Butchery: A Mystery of Tudor London

By Kenneth Browning

It is 1550: a time of divisive political, economic, and religious innovation throughout England. Although the City of London is burdened with overpopulation, poverty, and crime, so far its watch and constables have managed to keep the peace. However, when the body of an unidentified man is discovered in the butcher's district, brutally murdered with a meat cleaver, tension between the City's butchers and its rising immigrant population threatens to escalate into violence.
Under pressure from sheriff Sir John York to find the murderer and restore order, parish constable George Harwood enlists his friend, soldier-turned-innkeeper Thomas Whyte, into the investigation. Unwittingly, he also involves Katherine Whyte, Thomas's strong-minded and capable cousin. The three unlikely detectives follow a trail of suspicious deaths, from the affluent mansions of Walbrook to the slums of Fenchurch Street. But are they connected? What part do York's own shadowy dealings play in the drama? Is there a political dimension to the deaths, or are they just the result of the random casual violence that typifies City life?
As the investigation proceeds, Whyte finds himself increasingly drawn into the unfolding series of events, making powerful enemies, and putting his own life and Katherine's in jeopardy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth Browning
• Release date: Jan 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311226242

Kenneth Browning

Dr Kenneth Browning trained as a medical physicist, and was involved in medical education for much of the 1990s -- something you should bear in mind if you're feeling a bit unwell, because most of his students are now hospital consultants. His long and varied career subsequently meandered through law, mathematics, and software development. Now mostly retired, he lives with his family in North London.

Book preview

Butchery: A mystery of Tudor London

by Kenneth Browning

It is 1550: a time of divisive political, economic, and religious innovation throughout England. Although the City of London is burdened with overpopulation, poverty, and crime, so far its watch and constables have managed to keep the peace. However, when the body of an unidentified man is discovered in the butcher's district, brutally murdered with a meat cleaver, tension between the City's butchers and its rising immigrant population threatens to escalate into violence.

Under pressure from sheriff Sir John York to find the murderer and restore order, parish constable George Harwood enlists his friend, soldier-turned-innkeeper Thomas Whyte, into the investigation. Unwittingly, he also involves Katherine Whyte, Thomas's strong-minded and capable cousin. The three unlikely detectives follow a trail of suspicious deaths, from the affluent mansions of Walbrook to the slums of Fenchurch Street. But are they connected? What part do York's own shadowy dealings play in the drama? Is there a political dimension to the deaths, or are they just the result of the random casual violence that typifies City life?

As the investigation proceeds, Whyte finds himself increasingly drawn into the unfolding series of events, making powerful enemies, and putting his own life and Katherine's in jeopardy.

Copyright 2015 Kenneth Browning, all rights reserved

Cover design by the author

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please do not re-sell it, or give it away to other people. If you are reading this book and you did not purchase it, please buy your own copy: it is not expensive. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Contents

Author's note

Introduction

Map

Characters

Part 1: A mystery and a sign

Part 2: Shank and shin

Part 3: The tavern of despair

About the author

Author's note

This is a story. Although I have tried to be reasonably faithful to historical events and customs -- bizarre as they sometimes seem to us -- I have put the demands of fiction first. My characters speak in our contemporary language, more or less, because I assume that readers will not be well-versed in 16th century vernacular. I have allowed more variety in names -- particularly men's names -- than probably existed at the time: it's difficult to follow a plot if all the men are called Thomas or Henry.

For clarity I have unashamedly used a number of anachronistic terms. For example there were, in the mid-16th century, religious movements broadly corresponding to those we now call Protestant and Catholic, but these specific terms were not in widespread use at the time. I have made simplifications where necessary, since this isn't a textbook on political history. In particular, I have simplified the complex administrative structure of the City, with its rival and overlapping jurisdictions, in ways that would most likely set a historian's teeth on edge.

Criminal justice was usually a rather private affair in Tudor times: individuals were expected to prosecute crimes against themselves and their families. Wrongdoers were pursued -- when they were pursued at all -- by the victim's household and neighbours. The authorities typically only became involved in crimes against the person if there was a political dimension, or if there was a risk of a breakdown of law and order. That this DIY approach to policing should continue to dominate criminal justice, even as London expanded into one of the most populous and influential cities in Europe, seems strange to us now; but by the Tudor era people had lived with the system for a millennium. It could be effective: there is a growing body of evidence that the volunteer watch and constables were not as incompetent and bucolic as Shakespeare would have us believe.

Not only was Tudor law enforcement very different from its modern counterpart, but so was the law itself. The notion of 'benefit of clergy,' which features in this story, now seems bizarre; but it really was (ab)used as I describe it. Playwright Ben Jonson -- certainly no clergyman -- notoriously used it in 1592 to escape a manslaughter charge. People really could be hanged for what we would consider petty theft, but we have to bear in mind that times were hard, and a shilling might be all that stood between a family and starvation.

For the record I should point out that Tudor Londoners really did swear by God's teeth, drink ale like water (actually, instead of water), keep pigs in their yards, eat far more meat than was good for them, and discuss the fine points of religious doctrine as freely as we discuss the weather. They really did rise at between five and six o'clock; many people were, in principle, compelled by law to do so, although everybody's day was set by the Sun, not the clock. The everyday language was earthy, even crude, by modern standards, but not as jarring to our sensibilities as the language of Chaucer's time. Contrary to popular belief, Gropecunt Lane (off Cheapside) was not renamed by prudish Victorians -- the name change took place in the early 1600s.

Most of the streets, churches, and other named locations in this story are real places that existed in the 16th century -- many still do. Some names have changed, and a few streets have been built over. St Margaret's church was destroyed in the Great Fire and never rebuilt. The Street in which it stood -- New Fish Street, or Fish Street Hill as it is now called -- lost its importance when the medieval London Bridge was demolished in 1831. It is now hard to imagine the street -- which no longer even affords a view of the Thames -- as the heart of the London fishing industry, as it was in Tudor times. The Poultry Compter was demolished in 1817, and a Congregational chapel built on its site. Moor Field -- the site of the archery butts -- has long since been built over; the last vestige of the original green space is the garden of St Botolphs-without-Bishopsgate. The street of Walbrook still exists, of course, but is now a commercial district. The Estate of Suffolk Place was gradually split up into many smaller streets and tenements, and acquired a sinister reputation in the 19th century. All that remains of its grand gardens and orchards is Little Dorrit Park -- a handful of trees and a playground. The Mint in Suffolk Place probably stood near what is now Marshalsea Road -- there is still a Mint Street in the area.

By contrast, the Guildhall is still standing -- the same building on the same site -- and is still an important administrative and ceremonial centre.

Some of the minor characters in this story are historical and, where they are, and sufficient information exists to make it possible, I have tried to portray them true to life. The main characters, however, are entirely fictional. Needless to say, any resemblance to any living person is entirely unintentional.

Introduction

It is 1550: third year of the reign of the Young King Edward VI. The military ambitions of his father, Henry VIII, have left the country indebted and heavily taxed. There is widespread poverty, particularly in rural areas, and the enclosure of common farm land by wealthy landowners has caused dissatisfaction and, occasionally, overt rebellion.

With the King only 12 years old, the real power in the Kingdom is the Regency Council, led originally by the king's uncle, Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, and now by John Dudley, Earl of Warwick. Although political opponents, both Somerset and Warwick have a vision of a Protestant England, with a state church led by the Crown. With the support of Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, these Royal Protectors have made English the language of the Church, and instigated the widespread abolition of the trappings of Catholicism. This religious innovation is unquestionably a cause of division in the country. Many people -- particularly in urban areas -- have embraced the religious reforms wholeheartedly, and there has been widespread iconoclasm, and the persecution of traditionalists. Catholic religious practices have been driven underground -- literally, in some cases. Elsewhere, particularly in the West Country and North of England, the reforms have been deeply unpopular.

People are moving to London at an unprecedented rate -- in the past year twenty thousand people have joined the fifty thousand original inhabitants. Within the ancient walls of the City, governed by the semi-autonomous City of London Corporation, there is unemployment, overcrowding, and a great deal of petty crime. Tensions are high, particularly between native Londoners and immigrants from the country; it is a tribute to the volunteer watch and constabulary, more than to the good governance of the City authorities, that disorder and rioting are infrequent.

But things could easily change.

Map

Characters

At the White Hart

Thomas Whyte

Keeper and half-owner of the Whyte Hart inn; one-time constable of St Peter's parish in Cornhill Ward

Katherine Whyte

An orphan; younger cousin and ward of Thomas Whyte; half-owner of the Whyte Hart inn

Agnes Shawe

Cook and general hand at the Whyte Hart; wife of Walter

Walter 'Gaffer' Shawe

Cellarman and general hand at the Whyte Hart; husband of Agnes

Mary Strope

A maid at the Whyte Hart

Various other serving kitchen and chamber maids

The Harwood household

George Harwood

A cordwainer (fine boot-maker); constable of St Margaret's parish in Bridge Ward

Mary Harwood

Wife of George

Emma and Grace Harwood

Daughters of George and Mary

Bob Marten

George's delivery boy and dogsbody

Apprentices and journeymen

Forces of law and order

Sir John York

A sheriff of London; officer of the King's Mint

Richard Turke

A sheriff of London

Tobias Savill

Newly-elected constable of St Peter's parish

Stephen Caldwell

Beadle of Walbrook Ward

Nicholas Cotton

Warder of the Sheriff's Compter (gaol) in Poultry

Diverse watchmen, militiamen, and guards

Men of the cloth

Reynold Beresford

Vicar of the parish church of St Margaret's

Christopher Grey

Vicar Beresford's curate

Dr Giles Meredith

Rector of the parish Church of St Stephen's, Walbrook

Tradesmen

Joseph 'Candle Joe' Nash

A chandler (candle maker)

Giles Harris

Nash's journeyman assistant

Bartholomew Maycott

An apothecary

Innkeepers

Henry and Joan Warter

Keepers of the Mermaid alehouse

Geoffrey Sumner

Keeper of the Black Eagle tavern; a widower

Butchers

Peter Abraham

A master butcher; proprietor of the largest butchery in Eastcheap

Thomas 'Big Tom' Francis

A butcher; Abraham's foreman

Roger Allard

A butcher, when he can be bothered

Jane Allard

Roger's wife

The Gerard Household

Walter Gerard

A well-to-do mercer of Walbrook

Samuel Gerard

Walter's eighteen-year-old son

Gerard's wife and two younger brothers and their wives; a large staff of servants and retainers

The Long Household

Sir Richard Long

A wealthy merchant of Walbrook, recently knighted

Lady Isabel Long

Richard's wife

Peter Long

Richard and Isabel's seventeen-year-old son

Robert Greville

William Holt

Grooms (serving men) in the Long household

Diverse other grooms and maids

Entertainers

Rowland Beauchamp

Leader of Master Beauchamp's Players, a group of travelling actors and entertainers

Edmund Jakely

Fire-breather, juggler, actor

Meg Swithin

Musician and dancer

Other actors, singers, musicians, dancers, and hangers-on

Miscellaneous

Joyce Baker

A midwife

Meg Garret and Maggie Soames

Neighbours of the Allards

Thomas Greene

Sexton of St Margaret's parish

Simon Head

A vestryman (churchwarden) of St Margaret's

William Warter

A tanner; Henry Warter's younger brother

Part 1: A mystery and a sign

"God made the wicked Grocer

For a mystery and a sign

That men might shun the awful shops

And go to inns to dine;"

-- GK Chesterton, The song against grocers

Tuesday morning, May 16, 1550

The scratching of quill on paper was interrupted only by the occasional curse. Thomas Whyte was hunched over a stack of invoices on the desk in his tiny workroom, doggedly trying to get the inn's weekly accounts in order. An observer would have noticed, but he did not, that as he worked he bit his lower lip, and frowned with such intensity that his eyebrows met. Thomas had often reflected that book-keeping was the least agreeable part of his life as an innkeeper. Events were shortly to prove him wrong.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning, according to the dissonant peals of the cracked bell of St Peter's, and the quietest part of the inn's day. Even the most gluttonous breakfasters had been hustled away, and dinner -- the main meal at midday -- would not be served for another two hours. Thomas looked up from his papers and rubbed his eyes. He chewed the end of his quill while staring through the single small window into the inn's courtyard. This was a sizeable square of compacted earth, engraved with cart tracks, enclosed on all four sides by three-story buildings, save for a cart-sized gate opposite where Thomas sat. A few of the inn's guests stirred behind the open window shutters; a crow pecked for breadcrumbs on ground that was still damp from the morning's rain, but otherwise all was still.

Thomas dragged his attention back to the top item on his stack of papers, scowled for a while, and then gave up.

Katt!, he shouted, learning back on his stool and pushing the door open with his foot. Katherine!

A minute later, a young woman strode up, looking flustered. She wore a plain, light-brown linen kirtle with white sleeves, and a white apron; her red hair was tied loosely and uncovered in the fashion of an unmarried woman.

How now, Uncle Tom? I'm working.

Nay, not so, retorted Thomas, you're playing cards with Agnes!

How did you know?

Thomas smirked and pointed at her hands. You've got ink on your thumbs from those cheap cards we buy for the guests to amuse themselves with.

Katherine raised her eyebrows. Very clever, I'm sure. She held her hands up in front of her, and frowned. Nay, I haven't!

Thomas chuckled. Aye, I know. Actually, Agnes told me. You two always play cards before dinner, and she always wins. I'll wager she's had thruppence off you already this week. Carry on like this, and she'll be paying us, rather than the other way around. He pushed a slip of paper under Katherine's nose. Anyway, is this a two or a three? I can't tell if that's an 'iii' or an 'ii' with a dash next to it. She squinted at it, then moved it up to her face and back again, and said It's a two. Definitely. Or maybe a three. Thomas scowled; she grinned at him.

Nay, it's a three, for sure.

Three barrels? Are you sure Master Langridge's man brought us three barrels?

''Tis what it says.

I only saw two in the yard when I came in. Where's the other one?

Katherine walked over and poked him gently in the belly. Perhaps you drank it, Uncle Tom!

Thomas looked down at his midriff, then shook his head. Not even I can drink fourteen gallons before dinner. He paused. And stop calling me 'Uncle', girl. I'm your cousin, or something, and I haven't even thirty summers.

Twenty-nine, she replied, grinning, and already a belly like a Dutchman!

Thomas stood up and slapped his solid girth heartily. Well, an innkeeper has to trust his own wares. What would the guests think if I sipped wine like an Italian?

They'd think you were the proprietor of the prosperous and popular Whyte Hart Inn and not a seedy stable-hand. Look at your clothes -- you've been playing with the horses again, haven't you? Thomas's dark, weathered skin, and his dense mop of unruly brown hair, did indeed give him the look of a stable-hand, albeit a middle-aged one. Katherine plucked a piece of straw from the shoulder of his leather jerkin and regarded at it dubiously. She brushed one of his shoulders, then the other. Hmmm, she said.

Well, somebody's got to see to the nags, Thomas protested. It's amazing how few people we seem to employ when it's time to shovel horse-shit. And I'm not seedy -- I'm in the prime of my life: I've got all my own hair, and most of my own teeth. He grinned, revealing all but two of a full set.

Aye, scoffed Katherine, raising an eyebrow, the gallant soldier's battle wound. Prithee tell me again: what feat of daring led the dashing hero of the day to lose two gnashers?

Thomas scowled good-naturedly -- it was well-known that he had tripped over his own sword and hit his face on a Frenchman's head. He had been surprised, but not as surprised as the Frenchman. I'd better check this with Walter -- good ale is two shillings a barrel. You know we can't afford to lose a barrel. And on the subject of extortionate prices, have any of Goodman Beauchamp's pack of villains called around yet?

Aye, Uncle, replied Katherine, stressing the word 'uncle' rather more than Thomas cared for, but you're not going to like it.

How much? sighed Thomas.

Two shillings.

Thomas sat down heavily. Two shillings for three nights' entertainments? That's robbery!

It's worse than that -- two shillings a night.

Thomas's jaw dropped. God's wounds! I remember when mummers and jugglers and the like worked for a mug of ale, he grumbled, when he had recovered the power of speech. Six shillings is more than our takings.

Apparently it's worth it 'because of all the extra ale you'll sell.' Katherine shrugged.

Not if we've lost it, we won't. Katt, would you have a word with Gaffer Walter about this? See if he remembers how many barrels Langridge sent -- when you can tear yourself away from gambling your money away to his wife, that is. Katherine stuck out her tongue. All right Uncle -- sorry -- Tom.

Their bickering was interrupted by the arrival of a tall, thin, man with a lined, worried looking face, and sparse, greying hair.

Good day, Master Harwood, Katherine said with a smile. Please excuse me while I attend to some tiresome chores my tedious guardian has found for me. She tossed her head and left them standing in the open doorway. Harwood touched his cap politely, and smiled at her retreating back.

Well met, Jack, said Thomas, when they were alone. Thomas got up and drew him into the room. Can I offer you a cup of anything?

Ale would suit me, Tom, if it's no trouble.

'Tis never a trouble when it's you, Jack. Come through to the tap room. Thomas hesitated. Or is this a private matter?

It's not a secret, Tom, replied the constable, frowning slightly, but it is a bit, well, sensitive. If you know what I mean.

Ah. Well, have a seat in the workroom here, then, and I'll fetch us a drink.

When Thomas returned a few minutes later with two pewter mugs of ale, he set them down on the desk, pulled up an empty crate, and sat on it. George Harwood was already sitting on the only stool, nosily perusing the contents of Thomas's desk. He grinned sheepishly and took up a tankard. Thomas looked at his friend while he drank: a once-robust man of about his own age; two terms as a parish constable -- dangerous and largely unpaid -- had taken their toll.

So what's this about, Jack? Gaffer Walter hasn't been bothering the milkmaids again, has he?

The constable stroked his tidy, greying beard reflectively. Not that I know of, he replied. But, then, this isn't my parish, or even my ward. I'm sure he can find plenty of milkmaids to annoy around here, but that's not my problem. He sipped his ale. This is a bit more serious than Gaffer's straying hands. Well, actually, a lot more serious. George drained the rest of his ale in one mouthful. The bloody Sheriff is giving me a hard time.

Which one? Not Master Turke?

George put his tankard down, and wiped his mouth on his hand. He shook his head. "Not this time, surprisingly enough. This time it's Master -- oh, I'm sorry -- Sir John York."

Thomas was not entirely surprised at his friend's scathing tone -- George had little time for either of the sheriffs, or the City's aldermen for that matter. He said: Sir John's a decent enough fellow, George. I'm sure he'll settle down now he's finally got his knighthood.

Maybe so, replied the constable. Heaven knows he sucked up to the Old King long enough without getting one. He scowled, and then grinned. He'd have bought the ceremonial sword to the old man's death-bed if he could have. His face became serious. Unfortunately, his vigour for cleaning up the City doesn't extend to doing any actual policing himself. The poor constables get the work, while he gets the credit, what little there is of it. He spends most of his time swanning around at the mint.

Well, 'tis his job, Jack, interjected Thomas in a reasonable tone. He is an officer of the mint.

I know it. And my job is a cordwainer, not a thief-taker. I should be making fancy boots for gentlefolk, not chasing pickpockets half-way across the City. Not at my time of life. Nor, for that matter, nurse-maiding a bunch of so-called watchmen who need two walking sticks to get from one end of the Bridge to other. That's what the City pays beadles for. Supervising the watch, I mean, not walking over the Bridge. Not that my watchmen ever go to the other end of the Bridge. He paused. Mind you, nor do I if I can help it. He scratched his head. What the Hell was I talking about?

You were talking about why the Corporation ought to employ a paid police force, replied Thomas. Again. It was, to be sure, an old argument. The City was implacably opposed to a full-time, salaried watch. They were worried it could be used as a militia -- whether for the City authorities or against them was never clear.

"The City has a paid police force! grumbled George. I know for a fact that you pay Gaffer Shawe to stand your watch, and he's fifty if he's a day. Everybody does it."

Forty-four, he says, admitted Thomas, shuffling slightly. Jack, you know I can't be prowling the streets all night when I've got to get up at five o'clock in the morning and get the inn ready. It was bad enough when I was a constable, but at least I didn't have to go out every night. But you haven't walked all the way over here to discuss the politics of law enforcement, I would guess.

No. But Sheriff York is very keen to get this latest mess cleaned up, and this time he's even offered a little incentive, rather than just reminding me that the alderman will fine me if I don't catch the villain.

The sort of incentive that clinks? asked Thomas, hopefully.

Aye. And he's allowed me to bring in outside help. Specifically, old friend, he asked for you.

Why me? Thomas asked, with a slight sinking of his shoulders; but he was not entirely surprised.

Because you're good at investigating crimes -- everybody said so when you were a constable -- and I'm not. And I haven't got the time. And, George shrugged apologetically, you need the money.

It was true. The Whyte Hart inn was popular and reasonably highly regarded, but it was too large and cost a mint to run. And -- Thomas remembered the missing ale barrel -- it needed more eyes kept on its suppliers than the inn had heads to keep them in. He considered the possibility of moonlighting for a few days; he knew Sheriff York reasonably well, and had worked for him in the past. The City's system of largely private justice -- crime was supposed to be prosecuted by the victims or their families -- was not very effective when the victim was dead and unidentified. In principle, investigation was the responsibility of the wardmote jury of each of the city's wards, under the direction of its alderman. In practice the system had the resources only to deal with civic offences -- selling stale food and cheating on taxes -- not violent crime. The Sheriffs were deputies to the Lord Mayor, but traditionally answered directly to the King on matters of law and order.

Thomas shook his head: I never saw myself as an innkeeper ten years ago, but I certainly didn't see myself working as a common hired informer. I've tried to get away from the Sheriff's jobs because I don't want to end up branded as one. Informers made a living by bringing prosecutions and taking a share of the fines or confiscated property on conviction. Some constables did work as informers, but were generally not respected for it.

You'd be working for the Crown, Tom, George objected. It's not the same think at all.

Maybe not. But Master Savill won't like it. He actively campaigned for the post of constable when my term was up -- Heaven knows why. He won't want to see me poking my nose in again.

But that's the best part -- the incident happened in St Margaret's parish. It's nowhere near here. No reason to involve Savill at all, or your alderman

What about your own alderman?

Tom, Master Judde doesn't want anything to do with it -- he's too busy prancing about in his smart new Mayor costume, jangling his bloody chain. George looked into his empty tankard and scowled slightly.

Tom chuckled as he reached over and took the tankard. Does he wear it when he's out patrolling the streets on horseback every evening with you? He was referring to the Privy Council's direction that the aldermen were to supervise the night watch in person until the rebellion in Cornwall had been completely routed. The orders were followed sporadically at best.

George gave him a crooked grin. Thomas continued: Don't tell me he doesn't ride out? Tut, tut! Whatever will the King say when a horde of rampaging Cornishmen come storming over the Bridge waving pitchforks?

He'll say; 'This way to the shops, good fellows, prithee no pushing or shoving,' I imagine. The City's half full of Cornishmen anyway, these days; they'll soon feel right at home. Besides, Master Judde has no time for mere murders. It was he who set the Sheriff on me.

Thomas thought about this. Jack, to be sure, I do need the money, but I'm not sure I have time for this. Whatever 'this' is.

Let me tell you what it is, then decide, said George.

And he did.

Monday morning, May 16, 1550

There are, no doubt, worse ways to be woken at six o'clock in the morning than by a man in a blood-stained apron ranting about a dead body. But George Harwood, constable of St Margaret's parish, couldn't remember many. The visitor, a butcher from Eastcheap, had been sent to the constable's shop, which was also his family home,workshop, and warehouse, to summon him to a murder scene. George apologised to his wife and the shop staff, who were already settling down to work, and grumpily followed the man along Eastcheap, where a crowd had already gathered, scowling and elbowing each other around. This milling about and grumbling was the commonplace result of a hue-and-cry with nobody to chase, but today there was a particularly unsettling edge -- the pushing and shoving was more ill-tempered, just short of violence. Many of the crowd were dressed in butcher's garb -- thick-set men who looked as if they would be quite comfortable with a pig over each shoulder. The others were the usual gaggle of day labourers and apprentices, the sort of men that invariably turned out for street entertainment involving violence.

The dawn sky was a uniform grey, and there was a light drizzle. Pale sunlight reflected off the damp, slick cobbles. Eastcheap and its neighbouring streets formed a major market during daylight hours, mostly for meat and meat products. Normally vendors would already be setting up their stalls, butchers sharpening their tools, and shops putting out their displays. But today, opening time had been deferred.

In the centre of the crowd was a badly mutilated corpse. The dead man was dressed in the coarse clothes of a working man -- worn, brown leather boots, dark brown woollen hose, and a thick one-piece woollen tabard, tied about the waist with a belt. Through holes in the tabard George could see a leather jerkin. The man's wounds, together with the attentions paid to the soft tissue of his face by the ubiquitous rats, had made him unrecognisable. The tabard gave him the look of a farmer -- city people tended to scorn what they considered to be peasant garments, but the tabard was warm and practical: George owned one himself. Even the dead man's age was difficult to determine, but he had probably been between twenty and thirty. He was of medium height and build; what was left of his hair was short, dark, and rotten, and matted with blood. On his chest were a number of deep gashes, clearly caused by a blade, which had passed through his clothing into flesh. His head hung at an unnatural angle, because his neck had been partly severed. George was not entirely surprised to find the murder weapon apparently lying where it had been dropped on the cobbles -- the perpetrators of frenzied attacks frequently did not tidy up after themselves as diligently they should. The weapon was a heavy butcher's cleaver, some two feet in length from handle to tip, and probably weighing nearly twenty pounds. Next to the body was a neatly stacked pile of wooden packing crates.

George pushed his way through the milling crowed to the body, but still had to shout at the top of his voice to be heard.

Does anybody know anything about this? Who is this fellow? Nobody replied. There were shrugs and shaking of heads. Come on, somebody must know something about him! Is anybody missing? More shrugs and head shaking.

A large man dressed in a butcher's apron shouted: Seems the fellow is an incomer, then. Good bloody riddance to him! There was a murmur of approval, and more shouting.

George looked at the butcher. The man was probably right -- he knew of nobody who had been reported missing, and this body had clearly been lying for a while. As constable, he ought to be aware of any family in his parish that had lost a member, and would expect to have heard rumours of anybody in the neighbourhood missing for any length of time. On the face of it, it did look as if the man was a newcomer. Nevertheless such disrespect for the dead was unusual, even in Eastcheap. George was about to berate the butcher, when a voice shouted from the back: 'Tis bloody obvious what happened to him: one of the damned butchers did for him. Have you no eyes in your head? His swivin' chopper's lying there, covered in blood. Another murmur of agreement followed this outburst, and the pushing increased. George stretched to see the complainant, but did not recognize him. He decided that now might not be the best time to let a stranger antagonise the belligerent butcher -- a short-tempered man who was well known to him.

All right, shouted George, looking around again. I know what it looks like. Who found the body?

It turned out that a couple of butcher's apprentices had found the dead man on their way to Abraham's yard at least two hours ago, whilst it was still dark.

The older one explained: We were walking along the alley between Eastcheap and Candlewick Street, when Bob 'ere tripped and fell against a pile of wooden crates. He nodded his head nervously at the the crates. I guess the movement was enough for his hand to flop out. So we shifted the rest of the crates and, Jesu! You know what we found.

Not sure what to do, they had waited with the body until the older men arrived. One had been sent to raise the hue-and-cry, but a dead body in the street can hardly fail to draw a crowd, particularly such a gruesome body, and in the butcher's district.

Not hoping for much response, the constable hefted the cleaver above his head and called out Do any of you good people recognize this? He was not surprised when nobody claimed it. One cleaver looked like any other, but presumably a butcher would know if he was missing his. The constable shouted again: Very well. I need two volunteers -- a couple of stout fellows -- to carry the dead man to St Margaret's. Without waiting for a reply, he singled out two men. You and you! Then he added: And take the cleaver, too. We might need it as evidence.

A man called out angrily: And what are you going to do, Constable? Sew up some boots? There was a murmur from some parts of the crowd. George waved his arms for quiet, and silently wished he was indeed sewing boots.

I'm going to see Alderman Judde, he replied glumly. Would you like to trade places with me? The muttering died down. The new Lord Mayor wasn't going to like it.

Tuesday morning, May 16, 1550

He didn't like it, confirmed George to Thomas Whyte. Not at all. And you can see why. The butchers and their apprentices are a hot-tempered bunch, and they've been picking on day-labourers coming in from the country for months now. These incomers might be vagrants, strictly speaking, but we can't have punch-ups in the street. In any event, half the work in the City is done by incomers.

Aye. Thomas scratched his face thoughtfully. "It's the same all over the city. More people arriving every