The Gallows Murders

praise my needlework, sirs.'
    'No, Mistress, we are still puzzled by the strange bequest to you.'
    'As I am,' she replied. She lay the piece of cloth in her lap and stretched one hand out towards the fire, half listening to the sounds above. 'I have told you, sirs, the bequest was made to goldsmith Thurgood. Who am I to object? There's no crime in that.'
    I caught the lilt in her voice and asked if she was born in London. She shook her head.
    'No, my family are from Lincoln, they're clothmakers. I met Andrew there some years ago, before we came to London.' 'Was he always a hangman?' I asked.
    She blushed and her hands shook. ‘He was a priest,' she replied quietly. "Yes, sir, a defrocked priest. He killed a man in his own church and fled. I came with him to London. For a while he did some labouring before taking up his post as an apprentice hangman and joining the guild.' She shrugged. The rest you know.' 'But the children?' I remarked.
    'Andrew was one of those priests who did not follow canon law,' she answered. 'He had his woman, she gave birth to children. Go round the churches of England, Master Shallot. It's none too strange. That's how he killed a man,' she continued. 'Andrew was a good priest. He worked hard for his parishioners. He was a carpenter by trade and sold what he made so his children were not a burden on the parish. His wife died. Two years later he met me. One day, a parishioner accosted him in the nave of the church and called Andrew filthy names. Knives were drawn. For a while Andrew took sanctuary. I gathered up his possessions and children and fled south’
    'And you know of no reason why someone should kill your husband so barbarously?' Benjamin asked.
    'I have told you, sir. Andrew was a private man. He kept to himself. He did not talk much about his trade. Sometimes he drank with the guild.'
    'And the festivities on the night of the King's birthday?' I asked. ‘Your husband attended?' ‘Yes, but he left early.' 'Did he remark on anything untoward?'
    She shook her head. ‘Nothing, except to say that his comrades were as drunk as pigs and were lewd with their women.' She picked up the embroidery and jabbed at it with her needle. 'I tell you, sirs, I have nothing to say. I cannot help you. If I…' She stopped speaking as a little girl burst into the room chased by a boy, his fingers covered in ash.
    'Simon! Judith!' Mistress Undershaft stared down at the children. 'What on earth are you doing?' She grabbed the little girl, and her nightdress came loose exposing one thin white shoulder.
    'It's Simon,' the girl squeaked, pointing at her brother. "He's trying to draw on my shoulder.' She pointed to the dirty charcoal mark in the shape of a ‘W. The boy stood, hands by his side, looking fearfully at his mother.
    'Simon, you should not have done that!' Mistress Undershaft, highly agitated, began pushing him towards the door.
    'But Simon says you've got one,' the little girl replied. ‘You have a letter on your shoulder.'
    Mistress Undershaft fairly pushed them out of the room into the arms of the waiting maid. She slammed the door behind them, leaning against it, her face white as chalk, eyes closed, that lovely bosom heaving as if she had run a mile. I got up and walked towards her. "You heard?' she whispered without opening her eyes.
    'Aye, Mistress, I did. Is it true? Does your shoulder bear the brand of a whore?'
    She nodded, walked back, and slumped into the chair. Her shoulders began to shake as she wept.
    'I have told you the truth,' she said between sobs. 'Both Andrew and I came from Lincoln. He was a priest, his woman died, and then he met me. He was kind and generous-hearted. He told me he could not live a life of celibacy. Yes, I was a whore,' she continued softly. 'I was born and raised as a seamstress, but times became hard.' She swallowed, wiping her eyes with her fingers.
    That's what the quarrel was about, wasn't it?' Benjamin asked. 'When your husband killed that man in his church?'
    ‘Yes, it was about me,' she replied. Then Andrew took sanctuary.' She raised her face. ‘You know the law, Master Daunbey: either you surrender yourself to the royal justices, in which case Andrew would have certainly hanged, or you are given forty days to leave the kingdom. The friends and relatives of the man he killed would make sure he never left the city alive. So I organised everything. I didn't love Andrew but, there again, no man had ever stood up for me as he did. I smuggled him and