A Second Daniel

by Neal Roberts

  After deliberately letting a long time pass in silence, Noah speaks. “Close call last evening.” It isn’t a question, really, so no response is actually required. He awaits the uncertain outcome.

  Jonathan exhales deeply through his nose, but otherwise does not move. “I suppose,” he sniffs.

  “Were you frightened?”

  “Of course!” says Jonathan, in a tone suggesting this to be the stupidest question imaginable. “Weren’t you?”

  This is progress. A conversation of any sort is progress.

  “I was terrified even before anyone suspected I was there with you!” replies Noah. “Is that what’s bothering you? The fear?” No reply. “Anyone in that position would have been scared to death, you know.” He feels it his duty to provide a brief justification for his conduct the previous evening. “You know, don’t you, that my drawing a weapon was warranted only in defense of those being threatened with death?”

  “I suppose,” says Jonathan lethargically. He turns onto his left side to face Noah. “What the hell are we doing here?” he intones, opening one eye, the other firmly hidden by his arm.

  “How do you mean?” asks Noah.

  “I mean, what do we hope to accomplish?”

  “Well, we hope to obtain justice for — ”

  Jonathan exhales rudely through his closed mouth, flapping his lips noisily. “Oh, please! There’s no justice to be had in this godforsaken kingdom. Unless you’re a duke or an earl or something.”

  “Why do you say that?” asks Noah.

  Both Jonathan’s eyes are open now. “You tell me! That barbarian thug last night … the one who smashed his friend’s face in, and gave an order to kill me and my investigator for no discernible reason? That pile of dung works for the Earl of Essex. The Earl of Essex, for God’s sake!”

  “Well,” shrugs Noah, “every nobleman has his agents. They’re not always of the finest character.”

  “The finest character? Ha! But must they be of so low a character that you would use a stick to scrape them off your boot?” Jonathan sits up, and his face reddens. “What does it say about an earl that he employs murderers? He threatened to murder a barrister of the Queen’s Bench, Noah! I thought we were above that in this country. And can I so much as serve a subpoena upon the earl to compel him to give testimony?” He holds up an index finger, as though in lawyerly demonstration. “Well, for that I would need court leave. But the court would not grant me leave if I sought it!” He impersonates a stuffy old judge, sounding remarkably like Lord Bleffingham: “‘Sorry, Master Hawking, but this is the Earl of Flippin’ Essex we’re talking about. With respect to persons of such high estate, a special showing must be made’ blah, blah, blast!” As Jonathan grows more incensed by the second, Noah discreetly shuts the heavy door behind him in an effort to keep the sound inside the room. “So, that villain — as well as the scoundrel who employs him — is beyond the reach of Queen’s Bench!”

  Jonathan raises his index finger again. “With impunity, he threatens barristers and their assistants for doing their sworn duty. And, but for a little unexpected help last night, he would have murdered them with impunity. Two murders, in fact! Three, if he’d managed to collar you before you reached the door. And tack on four more for the jesters, if we hadn’t outnumbered Skeres and his men. Don’t you ever wonder what the devil we are doing here?” Before Noah can form a reply, Jonathan rises from his bed.

  “I’ll tell you what we’re doing,” says Jonathan in answer to his own question. “We’re acting!” His lip curls into a sneer of self-contempt. “Like a crowd of players on a street corner in Bankside. No, more like The Rose. But our house is so much statelier than The Rose! The Rose is made of mere wood, while our great theater is fashioned of stone! Chiseled old stone made to endure a thousand years! With a massive, soaring roof, and oak-lined walls. Why, they’ve given us the biggest and prettiest theater in all the realm! Don’t you see?

  “We don’t work at justice, we play at it! We draft our pleadings and our writs like so many theater scripts. We conduct a trial like a play in an alehouse, based upon half-concealed evidence and theatrical speeches. And we pretend the end result to be justice, when it is nothing of the kind! The litigant who hires the best actor wins! Regardless of any merit to his adversary’s cause.” Jonathan laughs giddily, which Noah finds worrisome.

  Although he’s entertained Jonathan’s diatribe with equanimity up to this point, he feels impelled to reply. “All very poetical! But who has such a great interest in seeing us ‘play’ at justice that he would willingly bear the enormous expense?”

  “Well, that’s the right question, isn’t it? Who indeed?”

  Noah furrows his brow. “Surely, you’re not suggesting that the Earl of Essex — ”

  Jonathan nods emphatically. “Him — and everyone like him! They let us commoners have our Common Law so they can continue with their special brand of noble law. Everyone knows that Star Chamber is a court for trying peers of the Crown. They make decisions about each other there like it’s a blasted fraternity! They take no live testimony. And they do not impose the death penalty. That privilege is strictly reserved for the commoners and lesser nobles. Oh, I’m not saying a commoner cannot get a fair trial in a case against another commoner. But when it’s a peer against a commoner, the case becomes ‘political,’ and that means only one side gets it in the neck, and that’s us! So, I ask you again,” says Jonathan, throwing his hands up in exasperation, “what are we doing here?” He falls back onto his bed, breathing heavily.

  Noah is speechless, as the point is quite valid. While it has always seemed to him that the cards have been stacked in any case characterized as “political,” yet he’s never heard the argument laid out quite so passionately before. He wonders why it has never occurred to him to make a cogent argument against gross inequality in the application of English law. That’s the way it’s always been, he’s supposed, so that’s the way it will always be. And he wonders by what silent, insidious process his mind has been subverted into believing that it’s the way things probably ought to be. Has it just been his own laziness? Or his status as a secret Jew who lacks the privilege of speaking out, and finds it pointless and dangerous to consider ideas he may not express? Or perhaps worse, as someone who’s profited by a system of privilege, has he thereby become complicit in it? Although he’s always found comfort in the undeniable bromide that no system of justice is perfect, now he sees what cold comfort such notions must be to those without privilege.

  To be sure, Star Chamber is reputed to be a fearsome place, but that is its reputation among commoners. The nobility, on the other hand, seems to have wiped it from their collective consciousness, hinting at its existence only in dark corners of old stories.

  There’s a knock at the door behind Noah. He rises and peeks out. It’s Andres Salazar. “Letter for you, sir. It was brought by a little blond boy. Says you call him ‘Master Cheerful.’”

  “Thank you, Andres,” says Noah softly. “He’s a good lad, but keep him out of the inn for now.” He reaches into his pocket, finds the right coin, and hands it to Salazar. “Thank him, and give him this.” Salazar nods, and trots off toward the main entrance.

  Jonathan now lies spread out over his bed with his arm over his eyes. “Jonathan,” says Noah. “I’ll be elsewhere in the inn for a while. We’ll continue this a bit later.” There’s no reply. Jonathan has evidently attained the oblivion of sleep.

  Noah goes out into the hall, closes Jonathan’s door behind him, and thanks Salazar for bringing him the letter. The address is written by Henry, apparently in great haste. Noah returns to his room alone, and slits it open.

  Dear Noah:

  What the devil happened last night? Essex is beside himself.

  I remind you that the Inns of Court are under perpetual Crown protection. This is not mere formality. Do not leave Gray’s until I get there, and do not let anyone else of pertinence leave, either. Just to be safe, don’t let anyone in.
/>
  I’ll be there as soon as I can, a few minutes behind young Killigrew.

  Neville

  P.S. I’ve just been given the most unfortunate news, for which you have my deepest condolences.

  Graves is dead.

  Chapter 13

  NOAH’S HEART RISES into his mouth as he reads the last sentence of the postscript over and over again. Graves is dead. For the first time, but surely not the last, he wishes it was Essex who was dead.

  But Essex is not alone in deserving blame. Was it not Noah who enlisted Jonathan, and thereby Graves, in this crusade? Did not Noah just reassure Graves of a long future? And did he not promise to protect Jonathan? How can he do that now?

  Jonathan’s is the only barrister’s face to be seen by Skeres and his henchmen. He’s a target now, perhaps their only known target.

  Noah wipes his brow with his sleeve, and tortures himself anticipating what will happen when Jonathan awakens. What if he awakens right now? This young man, who has apparently decided his entire career is a charade, will now have to face the bitter fact that he is all alone in the world.

  And who must be the one to tell him? Noah begins to sweat profusely, and the world turns white around him. He lowers his head until the feeling of faintness passes. He shuts his door, taps his head against the adjacent wall, and weeps silently.

  He will have to live with his responsibility, but Jonathan and his friends must be prevented from leaving the inn. First things first. He wipes his eyes, and rushes down the hall in search of Jonathan’s friends.

  A half hour later, Henry arrives on horseback in far greater haste than usual. Beside him, on foot, trots a weary-looking Doctor Lopez, carrying his familiar black bag. Evidently, Henry stopped at Mountjoy’s Inn next door, found Lopez at home with his family, and enlisted him to come along to Gray’s Inn.

  Henry dismounts in obvious pain, and hands off the reins to the stable boy. Leaning heavily on Lopez’s shoulder, he haltingly climbs the outside stairs. When he reaches the landing, he balances his considerable weight precariously on one foot, to favor the other. His face is white. Noah swings opens the door.

  Lopez bows to Noah. “Please accept my condolences for the loss of Goodman Graves.” He smiles wanly. “Master Neville asked me to come examine his foot. Let us bring him over to that cushioned chair.” Together, Noah and Lopez assist Henry to a big soft chair in the parlor.

  Although Henry sits immediately, whatever small relief he obtains from doing so seems tenuous at best, as soon he furiously struggles to remove his boot and rub the top of his foot. “Are they all here, Ames?” he grunts.

  “They are, Henry. But I have a serious problem.”

  “We’ll get to that in a moment, old man.” Henry turns to the doctor. “Have you anything for me in that little black bag, Doctor Lopez?”

  Lopez regards Henry as though he were a wayward pupil. “We will have to discuss this later, Master Neville. In the meantime, I do have something, but it may not help.”

  “Oh, just hand it over, Lopez. I’m in agony.”

  Lopez tugs a drawstring that opens his black bag far enough for a hand to probe inside. He withdraws a small bag containing a white powder, and a small glass graduate with black marks etched horizontally along its side. He turns to Noah. “May I trouble you for two cups of potable water?”

  Noah retrieves the water from his room in a wooden cup, and he and Henry watch with fascination as Lopez carefully graduates a few grains of powder, drops them into the water, and stirs the mixture with a tiny spoon. The cup now contains a lumpy whitish emulsion.

  “Drink this down all at once,” Lopez instructs.

  Henry tips the cup high, draining its contents into his mouth. He swallows with a bitter expression and thrusts the cup back to Lopez. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  Lopez ignores the remark. Taking the cup from Henry, he hands it back to Noah. “Go and wash this thoroughly right now, before it can be used again.” Noah takes the cup back up to his room, and rubs it hard in fresh water until no sign of the white powder remains. He rinses it, and places it back on its hook upside-down to dry.

  By the time he returns to the parlor, Henry, though still rubbing his foot gingerly, seems a bit more at ease. Lopez has cinched his bag shut, and is evidently preparing to leave. “I will return later to discuss this health matter with Master Neville. In the meantime, if you are no longer in need of my services — ”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Lopez,” Noah says, “but I find myself in need of a bit more of your time. If you could spare a few minutes, I would much appreciate it.”

  Lopez nods wearily. “Very well, but please bear in mind that I was awakened very early this morning when Goodman Graves took his turn for the worst.”

  Though Noah is unsure what Henry might have mentioned to Lopez about the events preceding Graves’ death, he assumes he’s been as closemouthed as usual. “What caused Graves to die so suddenly?” he asks.

  “He was not a well man,” Lopez replies. “His heart appears to have failed him.”

  “Was he … intoxicated?”

  “In the sense of imbibing excessive spirits, I should think not. His mind was completely clear when he was admitted. His only complaint was a bellyache, and I have one of my assistants checking for the presence of likely toxins.”

  “Such as … poison?” asks Noah.

  Lopez arches an eyebrow. “Why do you ask, Master Ames? Was he the object of a plot of some kind?”

  “Oh, no, no. But he was an investigator, and I suppose poisoning was an occupational hazard for him.”

  Lopez regards him skeptically, as though he suspects Noah is withholding something. “I believe his heart failed because of a dose of poison, although which one I’m not sure. Well, we shall find out soon enough, and I shall be sure to let you know.” He rubs his eyes. “Was there something else, Master Ames?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Lopez furrows his brow. “What is the nature of the complaint?”

  Noah is abashed, but proceeds to ask quietly, “Have you any … laudanum?”

  Lopez opens his bloodshot eyes wide with surprise. “I have, sir. I hope you have not become addicted to it.”

  Noah shakes his head. “No, no. Nothing like that, I assure you. I … must soon break the news of Goodman Graves’ death to a young man who thought of him as a kind of father. When the young man and I spoke earlier, on another matter, he was already … not himself. Very excitable.”

  Henry looks up from his foot-rubbing. “Hawking?”

  Noah nods. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That Graves and Jonathan were like father and son.”

  “Oh. Well, I didn’t know that until you just told me. I knew only what you had already told me, that the two worked together from time to time. Did you say ‘father and son’?”

  “Adoptively, in an informal sense.”

  “Before you go onto that, Noah, let me ask you something.” As though he’s just remembered something, Henry turns to Lopez. “Doctor, would you be kind enough to give us a moment alone?”

  “Certainly,” says Lopez. Noah shows him to the dining room, and returns to Henry in the parlor.

  “Yes, Henry?”

  “There were three or four young men involved last night. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was one of them named ‘Arden’?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t, until you just confirmed it. But I did know him to be a friend of Hawking, who is lodged in this building of the Inn. Also, I heard Southampton’s description of the … participants this morning. One sounded like Arthur.”

  “It was Arthur.”

  “As I thought. Well, I’m afraid you’ve got yourself a roommate until this business has been resolved.”

  “Roommate?”

  Henry smiles. “Me. You have a side room with a bed. Have you not?”

  “I have.”

  “Well, I�
��ll take it, and pay half your rent. How does that sound?”

  Noah is flustered. “Well … why?”

  “Couple of reasons. One is that Doctor Lopez is your next-door neighbor, and appears to have a magic potion that works on me. The other is that Arden is a Neville — ”

  “Oh? Another Killigrew-Neville?”

  Henry laughs quietly. “No, actually, he’s more closely related to Shakespeare than to me. I will be keeping an eye on Master Arden until Goodman Shakespeare tells me I need no longer do so.”

  Noah regards Henry skeptically. “Have you cleared this with Master Treasurer?”

  Henry smiles darkly. “I’ve paid him your rent for the next six months in gold, Ames. What do you think?”

  Noah resigns himself. “I think you shall be my landlord for the next six months. Only a Neville could take a room in one’s apartment at an Inn of Court without asking, and simultaneously make himself one’s landlord.”

  Henry snickers at Noah’s cynical summary of the situation. “But at half the rent!” He turns serious. “Where is Hawking now?”

  “Asleep in his room.”

  “Send Doctor Lopez back in here to wait with me. I suggest you tell Hawking about Graves’ death yourself, but make sure his friends are right outside his door, in case he takes it badly.”

  Noah stops in the dining room to ask Doctor Lopez to return to the parlor, and gathers Arden, Salazar, and the Bennett twins to stand outside Jonathan’s door. He whispers to Arden. “Go tip your hat to your relation, Henry Neville. He’s in the parlor. But come right back.” Arden nods and walks away. Noah knocks lightly on Jonathan’s door. As there’s no response, he enters quietly.