by Neal Roberts
Essex raises his eyebrows. “And you are … ?”
“I am the poor Queen’s constable, m’lord. Barn-Stable, at your service,” he says, carefully articulating each half of his name.
Essex regards him quizzically. “Barnstable?” he asks gravely, pronouncing the name to rhyme with “constable.” “Constable Barnstable?”
A sound like a sneeze erupts from Henry, who turns away, covering his nose with a handkerchief.
“No, suh. ‘Barn-Stable.’ After the two places where cows and horses … dwell, m’lord.” He looks at the corpse and shakes his head. “Right, then. Could we start at the begin — ” An assistant whispers urgently into his ear. The constable deferentially holds up his finger toward Essex. “Pardon y’self for just a moment, m’lord?”
Essex nods, a little uncertainly.
When the assistant finishes his urgent message, the constable asks, “Pardon, suh, but, judgin’ from your robes, would it be possible to tell if you’re a lawya?”
Noah is astonished to realize that it’s he who’s being addressed. Instinctively looking down at his robes, momentarily unsure what he’s been asked, he quickly collects his wits. “I am a barrister of the Queen’s Bench, Constable … Barn-Stable.”
“Well, then, beggin’ your pardon, suh, perhaps you could service a young widow?”
Henry sneezes again, apparently coming down with a sudden cold.
Noah’s jaw drops. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, suh, this lady is in need of legal disputation. Y’know, some bright lawyer like y’self to … persecute ’er.”
“Oh, yes, I see. Perhaps you should attend to m’Lord Essex before bothering further with me. His time is infinitely more valuable.” Noah bows to Essex, who nods appreciatively.
As Noah steps away from the constable with the intention of comforting the new widow, he glances up at the theater and stops in his tracks. There are no windows through which anyone could look out from either the hall or the staircase leading from Essex’s box to the door where the page awaited him. Essex could not possibly have observed the scene he’s about to describe to the constable.
Noah motions to the constable’s assistant, and hands him his professional card to give to the widow. “I’ll be with her in a few minutes,” he says, and rejoins the constable and the earl, whose conversation, he sees, has been followed closely by Henry.
“So, it was a robbery gone bad,” says the constable to the earl, shaking his head mournfully. “We can’t be ’avin’ such vilification ’ere in Southwark.” He notices Noah rejoining them. “Oh, ’ere he is now!” He says to Noah, “Would you mind going over the contents of the malefactor’s pockets with me? Wouldn’t want t’be accused of failin’ to take anythin’ what don’t belong to me, now would I?”
“Certainly, Constable,” replies Noah, who has begun responding to what the constable believes himself to be saying, rather than to what he’s saying in fact.
The constable draws a blank paper and a rough quill from his pocket and hands them to Noah together with a stained old inkwell. He removes the purse from the corpse’s hip and draws Noah aside to enumerate its contents.
The Earl of Southampton’s carriage draws alongside, and Noah can make out the profile of the earl seated inside, observing the proceedings with little interest. From the corner of his eye, he can see that the widow is also watching Southampton; in fact, she’s glaring at him, and Noah wonders what connection there can be between the two.
Essex shouts to the constable. “I hope you don’t mind, Constable. I should like to leave a man here to see the purse’s contents.”
The constable scratches his head, and responds as though the earl has requested permission to litter the grounds. “Not at all, m’lord. Please feel free to leave men anywhere ye like.”
Essex shakes his head in dismay and speaks a few private words to Henry, who nods and bows. Essex pats him fondly on the shoulder and steps into Southampton’s carriage.
Southampton is surprised that Essex takes the seat nearest him, as there’s no one else in the carriage who could overhear. But what Essex plans to discuss is evidently so secret that there must be no chance even the driver overhears a word.
“Henry Neville cast me the most incredulous expression,” says Essex. “He suspects I didn’t see the murder.” He sighs. “Well, at least Henry can be relied upon to have the good sense to keep his mouth shut about such matters.”
“It’s not Master Neville I’d worry about,” replies Southampton. “You evidently missed the look of startlement on the barrister’s face.”
“Barrister? Oh, the one with Neville?” asks Essex.
Southampton nods.
“I barely glanced at him.” Grave concern surfaces on Essex’s face. “Tell your driver to double back at a distance, and stop where we’ll be unseen. I want a better look.”
As he instructs the driver, Southampton wonders whether he should mention to Essex that the victim’s widow once served at Southampton House, or that he saw the barrister send his professional card her way. He decides to keep such information in abeyance. Besides, there’s something about the barrister that will interest Essex more. “Unless I’m mistaken,” he offers, “that barrister is the one defending Granger against the murder charge.”
“Granger? The grain merchant who dissuaded this fallen Spaniard from joining my ranks?”
Southampton nods. “As well as other Walsingham agents.” Walsingham, often referred to merely as “Mister Secretary,” long served as secretary of the Privy Council, that body of a dozen or so select politicians holding greatest influence with the Queen. Although the Privy Council has a new secretary, Walsingham was also the Queen’s spymaster and, since his death less than two years ago, no one has replaced him in that important capacity.
“I want that bastard Granger to swing,” says Essex.
“So much is clear, which gives you another reason to mistrust the barrister.”
The coach stops on a rise overlooking The Rose’s lawn, where Henry, the constable, and the barrister are earnestly preparing an inventory of the contents of the victim’s purse, while the widow, seated on a stump, cries inconsolably. A light breeze intermittently carries the sound of her distant wailing their way. Southampton finds the mournful sound pitiable, but Essex seems unfazed.
“The prosecutor in the case against Granger is Coke, is it not?” asks Essex, pronouncing Coke’s name as “Cook.”
“’Tis.”
“He’s having trouble finding an eyewitness to place Granger at the murder scene?”
“He is.”
“Well,” says Essex, smiling slyly, “it’s about time Coke found just such an eyewitness. By pure chance, of course.” He smirks. “I’ll tell Gelly Meyrick to prepare himself.”
“But what would Meyrick know about the case?”
“Well, he’s my principal attendant, and he’s never had the least difficulty seeming sincere when he lies to me. I’m sure a past master such as he will find there’s nothing to it. Meanwhile, it might be a good idea to find out if Master Barrister there has anything to hide. I’ll put my page to the task.” He gazes through the window at the figures on the lawn. “Yes, Master Barrister,” he quietly muses, “you’ll soon have too many distractions to worry about today’s little murder.”
The man left by Essex to witness the inventory of the victim’s pockets is an intelligent-looking blond fellow about Henry’s age.
The constable glances meaningfully at the setting sun. “We’ll be gainin’ daylight soon. If you could just write these things down as I list them, suh.” Noah nods and leans the parchment against his hand. Although the pen he’s been given is bent and worn, he manages to make it work passably well.
The constable pulls the purse open by the drawstring, reaches in, and draws out a few small items. “Four silver coins, all identical,” he intones.
Henry reaches out for them, smiling ingratiatingly. “If I may examine them.”
&n
bsp; The constable regards Henry skeptically. “And who might you be, suh?”
“I am Henry Neville, Baron of the Cinque Ports.”
The constable appears to find the title familiar. “The cannon maker?”
Henry’s countenance relaxes. “Precisely, Constable. I expect you are a man o’ war, to recognize the title.”
The constable smiles. “Oh, I’ve ’et the elephant once or twice.” He winks at Henry. “Are you of the Gresham works?”
“I own the Gresham cannon works,” says Henry. “The barony doesn’t bring much with it, unless the Queen were to marry, in which case I’d get to hold the canopy.”
“Well, meaning no offense to the Queen, God rest ’er soul, let’s hope she doesn’t marry some Frenchy or, worse, one of them Spaniards! Any papist, for that matter. Those are fine cannon, Master,” says the constable, handing the coins to Henry, who requires only a glance at them.
“These are all Spanish pieces of eight,” says Henry. Noah dutifully writes: “Four Spanish pieces of eight.” Henry hands the coins to the blond fellow, who holds them in his open palm.
The constable reaches in and draws out a handful of current English coins, including three crowns, four groats, and a few pence, counting them aloud and handing them to Essex’s man one at a time. Noah dutifully records the number of coins of each denomination.
The constable again reaches into the purse, which is now nearly empty, and pulls out a weathered piece of paper, yellowed with age, its edges bearing the brownish gray imparted by much handling. “Well, ’ello. What are you?” he asks the paper.
“May I?” asks Henry, extending his hand.
Essex’s man suddenly grows serious. “Perhaps we should open this before the earl.”
“Oh, I think the earl has far more pressing business,” says Henry, who takes the paper and deftly unfolds it. He reads it silently, and looks up at Noah, his eyes betraying the slightest hint of concern.
“What is it?” asks Noah.
Henry half smiles. “Nothing of consequence. It’s a commonplace letter of introduction requesting the bearer’s admittance to places of public gathering. As the bearer is unnamed, this may have passed through several owners. It doesn’t tell us much, I’m afraid. I suggest you don’t even include it in your list, Master Ames. Let us leave this with the constable as possible evidence.” He turns to Essex’s man. “Would that be satisfactory to you, sir?”
The man reaches for the paper. “May I, Master Neville?”
“Oh,” Henry smiles, “by all means.”
Essex’s man reads it silently, and nods. “That would be fine. No need to put this on the list. Let’s leave it with the constable.”
The constable pockets it. “Well, that seems to be everythin’. What say we give the lady the coins and the purse?” He points to Noah’s list, which contains but four entries. “She can sign that as a receipt.” Noah nods agreeably and hands it to the constable.
Looking disappointed, the constable turns to the widow. Two voices begin together, as if on cue. “Oh, Constable,” they say. The constable turns back. Henry and Essex’s man have each extended to him a closed hand with a downturned palm.
Essex’s man half smiles at Henry and pushes his hand away. “No, no. Master Neville, I must insist.”
“But — ” splutters Henry.
Essex’s man shakes his head. “Orders of Lord Essex.”
Henry nods deferentially and drops his hand, returning its contents to his pocket. “Please extend my compliments to his lordship.”
“I shall certainly do so,” the man assures him, and drops an angel into the constable’s palm.
The constable smiles from ear to ear. “Yes, suh. Please be sure to thank his lordship on behalf o’ Master Neville.”
Noah follows the constable to the widow, who sits alone on a stump, looking dazed and forlorn. The constable hands over her husband’s coins and purse, requests her mark on the receipt, blows the ink dry, and offers his services in the event she discovers who killed her husband.
At that moment, the coroner’s black coach pulls up, driven by two burly white-coated men. It pulls to a stop, and a small, gray-haired, neatly dressed Spaniard emerges.
“Hmmph!” remarks the constable. “Holdin’ a special on Spaniards today.”
“So it seems,” mutters Noah.
The two assistants dismount and assemble a device obviously intended for carrying patients or corpses. Consisting of two parallel poles about six feet in length with polished ends, the device has three feet of rough gray fabric stretched between the poles. As the assistants lift the earthly remains onto the stretched fabric and deftly transport them to the rear of the hearse, the Spaniard pays his respects to the widow.
“Madam, I am Roderigo Lopez, the physician who has been asked to collect your husband’s remains. May I offer you a ride to your residence?” His voice has barely any accent but sounds vaguely Spanish.
“You may,” she says wanly, extending her hand.
The Spaniard, who moves far more elegantly than Noah has come to expect of coroner’s assistants, helps her rise, escorts her to the hearse, and assists her up the single step, ensuring that she’s seated securely inside. He re-emerges and walks over to Henry, who is deep in conversation with Essex’s man.
As soon as Henry catches sight of Lopez, he greets him warmly. To Noah’s surprise, so does Essex’s man, who then excuses himself, bows, and starts across the theater’s lawn toward his waiting horse, a beautiful white steed.
“Thank you, Constable,” says Henry, palming him another angel. “You have been a great help.”
“Thank you, suh,” says the constable, bowing low and returning to his assistants.
“Come on, Ames,” says Henry. “We’re taking the hearse home.” He turns to introduce Lopez. “Master Ames, this is Doctor Roderigo Lopez, who is much, much more than he appears. Not only is he an expert physician having many important patients, he’s also Portuguese ambassador to Her Majesty’s court.”
Lopez blushes. “Please, Master Neville, you flatter me beyond reason.” He turns confidentially to Noah. “And it would be much appreciated of Master Ames if he would keep these matters between us.”
“Indeed, sir,” replies Noah, having no idea what to make of this man’s unusual combination of offices. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Henry, Lopez, and Noah join the new widow in the hearse, unaware that they’re being watched from a distant carriage that only now draws away.
Chapter 3
AS LOPEZ ASSUMES a seat next to the distraught widow, Noah and Henry take the bench opposite. The assistants can be heard clambering up and taking the reins. The hearse starts moving mournfully down the path from the theater.
Lopez clears his throat gently. “Madam, where shall we bring you?”
As exhausted as she is, it takes a moment for her to respond. “My husband and I — ” She chokes back tears and begins anew. “I shared a house with my husband at Holborn. If you would bring me there.” Although, by her accent, Noah does not place her among the nobility, she speaks well and clearly, in a manner often heard among London’s most successful merchant class.
He notices for the first time that, although nearly all the blood has drained from her face after today’s catastrophe, she is really quite beautiful. Her eyes, though bloodshot, are a chestnut brown, as is her hair. Her mouth, though pursed now in grief, is naturally wide and generous, disclosing a beautiful set of teeth. Her nose, long and elegant, nowhere protrudes more than a finger’s breadth from her face. Her figure is indiscernible in the low crouch in which she now sits, but before she entered the carriage Noah detected her shapeliness, a large bust and thin waist. While normally he would berate himself for harboring lustful thoughts about a woman whose husband has not yet been interred, he forgives himself this time, in part because she reminds him in some ways of his lost and beloved Rachel, and he knows from experience that, where thoughts of her lead, he has no c
hoice but to follow.
Lopez flips open the latch of a compartment built into the side of the carriage and draws out paper, pen, and ink. “Madam, I apologize deeply, but I am required to ask you a few questions under these unhappy circumstances.”
Noah glances over at Henry, who’s uncharacteristically quiet, watching the widow’s face closely.
She sighs. “I’ll answer as well as I can, but my thoughts are all in a muddle.”
“I quite understand,” says Lopez, dipping the pen in the inkwell.
Noah interrupts. “Before you proceed, Doctor, please allow me to make a proper introduction. Goodwife Rodriguez, I am Noah Ames, the barrister whose card was given you a short time ago. Do you have it still?”
By way of answer, she holds up the crumpled card that has evidently remained in her hand the whole time.
“Good,” he says. “As I witnessed the … event, I will be unable to act as your counsel in the case, but if you call for me at Gray’s Inn, I will be pleased to introduce you to a reliable lawyer who works closely with investigators. This gentlemen sitting next to me is my good friend, Master Henry Neville, Member of Parliament.” Henry nods silently, and the widow nods in return.
“Thank you, Master Ames,” she replies. “I may come ’round to Gray’s tomorrow, if I’m feeling up to it.”
“Very well,” says Lopez, now that Noah’s business is done. “What is your name, madam?”
“I am Marie Rodriguez-Miller.” She rolls the second r in “Rodriguez” as effortlessly as a native Castilian. “My husband’s name, that is, the name he went by here in England, was Stephen Rodriguez.”
“How old was he?”
She thinks for a moment. “I’m not precisely sure. About forty, I should imagine, but we never got much into it.”
“What was his nationality?”
“He was born in Spain. A papist, but converted more than ten years ago. A good Protestant now. Church of England. Holds no love for the Pope.” She looks down and corrects herself. “Held.”
