flame blew out in his eyes. His face went flat, expressionless.
“She was killed in the Moorfields, two weeks ago or more,” I repeated. “I take it you know the circumstances?”
Symkok looked down at the ledger, his jaw rigid. “Can’t help you, Gower. Not on this one.”
A dog barked from Guildhall gate, a muffled sound that carried through the outer room. I let the silence linger. “But I think you can, Nick.”
He shifted on his bench. A vacant stare toward the shutters, and finally that reliable nod. From a cupboard at his feet he removed a wooden box and placed it on the table, then reached inside and withdrew a heavy roll. He spread it across the surface, the worn wooden handles gleaming with the polish of many hands, until he found the entry in question.
“Be quick about it.” He left the room, with the coroner’s roll opened on the table. In this document would be transcribed the original report, which was written out at the scene of the inquest. The roll, then, was the official copy of all the coroner’s investigations of unnatural deaths in London during the term of his appointment. A rich and morbid archive, I had found over the years. I read the inquest report.
Friday the eve of Lady Day, a o 8 Richard II, it happened that a certain woman, name unknown, lay dead of a death other than her rightful death beside a certain low wood building in the Moorfields, in the rent of the holy priory of St. Bethlem. On hearing this, the coroner and the sheriffs proceeded thither, and having summoned good men of various wards—viz. James Barkelay, Will Wenters, Ralph Turk, Thomas de Redeford, mercer, Simon de Saint Johan of Cornhull, draper, Laurence Sely, Simon Pulham, skinner, John Lemman &c.—they diligently inquired how it happened. The jurors say that on some unknown day before said Friday said woman was beaten in the face and struck on the head and bloodied, feloniously murdered by an unknown assailant. When asked who found the dead body, they say a certain Adam de Hoyne, carter, did raise the hue and cry upon discovering the lady in her natural state. Upon inquiring further they did learn that no witnesses were found to be present at the said woman’s death, nor did they find that anyone about knew her name, nor her station, nor her land of origin.
The corpse viewed &c.
Clothing appraised at 2s.
The surrounding inquests contained nothing out of the ordinary. I read the report again, memorizing certain details. The body had been discovered some days after the murder, it appeared. The woman had been beaten, her death apparently caused by a blow to the skull. She had been found “in her natural state,” or unclothed. No witnesses, no identifying belongings. The appraisal of her clothing was high, though not unusually so.
In the outer chamber Symkok was conferring with his fellow clerks. When I emerged he gestured me outside. We reached the middle of Cat Street before he opened his mouth. “So?”
“Seems simple enough,” I said.
“Murder usually is, in my experience.”
“Tyle himself held the inquest?”
He nodded.
“Bit unusual.”
Symkok shrugged. “Though not unprecedented. When an earl dies on us, or a knight—”
“A nameless girl, stripped to the smooth? Hardly an earl, Nick.”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Tell me, Nick.”
He straightened his back, his chin high. “Nothing more to tell, Gower.”
We stood for a time, Symkok squirming in his discomfort.
“Do some digging, then,” I quietly said. A cart passed behind him, a low groan from its wheels. “I need to know why Tyle took this one. Who told him to do the inquest himself rather than fob it off, like he usually does? And what did he find?”
He swallowed, his lined neck rippling with the effort.
“Be discreet about it, Nick.”
He swallowed again. “Always am, Gower, at least where you’re concerned.”
I left him there, gnawing at his past.
B ack at St. Mary Overey a letter awaited me in the hall.
“She was killed in the Moorfields, two weeks ago or more,” I repeated. “I take it you know the circumstances?”
Symkok looked down at the ledger, his jaw rigid. “Can’t help you, Gower. Not on this one.”
A dog barked from Guildhall gate, a muffled sound that carried through the outer room. I let the silence linger. “But I think you can, Nick.”
He shifted on his bench. A vacant stare toward the shutters, and finally that reliable nod. From a cupboard at his feet he removed a wooden box and placed it on the table, then reached inside and withdrew a heavy roll. He spread it across the surface, the worn wooden handles gleaming with the polish of many hands, until he found the entry in question.
“Be quick about it.” He left the room, with the coroner’s roll opened on the table. In this document would be transcribed the original report, which was written out at the scene of the inquest. The roll, then, was the official copy of all the coroner’s investigations of unnatural deaths in London during the term of his appointment. A rich and morbid archive, I had found over the years. I read the inquest report.
Friday the eve of Lady Day, a o 8 Richard II, it happened that a certain woman, name unknown, lay dead of a death other than her rightful death beside a certain low wood building in the Moorfields, in the rent of the holy priory of St. Bethlem. On hearing this, the coroner and the sheriffs proceeded thither, and having summoned good men of various wards—viz. James Barkelay, Will Wenters, Ralph Turk, Thomas de Redeford, mercer, Simon de Saint Johan of Cornhull, draper, Laurence Sely, Simon Pulham, skinner, John Lemman &c.—they diligently inquired how it happened. The jurors say that on some unknown day before said Friday said woman was beaten in the face and struck on the head and bloodied, feloniously murdered by an unknown assailant. When asked who found the dead body, they say a certain Adam de Hoyne, carter, did raise the hue and cry upon discovering the lady in her natural state. Upon inquiring further they did learn that no witnesses were found to be present at the said woman’s death, nor did they find that anyone about knew her name, nor her station, nor her land of origin.
The corpse viewed &c.
Clothing appraised at 2s.
The surrounding inquests contained nothing out of the ordinary. I read the report again, memorizing certain details. The body had been discovered some days after the murder, it appeared. The woman had been beaten, her death apparently caused by a blow to the skull. She had been found “in her natural state,” or unclothed. No witnesses, no identifying belongings. The appraisal of her clothing was high, though not unusually so.
In the outer chamber Symkok was conferring with his fellow clerks. When I emerged he gestured me outside. We reached the middle of Cat Street before he opened his mouth. “So?”
“Seems simple enough,” I said.
“Murder usually is, in my experience.”
“Tyle himself held the inquest?”
He nodded.
“Bit unusual.”
Symkok shrugged. “Though not unprecedented. When an earl dies on us, or a knight—”
“A nameless girl, stripped to the smooth? Hardly an earl, Nick.”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Tell me, Nick.”
He straightened his back, his chin high. “Nothing more to tell, Gower.”
We stood for a time, Symkok squirming in his discomfort.
“Do some digging, then,” I quietly said. A cart passed behind him, a low groan from its wheels. “I need to know why Tyle took this one. Who told him to do the inquest himself rather than fob it off, like he usually does? And what did he find?”
He swallowed, his lined neck rippling with the effort.
“Be discreet about it, Nick.”
He swallowed again. “Always am, Gower, at least where you’re concerned.”
I left him there, gnawing at his past.
B ack at St. Mary Overey a letter awaited me in the hall.
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