very concerned about the fact that all these murders have links with the Silkworkers Company. They have a number of properties, particularly almshouses, in the London area. I
propose to mount a guard over all of them round the clock until further notice. And I will send a message to the other chief constables in southern England that we are proposing to do this. I don’t think the writ of the Silkworkers Company stretches as far as Aberdeen, probably not even up to York.’

Surely that, he said to himself, should appease Sir Fitzroy. It’s not precisely what he wanted but it’s something more than a fig leaf.

‘Splendid, Henry, simply splendid. I shall take steps to inform the Home Secretary when I return to the office. That should give him a push in the right direction.’ Long
experience
told him that you seldom achieved your objectives in the jungles of Whitehall by proceeding in a direct line.
Crab-like
progress was the order of the day. He beckoned to the waiter and ordered a second glass of Barsac for them both.

Inspector Miles Devereux was sitting in a borrowed office in Cannon Street police station with a bunch of papers in his hand. These were the reports of the officers sent to interview all those who had attended the fatal dinner in the Silkworkers Hall. Like so much police work, the details were all here. Devereux was bored by details as he was bored by so much of police routine. But he knew that he had to take them seriously. Otherwise he could make a mistake. Scratching the back of his head, he finished the last report. There was nothing here that could possibly help with their inquiries. He picked up a fresh sheet of paper and wrote ‘Silkworkers Feast’ at the top. Then he began writing an account of what happened hour by hour until the murderer struck. If you were in a job where details mattered, he said to himself as he reached eleven o’clock and the Haut Brion began to flow more freely, the least you can do is to make sure that your facts are right.

Lord Francis Powerscourt was with his brother-in-law William Burke in his vast office in the City of London once
more. Burke was seated behind an enormous desk thick with files in neat bundles that made him look like a First Sea Lord or the Viceroy of India.

‘For God’s sake, William,’ said Powerscourt, ‘can’t you come and sit in one of these chairs by the fire. You’re too terrifying behind that thing. You look like some American tycoon about to ruin his enemies.’

Burke laughed. He took up a sheet or two of paper from his desk and joined Powerscourt on the other side of the marble mantelpiece.

‘I have some interesting news for you, Francis, about our friends the Silkworkers. Remaining liverymen still alive, no further deaths overnight, I trust?’

‘All left alive present and correct, as far as I know,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I wouldn’t vouch for tomorrow, mind you. Or the day after.’

Burke grunted and fished around in his pockets for a pair of spectacles.

‘There are two ways of looking at what’s been happening here, Francis. One benign, the other sinister. You can’t take a view until I tell you what’s been going on. The Silkworkers have been in existence since the early fourteenth century. Nobody is certain about the exact date of their foundation but various records begin to appear after thirteen
thirty-eight
or thereabouts. To understand the current controversy in the company, you have to go back to a little known codicil to a document believed to have been written in thirteen fifty, just after the Black Death of thirteen forty-eight. This wretched codicil was only discovered in the Silkworkers archives three or four years ago. All kinds of people have been excavated from their lairs to pronounce judgement on it, university professors, cathedral librarians, every archivist who could be found within a twenty-mile radius of Temple Bar. All of them, with one exception, say it is genuine. I’ll tell you about the exception in a moment.’

Burke helped himself to a large cigar from a brass and
silver humidor on the table in front of him. ‘You have to imagine, these wise men say, what it must have been like just after the Black Death. Thousands and thousands of Londoners were dead. Contemporaries said you could catch the stench of rotting bodies far outside the city walls. The dead were piled so high on some streets that the survivors had to tread on the corpses to continue their journeys. Think most of all, the professors and the rest of them say, of the effect it must have had on men’s minds. Their God, they felt certain, had deserted them. Perhaps this was the beginning of the end, the Book of Revelation come to Lombard Street and Cornhill, the number of the beast replacing all the
numbers
they had in their early ledgers. Maybe the plague would return over and over again until there was nobody left alive.’

Burke paused and blew an enormous smoke ring up to his intricately plastered ceiling. ‘With me so far, Francis? You are? Not too difficult? Good. Now to this wretched codicil. Nobody knows who drew it up or to what document it was attached. The bearded ones believe it may have been part of a new
version
of the Silkworkers’ constitution. Certainly the memory of the Black Death must have been paramount in the minds of those who wrote it. I asked one of the few experts who seemed to be under seventy years of age to make me a modern
translation.
I couldn’t make much sense of the original.’

Burke picked out one sheet of paper from his pile and began to read.

‘“As we have suffered most grievously in person and in property from the recent onslaught of the Great Mortality” – that’s the Black Death to you and me – “we, the Wardens of the Company, have introduced this codicil to assist our successors in time of plague, pestilence or peril. At such times, if the Prime Warden and his three colleagues deem that there is a great danger or threat to the persons,
property
or families of the Silkworkers, they may take such steps as they think fit to safeguard those persons, property or families for posterity. Thus the ancient misteries of the
Silkworkers,” I know you’re going to ask, Francis, misteries comes from the Latin
ministerium
which means occupation, “may be preserved for the future to rank alongside the other misteries in the City of London. May Almighty God bless our deliberations at this time and preserve us in body and mind until the last days.”’

Burke laid down his cigar and blew a further smoke ring in the direction of a Lawrence portrait of an earlier City grandee on the wall.

‘That’s it, Francis. Except there’s a final paragraph after “the last days”, like a postscript. “Any changes proposed to the government of the Company in times of plague, pestilence or peril must be supported by the approbation of eight out of ten of the membership of the Company, their names or their marks to be recorded in the Company records. Any monies raised may be placed in property or other places. If the danger is great and the Lord of Hosts appears to have abandoned his people for the second time, the Company may be broken up, the monies divided in the following fashion: one half to the Prime Warden, one third to the Council, the remains divided among the membership according to their length of membership in the company.”’

‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that must have set the cat among the pigeons when the Prime Warden realized the implications. Tell me this, William, what do your wise men think that reference to “have suffered most grievously in person and in
property
” means right at the beginning?’

‘If they’re honest with themselves, they don’t know. A couple of the professors say it refers to the collapse of property prices at the time of the Black Death. If your friends and relations are dying all around, you’re not going to put your house up for sale. Prices would have collapsed, they say.’

‘They may just be reading the present back into the past,’ said Powerscourt. ‘You said earlier, William, that there was a great argument going on among the Silkworkers. Where does this codicil come in?’

‘Well, the key section is the bit about the authorities being able to take such action as they think fit if there is a great danger from plague, pestilence or peril. The party for change, led by our mutual friend, Sir Peregrine, think that the threat of war with Germany is such a moment of peril. They point out, quite rightly, that were that to
happen,
the value of the Silkworkers’ assets would fall like a stone thrown from a high building. It would be a financial catastrophe. Why not, says Sir Peregrine, sell up now and buy everything back when the war’s over and prices are still very low. They’d make a killing, a real killing, I tell you. I’ve told you before how rich these livery companies are. They’ve got properties all over the City, some of them maybe dating back to the Black Death itself, who knows. When you join the Silkworkers as a full member, not like the old boys in the almshouses, you have to promise to leave either monies or securities or property to the company in your will. There are millions of pounds on the table here.’