Satan in St Mary

block out the rank smell from the fish stalls. An empty charcoal wagon clattered past, its driver as black as the devil but evidently pleased at a good day's trade. Corbett drew in under the porch of a house to let it pass, noticing that across the street, a solitary figure sat locked by the hands in the stocks, a rotten fish dangling round his neck. Some crafty fishmonger, Corbett thought, caught by his own guild or the ever inquisitive city authorities for selling bad produce and so sentenced to public ridicule.
    Corbett walked on and turned into Cheapside, a broad avenue which cut east to west across the city and the focal point of London's trade. The houses were bigger and grander here. Two or three storeys high, with windows glazed with horn, the wattled daub clean and the umbers and gables brightly painted, most of them displaying the arms of the Guild of Goldsmiths. At one of these houses, Corbett stopped and knocked at the heavy wooden door. There was a rattle of chains and locks and the door swung slightly open on its thick stout leather hinges. A burly porter, carrying a cresset torch of spluttering pitch, brusquely asked Corbett's business. The clerk curbed his anger at the man's rudeness and asked to speak with the merchant, John de Guisars. The porter was set to slam the door in Corbett's face when a small, rotund figure appeared, standing on tiptoe to see him.
    "Why, " he exclaimed, almost pushing his retainer aside. "It is Hugh Corbett. Come to deposit more monies, Master Clerk?"
    Hugh grinned at the fat, generous face. He had always liked de Guisars, who made little attempt to hide his acquisitiveness.
    "No, Master Goldsmith, " he replied. "I have come to check your stewardship and draw monies from you. " The goldsmith's disappointment was almost laughable. He regarded Corbett as a good customer who always deposited money and rarely drew on his stock. A mysterious man really, the goldsmith thought, looking at the clerk's dark, gaunt face and hooded eyes. The clerk was quite wealthy but lived sparsely in some garret in Thames Street.
    The goldsmith's shrewd little eyes saw a mystery in the man but he was too polite to ever comment. He sighed, beckoned the clerk into the blackness of the inner shop and ordered the now submissive doorkeeper to light candles and bring his visitor some wine. De Guisars led Corbett by the arm deeper into the house and bade him sit on a small stool. The doorkeeper, taper in hand, lit the tallow and wax candles which stood in iron holders placed judiciously around a room which exuded wealth and comfort. The floor was polished wood, thick, gilt-edged tapestries depicting richly woven scenes from the Bible covered the walls. At the far end was a large oak table, a chair and, above them, racks and shelves full of scrolls or sheaves of parchment all neatly ordered and indexed. On each side of the table were leather and wooden chests reinforced with iron strips and heavily padlocked. The wine was eventually brought, two cups of what Corbett recognized as the best of Gascony, warmed and lightly spiced. He and de Guisars toasted each other and, when the porter withdrew, the goldsmith sat on a trunk opposite Corbett.
    "How much?" he asked.
    Corbett smiled. "Ten pounds but don't worry, Master de Guisars, most of it will comeback. It's the King's business. "
    The goldsmith nodded in pleasure. With the cup clasped between his hands he looked like some ancient child. "And the business?" he asked hopefully.
    Corbett knew that de Guisars would ask that question and had carefully planned his response. "Well, " he answered slowly. "Yes, I can tell you. It's Duket. A member of your guild who hanged himself in Saint Mary Le Bow. I have been asked to investigate… " His voice trailed off as he noticed de Guisars's reaction. Fear? Terror? Even guilt? Corbett could not decide but the transformation in the little merchant was astonishing. His face went white and he became visibly flustered.
    De Guisars rose swiftly from his seat and crossed to one of his leather trunks. Within minutes he had counted out Corbett's money and, crossing over, almost threw it into Corbett's hand as if anxious to be rid of him. "Your money, Master Clerk. " He opened the door. "It is late and… " he waved airily towards the back of his house.
    Corbett rose, slid the coins into his purse and moved towards the open door. "Goodnight, Master de Guisars, " he murmured. "Perhaps I will be back. "
    In the cold, dark street,