Knaves Templar

by Leonard Tourney

  “A ringing phrase, Master Stock,” Keable said easily, having now completely cleaned his face. “And likely food for conspiracy mongers. There are those never happy but they explain all associations—no matter how innocent—as subversion. It’s the humor of our time. ”

  “I think you dissemble, Master Keable,” said Matthew sternly.

  Keable ignored the direct accusation. He seemed now to ignore Matthew. He stripped off his satyr costume and replaced it with hose, doublet, and hat. He did not have his gown or cap, Matthew noticed. Perhaps he really did have an appointment in the City—or perhaps he only wanted an excuse to avoid further questioning.

  “Oh, by the way, Master Keable,” Matthew said. “I was admiring your paint box here—truly a rich variety of false colors to sail under.”

  Keable paused on his way to the door. The expression on his face suggested that Matthew’s change of subject had taken him by surprise. Evidently less threatened, he said: “That box of trash? That’s none of mine. It belonged to Monk. We of Master Osborne’s play were joint heirs to it when he died. ’ ’

  “I wonder where he came by so many paints and powders.”

  “That I can answer,” laughed Keable, regaining some of his old nonchalance. “He had them from the whores at the Gull, but died before he could get aught else from them, if you catch my drift.”

  With that, Keable walked out the door.

  Joan had come alone to the Temple that morning. After his debauch, Robert had staggered home sometime during the night and was still in bed, sick unto death, he said, but since Joan knew the cause of his trouble, she did not offer to fetch a surgeon, but was content to be a solitary voyager, feeling relieved of the responsibility of adhering to her promise to Frances now that her guardian had disabled himself.

  She was happy to find that the pleasant apothecary was in his shop and without a customer at the moment, so she went directly to him with her question. He remembered her from the previous day’s visit but was surprised when she said she wanted not medication but merely to know what a vial she had in her possession was.

  She was thankful he didn’t ask why she wanted to know; he seemed to take her request as a test of his skill, and he made a great to-do of it, by examining first the vial-pronouncing it as a very common sort—and then removing the stopper and sniffing it. He alarmed her by pouring out a few drops in a spoon and starting to taste them. She told him she feared the substance might be poison, for so she had been led to believe by one who gave it to her.

  “And who would that be?” he asked, interested.

  She thought it would be better not to tell him Mistress Browne’s name or Leyland’s, so she just said she got it from another shop on the street and she wanted its identity confirmed before she administered it to her husband.

  “It’s far from any poison, I can tell you that,” said the apothecary, smiling. “At least not in moderate doses.” Then, as though to prove his words, he tasted it himself, screwed up his face, and said, “Yes, as I thought. Your husband may take the medication without worry. Is he in pain? If so, this will ease it, bring him sleep—and, if what I have heard is true, remarkable dreams.”

  “But what is it called?” Joan asked.

  “It is laudanum, ’ ’ said the apothecary. ‘ ‘A marvelous discovery of the great Paracelsus and made from the white exude of the unripe papaver somniferum, mixed with gold and pearls that it may have the greater virtue thereby.”

  “It must be no common stuff then,” Joan said.

  ‘‘As yet little known in this country, ’ ’ said the apothecary. “I have tasted it once before. The taste is bitter to die tongue, but the distillation is potent and beyond the skill of most apothecaries. Oddly enough, it was probably this very substance that the Prideaux you inquired of yesterday used in his practice, for Prideaux was a great student of Paracelsus. ’ ’

  “It must cost a great deal.”

  “I think it does,” the apothecary said, handing the vial back to Joan. “Of course, that depends on who sells it and who buys.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gold and pearls ground into a fine dust will increase the cost, of course. The other elements are not dear, and these, doubtless, are more effectual in producing sleep and visions. A man could become used to the substance, and then, like a wine-bibber, pay anything for another draft. Such is the power of habit, creating a need where none was before.”

  Joan thrust the vial deep into a pocket of her cloak and offered to pay the apothecary for his information, but he refused to take anything. He wished her good day, and Joan went into the street and started back to the Middle Temple.

  Her conviction that there was some relationship between the Norwich apothecary and the Prideaux on Giles’s list had now been confirmed. But what exactly was the connection? Christopher Prideaux was dead; she no longer questioned that. It all seemed to have something to do with this marvelous elixir laudanum—laudanum that eased pain, induced pleasant sleep, and in larger doses transported him who partook thereof into an ecstasy. Giles had known Prideaux of Norwich and hated him; Leyland’s possession of Prideaux’s ledger suggested strongly that he may have known him too. Perhaps it was Leyland in the room that night of the secret conclave, but why would Giles have written Prideaux and not Leyland?

  As she hurried, she remembered it was Leyland who had pronounced Giles dead, named its cause, an unknown poison, self-administered. The friendly apothecary had implied laudanum could be dangerous if taken in too large a dose. Did he mean it could be fatal?

  She was pondering these things and crossing to the opposite side of the street at the same time when the sudden appearance of a large wagon being driven in her direction caused her to jump aside out of harm’s way and at the same time glance behind her. As she did, her sharp eyes picked out of a crowd of strangers a familiar face. It was a young man, slovenly dressed. His close-set eyes were fixed upon her, as a soaring hawk might target a scampering mouse. He looked away and then seemed to dissolve into the crowd. Suddenly Joan felt a gnawing of dread. She hurried on, trying to remember where she had seen the man before. She knew it was no one from Chelmsford. She knew everyone in her own town and his name. It was London then, someone she had taken in, with a casual glance perhaps. And yet she felt the contact had been of longer and more significant duration. But not at the Middle Temple. He was no lawyer, whatever else he might have been, not in those clothes.

  She stopped and turned quickly. Behind her she glimpsed him again, in steady pursuit. By accident or design? She racked her brain. Where, where?

  The crowds in the streets and the constant passing of wagons, carts, and horsemen left little room for maneuvering and less for a quickened pace. She thought she might dodge in a shop to let her pursuer pass. But what if he came in after her?

  She decided to put her fear to the test. Ahead she saw the sign of a tailor’s shop. When seconds later she drew abreast, she ducked indoors.

  The shop was no bigger than a small closet, and her head almost scraped the ceiling, but there was a small, irregularly shaped window from which she could see the street. She watched through the dirty panes, smelling the leather, her heart fluttering like a bird’s. She did not see her pursuer pass, but then she thought perhaps she had missed him. There was such a throng in the street. He might have slipped past. She prayed to God he had.

  The tailor, a crookbacked little man in a leather apron, came out from behind a curtain and asked her what she needed. She told him she had changed her mind and stepped back out into the street, proceeding in the same direction as before. It was a while before she had the nerve to look behind her. Her glance confirmed her worst fears. Now her pursuer was not alone. There was another man with him, a barrel-chested, moon-faced man in seaman’s dress whom she recognized instantly and whose identification now enabled her to remember his companion. It was Flynch, the wretch who assaulted her at the Gull and whom she had served according to his deserts by jabbing him in the groin.
And his younger companion had been one of the friends who had stood by laughing.

  But surely they did not intend to attack her in the street and in broad daylight. Surely they would not be so bold.

  Joan looked back again. She did not see Flynch or his friend. They were gone—for good or temporarily? She knew she had not misidentified the pair, but she prayed she had misconstrued their purpose. There was a possibility that they had not seen her at all, but only happened to be traveling in the same direction. She was considering this happy possibility and was not more than a quarter mile from the Temple Gate and refuge when someone grabbed her wrist and she was dragged into a narrow, filth-strewn alley before she knew who had her. In the next instant she was staring into Flynch’s craggy face and feeling his hot breath on her own.

  “Don’t hurt me,’’ she gasped, struggling to free herself from the sailor’s grip. It was apparent now what had happened. Surmising her destination, they had gotten ahead of her. She was about to cry out for help when she felt a rough hand cover her mouth and nose. Someone behind her, strong, like Flynch, rank with the smell of sweat and fish. The younger man probably, an accomplice. The men drew her deeper into the alley. She could still hear the voices in the street, possessed now only of a vanishing memory of her freedom, too occupied in fighting for breath to strike out at her abductors.

  She bit down hard on the hand that smothered her, winning a momentary release before his fist struck her cheek and sent her hard against the wall and then on her knees in the filth of the alley. She screamed for help, tasted the young man’s blood, looked up to see the flash of a dagger drawn from Flynch’s belt and held high over her. “Damn bitch, I’ll fix you,” Flynch bellowed. At the same moment she rolled over and shielded her head with her hands, thinking of the terrible dagger, and heard a din of new cries and alarms from somewhere outside the alley. “Get the vial, William,” she heard Flynch say. “It’s in her purse.”

  Blinded by terror, she felt her purse ripped from her belt, and then heard a clatter of boots, Flynch’s and those of the man he had called William, fleeing like the craven cowards they were, and the cry of “Stop, thief, stop!” from a dozen new voices, approaching.

  She was lifted off the cobbles by strong arms. Voices asked if she was hurt and how badly and what did the robbers steal and what a shame it was that decent folk couldn’t walk the street safely in broad light of day. She looked around into the blurred faces of strangers and thanked them one and all as best she could. One of her rescuers, a butcher by his bloody apron, asked her if she wanted him to fetch the constable’s , man, but she said no. She said she knew a constable that would make things right, and the sooner she could get herself to where he was, the better.

  Bruised but undaunted, Joan found a carter to carry her the rest of the way to the Middle Temple, not because she was unable to walk but because she feared a second attack from Flynch and his companion. When she arrived at the Gate she saw Jacob, who piade no comment on the condition of her cloak, which was covered with the alley’s filth, but escorted her to Matthew’s door. It was now late in the afternoon; supper was still a good two hours off. She was gratified to find Matthew where she hoped he would be.

  Of course, taking one look at her bruised face and filthy cloak, he wanted to know what had happened and where she was hurt. And telling her tale of woe, she began to cry despite her determination that she would not. Matthew drew her close, kissed the bruised cheek. He helped her off with the cloak and assured her all would be well, despite the loss of her purse—a trivial thing after all, thank God she was not murdered by the ruffians.

  “They did not get the vial,” Joan said, retrieving it from the pocket of her cloak.

  “Which reminds me that I have found one identical to yours in shape and mark,” he said. “In an actor’s chest our friend Keable says belonged to Monk. Keable also claims Monk had the paints and other items from the whores at the Gull.”

  “A story easily put to the test. We must go to the Gull,” she said. “The laudanum is the key. Monk may have used it; Giles may have been poisoned by too great a quantity of it. His including Prideaux’s name among the others on his list meant something—but something to do with laudanum, I think. The parts are coming together, Matthew. We want only a few more pieces and the picture will be complete.”

  “Tonight is as good a time as any,” Matthew said. “All our friends will be at Osborne’s play—an excellent opportunity to investigate matters at the Gull. And with luck we shall find those devils who attacked you there and see them get what they deserve. ”

  Matthew said this with grim determination, and she looked at him with alarm. Did he realize what a bully Flynch was, and his friend, the one called William, no better?

  But he sensed her concern without her telling it. “Don’t worry, Joan. We won’t go to the Gull alone. Master Hutton is, among other things, a magistrate. He’ll issue a warrant for the arrest of Flynch and his accomplice for assault, theft, and attempted murder, and we’ll take the malefactors by force.”

  “We and what others?” she asked dubiously, not at all calmed by his assurances.

  “A half dozen of the sheriff’s stoutest men if need be. Hutton will see to it. I’ll go find him this instant and have our warrant in hand by supper. In the meantime, you rest. You look as pale as death.”

  “Oh, I’m well enough,” she said. “But I would fain lie down for a while. Yes, and perhaps sleep too.”

  “The bed is yours, Joan. Sleep well. I’ll be back before supper.”

  “I won’t eat a morsel in that Hall,” she said. “You men may have it for yourselves.”

  “We’ll feast in the town, where there are better cooks,” he said, “and afterwards to the Gull, to search the business of these laudanum vials out and, if fortune smiles, apprehend Flynch and his friend.”

  Matthew gone, Joan tried to sleep, but she was too bone-weary, and her bruised cheek kept her awake. She remembered what the apothecary had said about laudanum—dangerous in excess, but in moderate amounts, a provoker of nothing more sinister than restful sleep and vivid dreams. Curiosity tempted her. She rose, found die vial, and removed the cork. She took a small sip, then a second laiger. Bitter, yes, but she was more used to it now. She lay back down on the bed and shut her eyes, waiting for something to happen.

  Nothing did, and she felt cheated by the substance that the apothecary had spoken of with such respect. But presently she realized she no longer felt her aching bones, the throbbing cheek. She felt, rather, a wondrous ease, as though her body floated in something yet more refined than air. She felt a pleasing warmth, and then she dreamed. Summer. Insects chirped, and a soft, warm breeze, delicious to feel. At twilight, two sleek cats with yellow eyes glided through tall spears of grass. A round moon hovered above them, a great shiny disk larger than any mortal moon she had ever seen waking. The cats came to the bank of a stream and, without fear or hesitation, lowered their heads to drink. Then, much to Joan’s surprise, they entered the water and began to swim. The water was a blue she had never seen in any earthly stream, and smooth as glass. The cats made no ripple or wake as they swam; their fixed expressions showed no fear. Joan looked up at the looming moon and was amazed to see that there were two moons now and then a third where there had been but one before, all the same size, and as she looked, they seemed to grow larger and larger until she thought she could see mountains and valleys on their craggy faces.

  She looked for the cats again, saw that they had been transformed into lions and were emerging from the water with dripping coats. They moved toward her stealthily, their heads lowered almost to their immense paws.

  Her dream was not so pleasant as before, and when Matthew returned some time later, she was glad to be awakened and sorry she had experimented with the laudanum.

  Twenty-One

  THEY had proceeded to the Gull without an arrest warrant, and with only Osborne’s solemn promise that he would deliver to Hutton, immediately upon die Treasurer�
�s return, the message requesting both warrant and officers to enforce the same. Joan agreed with Matthew that they were going off half-cocked, but that time was of the essence. She had an overwhelming sense that the case was hard upon its conclusion; that if they didn’t act now, they might well never.

  Standing outside the tavern, Matthew shook his head and commented disparagingly on its dilapidation, the shabby neighborhood, the grubby clientele stumbling in and out. Joan knew her husband’s opinion of the Gull would not improve upon venturing indoors.There was the problem, she thought. Neither officers nor warrant had appeared. Had Hutton got the message? “You should have left word with someone other than Osborne,” she chided. “He will have his mind on one thing and one thing alone—his play. Believe me, your message is safe in his pocket. He’ll recall it at his leisure.”

  But it was bitter cold standing in the street. Her sense of urgency would not leave her, and it was far more powerful than her sense of caution. Matthew said he would go in, look things over. Flynch and William wouldn’t know him from Adam, wouldn’t expect the husband, even if they were on watch for the wife. There was always the chance that, identified by their would-be victim, they had fled London, put to sea in some vessel. And if that was the case, there was no need for the warrant or the officers.

  She had no trouble describing Flynch to Matthew: the man was ill favored and repulsive every inch, so disgusting as to be beyond honest vilification. She took a pleasure in the attempt, remembering his evil face, his fishy smell. He was also a well-known ‘ ‘character’ ’ of the place; half the clientele were his friends, no doubt the other half his enemies. More important, he was an old acquaintance of Ned Hodge and hail-fellow-well-met of the drawers and waiters, bawds and whores. Nan Warren had said as much. If necessary, Matthew could inquire of Hodge or one of the drawers or waiters. Matthew said, “If he’s there and his friend, we’ll have to wait for the warrant and officers, that’s all there is to it,” She was tempted again to bring him to account for entrusting a message to that scatterbrain Osborne. An ill-conceived move. But what else could he have done? she thought. Phipps wasn’t there—and could hardly have been trusted if he had been. It was Hutton’s fault for being such a gadabout.