a courtyard and into a small mansion. The Guildhall proper was merely a walled enclosure containing a number of buildings around a large, three-storied house. Corbett waited inside the doorway until Ranulf joined him. They went up a rickety wooden staircase into a spacious, white-washed chamber where clerks sat at a table scratching away at great rolls of vellum and parchment. Not one of them looked up as Corbett and Ranulf entered but a large fat man, seated at the head of the room, got up and waddled over. Corbett recognised the podgy, red face above the ill-fitting gown and food-stained jerkin.
‘Master Nettler.’ Corbett extended a hand which Nettler, Sheriff of the Wards in the north of the city, clasped, his watery blue eyes alight with pleasure.
‘We expected you, Hugh. The King’s letters arrived last night.’ Nettler glanced at the scriveners and lowered his voice. ‘No man can be trusted,’ he muttered. ‘The killer could be anyone in this room. I am not dealing with it. One of the under-sheriffs will advise you. Come! Come!’
He led them out along the passageway to a small, dusty chamber. A clerk sat at a high desk in the corner, copying letters. Beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered, prepossessing man whom Nettler introduced as Alexander Cade, Under-Sheriff of the city. Once the introductions were finished, Nettler brusquely left; the Under-Sheriff completed the letter whilst Corbett studied him. He had heard of Cade, an excellent thief-catcher with an astute eye who could spot a villain across a crowded tavern. The rogues of London’s underworld rightly feared him yet, despite his size, Cade looked like a court fop in his gaudily trimmed gown, high leather riding boots, cambric shirt, and small skull cap which he wore on the back of his thick black hair. His forked beard was neatly trimmed which, together with his sallow features and lazy, good-natured eyes, gave Cade the appearance of a man who enjoyed the good things of life rather than the ruthless pursuit of villains and rogues. He waved Corbett and Ranulf to a window seat whilst he finished the letter. Once done he turned with a flourish.
‘You’re here about the murdered whores?’ Cade made a face. ‘Or should I be honest? Your presence here is not about them but about Lady Somerville’s death as well as that of Father Benedict.’
Cade whispered something to his clerk, who got down from his seat, went over to one of the shelves and brought back a sheaf of documents.
‘Thank you,’ Cade muttered. ‘You may go.’
He waited until the old man closed the door behind him then picked up a stool and sat opposite Corbett.
‘There are three matters which concern me,’ he announced. ‘The deaths of the whores, the deaths of Lady Somerville and Father Benedict, and Puddlicott’s arrival in London.’
Corbett’s jaw dropped in surprise.
‘Oh, yes,’ Cade said. ‘Our friend, that master of disguise, Richard Puddlicott of a dozen names and countless appearances, is back in the city.’ Cade’s eyes opened wide. ‘This time I want to catch him! I want to see that clever bastard in chains.’
‘How do you know he is here?’
‘Just read these.’ Cade handed the sheaf of documents over. ‘Read them,’ he repeated. ‘Take your time, Master Corbett. Or should I call you Sir Hugh?’ Cade smiled. ‘We have heard the news. Accept our congratulations. The Lady Maeve must be pleased.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ Corbett murmured. ‘She is.’
Cade went over, filled two goblets of wine and handed them to Corbett and Ranulf. ‘I will leave you alone. When you have read them, then we will talk.’
Cade sauntered off, Ranulf turned to stare out of the window at a file of prisoners being led out into the yard below whilst Corbett studied the documents. The first two were letters informing the sheriffs of London how angry the King was that so many bloody murders had been committed in the city; in particular, the grisly death of Lady
‘Master Nettler.’ Corbett extended a hand which Nettler, Sheriff of the Wards in the north of the city, clasped, his watery blue eyes alight with pleasure.
‘We expected you, Hugh. The King’s letters arrived last night.’ Nettler glanced at the scriveners and lowered his voice. ‘No man can be trusted,’ he muttered. ‘The killer could be anyone in this room. I am not dealing with it. One of the under-sheriffs will advise you. Come! Come!’
He led them out along the passageway to a small, dusty chamber. A clerk sat at a high desk in the corner, copying letters. Beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered, prepossessing man whom Nettler introduced as Alexander Cade, Under-Sheriff of the city. Once the introductions were finished, Nettler brusquely left; the Under-Sheriff completed the letter whilst Corbett studied him. He had heard of Cade, an excellent thief-catcher with an astute eye who could spot a villain across a crowded tavern. The rogues of London’s underworld rightly feared him yet, despite his size, Cade looked like a court fop in his gaudily trimmed gown, high leather riding boots, cambric shirt, and small skull cap which he wore on the back of his thick black hair. His forked beard was neatly trimmed which, together with his sallow features and lazy, good-natured eyes, gave Cade the appearance of a man who enjoyed the good things of life rather than the ruthless pursuit of villains and rogues. He waved Corbett and Ranulf to a window seat whilst he finished the letter. Once done he turned with a flourish.
‘You’re here about the murdered whores?’ Cade made a face. ‘Or should I be honest? Your presence here is not about them but about Lady Somerville’s death as well as that of Father Benedict.’
Cade whispered something to his clerk, who got down from his seat, went over to one of the shelves and brought back a sheaf of documents.
‘Thank you,’ Cade muttered. ‘You may go.’
He waited until the old man closed the door behind him then picked up a stool and sat opposite Corbett.
‘There are three matters which concern me,’ he announced. ‘The deaths of the whores, the deaths of Lady Somerville and Father Benedict, and Puddlicott’s arrival in London.’
Corbett’s jaw dropped in surprise.
‘Oh, yes,’ Cade said. ‘Our friend, that master of disguise, Richard Puddlicott of a dozen names and countless appearances, is back in the city.’ Cade’s eyes opened wide. ‘This time I want to catch him! I want to see that clever bastard in chains.’
‘How do you know he is here?’
‘Just read these.’ Cade handed the sheaf of documents over. ‘Read them,’ he repeated. ‘Take your time, Master Corbett. Or should I call you Sir Hugh?’ Cade smiled. ‘We have heard the news. Accept our congratulations. The Lady Maeve must be pleased.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ Corbett murmured. ‘She is.’
Cade went over, filled two goblets of wine and handed them to Corbett and Ranulf. ‘I will leave you alone. When you have read them, then we will talk.’
Cade sauntered off, Ranulf turned to stare out of the window at a file of prisoners being led out into the yard below whilst Corbett studied the documents. The first two were letters informing the sheriffs of London how angry the King was that so many bloody murders had been committed in the city; in particular, the grisly death of Lady
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