by Anne Stevens
“Sir, you really must watch your carnal language,” Thomas Cromwell calls from the hearth. “There is a gentle lady amongst us.”
“My profound pardon,” Richard Pound says, winking at the others. Then he drops his voice to a whisper. “I see some of us already have a bed warmer for the night, my friends.”
“Pig.” The Frenchman touches the dagger at his belt, but Sir Walter stays his hand.
“I suggest we drink up, and make ready for bed, gentlemen,” he says, firmly. “On the morrow, we can part, as friends, and each go our own way. Let there be no more of this idle talk of plots, and evil doing. Instead, we must accept that we are merely dupes, and put this experience behind us. We have all been fooled enough by this childish jest, I think.”
“And the culprit?” Will Draper asks. The Under Sherriff of St. Albans shrugs. He is not an investigator, and is quite willing to accept that the man will never be found.
“A foolish prank, sir, which may never be resolved … even by a King’s Examiner,” he reaffirms. “Now, good people, I am for my bed!”
“A sound enough plan,” Martell agrees. “I will show you to your various rooms. Master Cromwell, I think you will be comfortable with the room on the far landing. It is small, but one wall is built against the chimney, and it is warm throughout the night. The colonel shall be at the further end, and Lady Agnes shall have the best chambers in the main hall part of the house. They are between you gentlemen, and I trust you will keep her safe.”
“I will be alert enough, sir,” Will replies, coldly. He is not fond of Martell’s off hand way of talking, and resolves to apply himself to investigating the fellow himself on their return to London. Though many of Cromwell’s young men have looked into his affairs, Will fancies he might find that which they could not.
“Then Sir Walter, Captain Travis, and the Frenchy can take the rooms on the opposite landing. They are comfortable enough.”
“And I am for the tower?” Pound asks, and smiles at the thought. “I trust it does not bear any resemblance to Henry’s own Tower, Sir Peregrine?”
“It lacks the headsman’s block,” Martell replies, slapping the merchant on the back. “I will fetch you a new candle to light the way, and a flask of good French brandy to keep you warm, in case the woman in white fails to make an appearance.”
“The man is an oaf,” Jean Carnet says to Sir Roderick, who nods his agreement.
“And a liar,” Travis hisses.
“How so, sir?” the Frenchman asks.
“He may not have my markers, but the look in his eyes betray him. He knows something of the matter, and I will have it from him, even at the point of my blade. Are we men to trifle with, sir?” The seafarer is angry for the lack of an obvious foe.
“This matter disturbs me,” the Frenchman replies. “How comes it that so great a man as Thomas Cromwell is drawn into the affair? It seems odd that the woman is here too. What does she know?”
“What do any of us know?” Roderick Travis replies.
“Come along, gentlemen,” Sir Walter says, throwing his arms wide, as if he is herding unruly cattle. “Let us be off to our beds. Will, can you make sure all the doors are made fast, before you retire?”
“Of course, Walt,” Will Draper replies. “May God keep this house safe … with my help.”
“Are those pistols charged?” Cromwell asks. Will nods, and offers him one of the brace of guns he usually has hanging from his saddle.
“Do you know how it works?” Will asks.
“I pull this back,” Cromwell says, as if he had never fought in long ago battles. “Then, I point this end at my enemy, close my eyes, and pull the trigger.”
“Keep your eyes open, and hold the pan away from your face, else the flash will burn your cheek, or even take out an eye.”
“Sound advice, Will,” Tom Cromwell tells him. “I shall follow it to the very letter.”
“Sir, before you retire… a private word?”
“Yes?”
“Are we still after Martell?”
“He is still of great interest to me, Will” Thomas Cromwell confirms. “I fear he has something wicked to hold over the king‘s head.”
“And you have no idea what?”
“I do not.” Cromwell sees the look in Will’s eyes, and smiles conspiratorially. “But you do?”
“No, I do not… though I have an idea where it might be found. Have I your permission to stick my nose where it may not be welcome?”
“Will, you do not need my permission. You are the King’s Examiner. Do as you wish, and be damned to the consequences!”
“What if I am wrong?”
“Then Martell will know I am on to him, and he will have to adjust his plans,” Cromwell concludes. “The rabbit will bolt, and we must watch which way he goes.”
“It would be easier to let Mush and Richard take him, and show him the inside of the Tower of London’s torture chamber. It has worked before.”
“I dare not. If he calls our bluff, he will run to Henry, and force him into some action,” Cromwell says. “If we did break his bones, and he still keeps silent, we are no better off. Whatever it is might come to light, or fall into the wrong hands. No, Will, we must hope that whatever you try works. Perhaps I will mention it in my prayers tonight.”
“Perhaps Lady Agnes might also find time for a small prayer,” Will says, cheekily. “Goodnight sir.”
7 Viaticum
Will Draper sleeps lightly, and remains fully dressed, with his sword and pistol in easy reach. It is the noise of shouting, and the beating of fists on wood that brings him awake, and to his feet with a start. He is out of his room, and bounding down the stairs, even as others appear from their own rooms.
“The tower, Will!” Cromwell shouts after him. “Go carefully. There sounds to be murder being done!” Will is across the great hall, and into the small door that leads upwards in a moment. Above he hears the sounds of a shoulder going hard against the door of a chamber. The door to Martell’s room stands ajar, and the room is empty. A second, urgent shout, and the sound of splintering wood comes from above, and the young man runs up the next flight of stone steps, sword in hand, and ready for what ever may come at him.
“Dear Christ!” The cry comes from Martell, who has finally managed to break open the door to the haunted chamber. “Help me, anyone, for God’s sake!”
Will advances into the room, sword foremost, to find his host pressed into a far corner, with blood smeared over his hands and spotting his tunic. Sir Peregrine Martell is visibly shaking, and raises a hand, to point at the bed. It does not need a King’s Examiner to know that Master Richard Pound is quite dead. He is on his back, one arm sprawled out, as if in defiance, and with the handle of a dagger sticking out of his chest.
“I came to wake him,” Peregrine Martell stammers. “The door was barred from within, and I could not waken him.”
“I can see that well enough,” Will says, as he examines the dead man. “So, you grew alarmed?”
“Yes. Why would he lock the door?” Martell wipes a hand across his face, and smears himself with Pounds blood. “I broke it down, and found … this. I turned him over, thinking him sick, or drunk perhaps, and … saw the knife… and the blood. So much blood.”
“What is it?” Cromwell, Sir Walter and the other men are crowding into the room. Will holds his arms wide, and ushers them back onto the narrow landing.
“Murder,” Will tells him. “Send them all back downstairs, and bid Walt keep an eye on them.”
“Is it Martell?” Tom Cromwell asks, trying to peer around Will Draper.
“No, it is Richard Pound,” Will tells him. “He is stabbed to death, in a room with a barred door.”
“The window?” Will sighs, annoyed that he must repeat an earlier injunction. In a few words, he reminds Cromwell that he is the king’s man, not his. Then he relents, and says his former master can help, but must remain a subordinate agent. Cromwell agrees, and goes about gathering
everyone downstairs. Sir Walter is relieved that Will Draper is assuming responsibility, and sets about throwing logs onto the grate.
“Stack them cross wise, if you please, Sir Walter,” Lady Agnes tells him, “Else they will never catch light. Stuff some of the peat underneath, and set your tinder box to work. The old Under Sherriff obeys, and soon has a fire roaring away in the hearth. The guests, cowed by the news that one of their number is dead, by violence, gather around, and stare into the flickering flames.
“Deus, propitius peccatoris, et adducere eum tecum in gratiam tuam.” Thomas Cromwell mutters as he stands over the body. God forgive this sinner, and bring him into your Grace. It is part of the Viaticum, he thinks, and will ease the man’s passing.
“Let us pray later, Master Tom,” Will Draper says. “What do you make of all this?”
“You say the door was bolted?”
“Barred,” Martell says, from his corner. “A wooden crosspiece, that stops a casual entrance. It is not enough to resist a determined assault. Master Pound must have felt safer with it in place. Perhaps, if anything came about, he thought it would give him precious seconds.”
“You knocked?”
“A few times. Then I called out his name,” Martell explains to them both. “I doubted anyone could sleep through that, unless he was ailing, or drunk.”
“He had wine, and brandy, last evening,” Will observes. The brandy flask is on its side by the bed, and the dregs have seeped out onto the floorboards, and stained them.
“Hardly enough to make him that drunk, was it” Tom Cromwell says.
“What do you think to the chimney?” Will asks.
“Yes, some fiend must have climbed down, and into the room,” Martell guesses.
Cromwell crosses the room, and studies the small hearth, and the bricks that form the flue. After a moment, he kneels and stares at the floor around the fireplace.
“It would have to be a small man,” he reports to Will. “Someone smaller than Mush. A dwarf, or a child, perhaps. Though they are an exceedingly tidy murderer. There is no soot, and no ashen footprints to give them away.”
“Then what about the window,” Martell says.
“Sir, you are not helping,” Will snaps. “Go down to the others. Though you should wash away the blood from your face first, lest you frighten the lady.”
“I was just trying to help,” Martell says. “Until yesterday, I would never have thought to see a murder in my own house. The whole thing has surprised me.”
“Away, sir,” Cromwell says to him. “Colonel Draper is an expert in these matters, and will soon uncover the felon.”
“Thank you for your support, Master Tom,” Will says, going to the single window. “Let us hope it is not misplaced. Ah, the latch is undone. Our murderer might well have come in through here. When open, it is just large enough to admit a determined assassin.”
“But why?” Cromwell asks. “Why would anyone wish to scale a forbiddingly tall tower, enter a window, and kill an unimportant wool merchant from Nantwich.”
“Chester,” Will says, examining the window. “He hails from Chester, not Nantwich. Was it not Jean Carnet, the Count of Breveton who mentioned Nantwich?”
“So it was,” Cromwell says, in an absent minded way. “Something about his daughter staying there, I believe.”
“The latch is well oiled, and there is a very narrow gap between the window edge and the surround,” Will tells his friend.
“How does that signify?” Cromwell asks. For answer, Will closes the window, and drops the latch in place. Then he takes out his knife, and slides the point between frame and surround. It fits easily, and with a deft upward motion, the latch is open.
“A misspent youth, I fear,” Cromwell says. “Were you a house breaker once, before your soldiering in Ireland, and bounty hunting in Wales?”
“You know of that?” Will is not really surprised, though he is unhappy that Cromwell must have had him investigated at some time.
“My apologies, Will,” Thomas Cromwell says. “It was in the early days. I asked Rafe to confirm the few facts you gave me, and he searched deeper than he need have. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You fought for your king in Ireland, only to have your fortune stolen away. Hunting Welsh bandits paid well enough, and brought you into my service. I have never regretted a single day that you served me, and will be forever grateful. You, and your family will be under my protection, for as long as I live … even beyond, if possible”
“What else did Rafe find?”
“Ah, you mean your childhood days.”
“Come, sir, do not be coy with me,” Will says. “You know I was a bastard, given into the care of a good family. The Drapers were honest peasants. My father was a carpenter, and my mother wove cloth. Good people.”
“As was the old village priest, Father Gwyllam,” says Cromwell. “He taught you to read and write, and you picked up Latin too. He gave you a grounding in mathematical ways, which allows you to profit in this world.”
“Was he my real father?”
“I cannot say,” Cromwell tells him. “Rafe found out that Father Gwyllam was kicked out of his church, and some scoundrel put in his place. The fellow kept a whore, and charged his parishioners for everything. A blessing for a penny, and a lot more for the last rites. He must have gone too far, for someone cut his throat one night. It was about the time you ran away to join the army in Ireland.”
“I see. May his soul burn in Hell,” Will Draper says. “Now, we must tend to Richard Pound’s soul, which cries out for justice.”
“Father Gwyllam went to live in the godless marches, and spent his last years converting heathen Scots and English Border Reivers. He died whilst you were in Wales … of old age.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Will says. “He was a good man, despite his … failings.”
“I doubt he thought of you as a failing, my boy.” Cromwell pats him on the shoulder. “So, he came through the window?”
“We are thirty feet above the ground, perhaps forty,” Will observes. “Quite a climb. Then to slit open the window, slide inside, cross the creaking floorboards, and plunge a dagger into a sleeping man … makes the killer a most superior sort of fellow.”
“But it could be done?”
“Perhaps. Though one thing does make me think.”
“What is that, Will?”
“Why leave the knife?” Will Draper says. “I would strike, withdraw the knife, and slit the throat, for good measure. A good dagger costs money too.”
“Ah, that is your mathematical learning coming into play, Will.” Cromwell says, smiling at his friend’s parsimony. “We have the window, the door, and the fire place to consider. Perhaps we might return to the great hall, refresh ourselves, and consider Ockham’s Razor?”
“Ockham’s what?”
“Ockham’s Razor,” Cromwell explains. “He was a philosopher, who promulgated a theory, which says …‘Amongst competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected’. The simplest answer, in other words, is usually the best.”
“I see,” Will replies, sceptically. “I prefer the right answer, even if it be more complicated than the rest. Let us speak with the others, and question them closely.”
“Why?” Cromwell seems affronted that his suggestion does not find favour with his friend.
“Because, until proven otherwise, anyone of them might be the killer.”
“Again, why would anyone kill Pound?”
“Perhaps it was in error,” Will says. “What if they confused the room, and killed the wrong man in the dark? What if they worked out a way to get in and out undetected?”
“And killed Pound by mistake?”
“Why not?”
“Then who, prey, was the target?”
“Who else slept in the tower?” Will Draper says. “What if this is really all about Martell? Might Sir Walter have stumbled on the truth. Someone is out to get Peregrine Martell, and simply missed his c
hance.”
“Why invite us along?” Cromwell asks.
“Who can say?” Will suddenly smiles. “Perhaps it is like that old jest. Where do you hide a sheep? In a flock, of course. Perhaps we are the flock, and the black sheep is amongst us.”
“And perhaps someone scaled the tower, killed Pound, and forgot to take his knife with him.” Cromwell sighs, for he knows Will cannot be diverted from his chosen path. “Very well, let us question the flock!”
“I must include you amongst the sheep,” Will says. “I hope you understand that.”
“Of course. You cannot play favourites where murder is concerned,” Cromwell agrees. “Might I suggest a few questions, before I return to being a suspect?”
“You may,” Will replies.
“Good. Then ask each man to produce his dagger. Apart from Mush, I know no other gentleman to go doubly armed.”
“A good point. I shall ask them all.” Will already means to ask each man to account for any arms he has, but is glad Cromwell agrees with him.
“Then I would question them all together.” Cromwell watches the surprise on Will’s face.
“Why so?”
“It will make lies harder to tell. Ask where someone was at such a time, and they will have to remember who else was about, should they seek to lie.” Cromwell has one last thing to say. “And you must keep in mind that men lie for many reasons. To save face, or deflect criticism if they have been foolish. They lie to gain an advantage. They lie, even when murder is done, and they are innocent.”
“Then they are foolish,” Will says.
“No, they might be seeking to protect another, or point you at someone they wish to hurt,” Cromwell tells him. “Look deeply, Will, but not too deeply. There may be two crimes here.”
“How so?” Will asks.
“The murder of this man may have nothing to do with the deceit,” Cromwell says. “We being lured here might not be connected to the murder at all.”
“Dear God, Master Cromwell, you speak like a lawyer,” Will Draper curses. “You knot my thoughts too much. Let us get down to business, and find our killer.”
