by Anna Castle
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tom wove through the throng in St. Paul’s Cathedral, eyes open for Trumpet and Catalina, cursing himself for a crack-brained nidget. Why had he let her choose Duke Humphrey’s Walk for their rendezvous? The place was always crowded and the crowd was notorious. He’d kept one hand over his pocket since he’d entered the dim, echoing cathedral. All manner of thieves and prostitutes prowled the aisles in search of prey. Although in fairness, Tom’s friends were most unlikely to be cozened by a lightskirt.
He turned at the top of the aisle and began to walk back, openly inspecting faces like a man keeping an appointment with someone he’d only heard described. A pair of young rogues leaned against Duke Humphrey’s tomb, trading scurrilous remarks about the passersby. One of them caught Tom’s eye with an insolent smirk as he walked past.
Tom’s head turned, then his feet followed. “Trumpet, God rot your sly bones! I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“You passed us twice without a glimmer.” She punched him in the arm. “I practically had to wave my hat at you.”
Catalina said, “I could have taken your purse easily, Mr. Tom. You are so helpful to tell everybody which pocket it is in.”
“Nobody picks my pockets.” Tom shifted his hand to his hip. “All right, fair’s fair. You fooled me proper. But it’s dark in here and I didn’t know how you’d be dressed. It won’t happen again, I promise you.”
“We shall see.” Trumpet blinked at him — that slow, infuriating cat’s blink.
They had business to attend to, otherwise he would do something about her lingering smirk. “Coddington’s out of Newgate, and he’s at the Dolphin, all right. I paid a boy to keep an eye on the place. He’s been there every afternoon since Monday, sometimes all evening. It’s his regular haunt, him and his fellows.”
“Let’s go,” Trumpet said.
“First I want to hear what Catalina learned about your uncle. It might help.” Tom jerked his chin at a recess behind the tomb and they shifted into it, turning their backs to the traffic in the aisle. They looked exactly like a trio of pigeon pluckers devising a snare for their next victim.
Catalina spoke in a near whisper, making her accented phrases harder to parse. “He has a new ring, very expensive, I think, with a big red stone. Some men, five or four, come visit him. He make me stay in the bed when they come, but I peek. Two came more than once. They argue. One thing they argue is Mr. Bacon. What he knows, what we should do. Mr. Welbeck sent a man to go and watch him. Another thing they argue is murder. No good for us, says Mr. Welbeck. They must stop.”
Tom asked, “Stop what? Stop burgling or stop murdering?”
Catalina shrugged, raising both hands. “I think he mean stop burglary.” She said it burgulare. “The two who come every time say, ‘but it is so good money.’ Mr. Welbeck say, ‘no, no, we must wait, or go outside of London.’”
Tom snapped his fingers. “That’s good, that last part. Because that’s how I’m going to get in with Coddington. I’m going to offer to locate likely targets out in the country.” He pointed at Trumpet. “I’m thinking about your grandparents or people like them. Off in the hinterlands, with chapels stuffed full of valuables, waiting to be robbed.”
“That might work,” Trumpet said. “If they were really talking about robbing chapels. Catalina told me they never said anything that explicit, not even in my uncle’s chambers.”
“Never,” Catalina said. “They talk about clients and fees and goods to barter.”
“He’s a close one, your uncle,” Tom said. “But it’s no use, Trumpet. We know he’s our upright man. Everything points to him and nothing points anywhere else. Why would he send a man to watch Mr. Bacon if he had nothing to hide? And why did that churl in the pawnshop call him the Savoy Solicitor and send me to him for approval?”
“You’re right, I agree. I just wanted to give it one last try.” Trumpet tilted her chin at her maidservant. “Tell him about Sunday.”
“Yes, my la — Mr. Allen. On Sunday, Mr. Welbeck dress himself very nice, a red doublet and round hose lined with cream silk. Many slashings, much fine work.” She paused as if fixing the design in her memory for future use.
“Less detail, please,” Trumpet said. “We mustn’t tarry.”
“Yes, my — Mr. Welbeck went to dinner in his fine clothes. He do not say where, and he bade me stay inside the rooms. ‘Do not follow me, my dear,’ he said. Of course I did. But he had a man watch me, one of the two who argue yes to more burgulares. That man catch me and bring me back to the Savoy. When Mr. Welbeck return, he seem worried and also sad.”
“Sad?” Tom asked. “What does he have to be sad about?”
“It could be something unrelated,” Trumpet said. “Maybe he’s been courting some gentlewoman and she turned him down. Or maybe he lost a client.”
“I do not think so, my lady,” Catalina said. “He seem sad more as if he lose a great friend or a loved dog.”
They stood and thought about that for a moment. Trumpet stroked her moustache with the tip of her finger. Tom understood that gesture now, which had been habitual with Allen. She was pressing it into the glue, always worried it would come loose.
“The sadness is an oddity,” he said, “and Bacon taught me to be wary of oddities. But for the moment, I can’t imagine what it means. Let’s go talk to my old cellmate. Let’s get him to tell us how they choose their jobs.”
They made their way out of the church and found the Dolphin on Old Swan Lane, not far from the river. Shutters obstructed the bottom half of the windows so the patrons could not be seen from the street. Inside, the tavern seemed clean enough, with moderately fresh rushes on the floor and air not too fusty with smoke and stale beer. A group of Germans sat at a round table by the windows, drinking from enormous tankards and jabbering over a set of knives in a lined case. Smaller tables stood scattered about the room, some sheltered by high-backed settles. Most of these were occupied by men of varying degrees with their drabs.
A scrawny boy in torn stockings hailed Tom as they stood inside the door getting their bearings. He’d been sitting atop a barrel where he could watch everyone who entered. He jerked his head toward the back of the room, past the winding staircase in the middle. “Red hair, big mouth, name of Coddington? ’E’s ’ere, all right, with a few of his mates.” He held out his hand, and Tom dropped a penny into it.
Tom told the tapster to bring them a couple of bottles of his best wine and five cups, pointing to the table at the back. Two men came off the stairs, arguing about something in low growls. Catalina abruptly turned full around and sneezed into her hat. Tom shifted position to cover her, giving the two men a casual inspection as they walked around him to speak to the counterman.
Tom murmured, “Welbeck’s men?”
Catalina nodded. “I must go. He has seen me in this moustache.”
They consulted in swift whispers and decided Catalina should walk straight out the back door. Tom and Trumpet stood side by side to block the view from the counter, bickering about whether ale was more nourishing than beer. Catalina clutched her belly as if taken with a sudden ache and hurried toward the back door. She ducked her head as she passed the last table, pretending to sneeze into her fist.
Tom and Trumpet waited until the door had closed behind her, then strolled toward the table where Jack Coddington and another man sat playing cards, their backs against the wall. Both of them wore pleated hats with crisp feathers in the shiny bands. Brass buttons glinted on Coddington’s doublet. Signs of new prosperity, most of which would doubtless end up in the tavern-keeper’s cash box.
Coddington spotted Tom and crowed, “Why, it’s my old friend Thomas Clarady!” He rose to give Tom a shoulder-clapping hug. He introduced his companion as Sam Pratt.
Tom started to introduce Trumpet, but stumbled on the name. She thrust out her hand. “Allen Underhill. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Coddington invited them to sit. Since the two thieves had
the choice positions, Tom and Trumpet were obliged to sit with their backs to the rest of the tavern. Tom shifted his chair sideways so he could look toward the counter with only a slight twist. Trumpet put her elbows on the table, fist in palm, and grinned at the thieves as if she had never met anyone more intriguing.
They traded pleasantries for a few minutes, then Coddington’s freckled face broke into a grin. “Brace yourselves, lads. Your hearts are about to be broken.”
“That’s not all they’ll break,” Sam Pratt said, winking broadly at Trumpet.
Two buxom wenches with red hair escaping from their coifs swung toward them with loaded trays, skirts swishing. Two pairs of blue eyes shone from two identically round faces. Twins, by the grace of a benevolent God!
Tom let out a low whistle, earning a smile from one of the twins. Then he jerked his leg as Trumpet’s shoe cracked against his ankle. He met her green eyes and grinned. “Too much for you?”
“We’re here on business,” she said.
“A crafty man can mix work and pleasure,” Coddington said. “Why do you think we meet here?” He tried to persuade one of the twins to sit on his lap, but these wenches had each other for support and were proof against flirtations.
After they left, Tom filled cups and passed them around. “I’m glad to find you here, old mate. I’ve been thinking about our conversations back in Newgate.”
“Ah, the old cell.” Coddington raised his cup to Tom. “I’ll tell you, friends, Clarady here has influence. I ate better in Newgate as his cellmate than I do at my landlady’s table.” He took a sip of wine and smacked his lips.
“Happy to oblige,” Tom said. “Now perhaps you can do me a good turn. My partner here and I want in on the chapel game. It costs a pretty penny to keep up appearances at the Inns of Court, as I’m sure you gentlemen know.” He flattered them by that appellation; they plainly liked it.
Pratt said, “I can appreciate your difficulty, Mr. Clarady, but we’ve got all the men we need. Although from what Jack here has told us, you could be useful. Your father’s a ship’s captain, is that right?”
“He is indeed,” Tom said. “A privateer, I don’t mind telling you. But the takings aren’t what they were, with the cursed Spanish armed to the teeth and always on the lookout. I need another source of revenue. We don’t come looking for charity.” He jerked his thumb at Trumpet. “My friend here had the bright idea of expanding the venture into the country. Lots of rich pickings out there on isolated estates. Get out of London before things get too hot.”
“Interesting you should say that,” Pratt said. “Our upright man’s had the same idea. It hasn’t been decided yet, but there’s been trouble lately.” He gave his mate a doubtful look.
Tom took a small leap. “The murders, you mean.”
Coddington shook a finger at him as he said to his friend, “What’d I tell you? He’s a sharp one, he is. I’m telling you, we should take him to Mr. Welbeck.”
Tom kept his face still as he reached for his cup, resisting the urge to glance at Trumpet. Her foot touched his. She set her index finger on the table, making a strong point. “We won’t do the murder part — we want to make that clear. We’re strictly set-up men. We locate the best targets and get in with the servants to pick a good night when everyone will be out. That’s all we do.”
Tom repressed an admiring grin. She must have thought of that ploy as they walked down from St. Paul’s. He’d been watching the people go by and noting new temptations in shop windows while she had been strategizing, the clever wench. They’d make the ideal team for that job too, especially with Catalina’s arts to alter their appearance from town to town.
He’d more than half convinced himself at least.
“We had nothing to do with the murders,” Coddington said. “I didn’t even know about ’em till the master bailed me out. But you must have known something, Clarady. You were in for doing that Viscount What-d’ye-call-um. Surleyville, was it?”
“Surdeval,” Trumpet said. She spoke in her low Allen voice, which now sounded husky to Tom’s ears. “Didn’t you know whose chapel you were robbing?”
Coddington shrugged. “Who cares? All we need is the date and a map.”
“We don’t even need the map most of the time,” Pratt said. “Those old chapels are almost always attached to the hall.”
“For the record,” Tom said, “they cleared me of all charges. Wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. But I’ve heard a man’s been killed everywhere a chapel’s been robbed. I reckoned it must be one of your gang.”
“We don’t object,” Trumpet put in. “We hate Catholics too.”
“It was never us,” Coddington insisted. “We’re thieves, not murderers. In and out like cats, remember? Murder causes too much fuss.”
“But how could you not know?” Tom asked.
“Well, it’s a mystery, isn’t it?” Coddington scratched his head behind his ear. “They must’ve snuck in behind us, or come in a different way.”
“It’s nasty to think about,” Pratt said. “Some raving assassin creeping about while we’re doing our work. I tell you, it’s not safe for honest thieves anymore.”
“They probably followed you in,” Trumpet said. “They must have known you were going to be there.”
Tom shook his finger to underscore her suggestion. “Maybe they got hold of your list. Or paid the same clerk your — what did you call him? — your Mr. Wallbeak paid.”
“Welbeck,” Coddington said. “No, the clerk gets paid after the goods are sold. And the master has another —”
“Who’s this, Coddington?” The man Catalina had recognized loomed up behind Tom. “They’re asking a lot of questions.”
“This is my old cellmate,” Coddington said. “Him what’s father is a privateer. I told him to look me up and so he did.” He introduced the newcomer as William Buckle.
Buckle was a cut above his fellows, by his clothes, his accent, and his manner. He snapped his fingers at Pratt to move over and give him the choicest seat, where he could watch both the front door and the red-haired women behind the counter. He leaned back against the wall and gave Tom and Trumpet an unwelcoming glare.
Tom displayed his most congenial grin. “You’ll be wanting something better than this swill, I’ll wager.” He shouted at the tapman to bring them a bottle of the very best. Then he turned again to Buckle, enlisting his counsel. “Is anything in this place fit to eat?”
Buckle frowned but managed to allow that the bread was usually fresh, and the cheese could be eaten without distress. When the twins brought the wine, Tom ordered plates of food to share around the table.
He waited until everyone had eaten and drunk a little. Trumpet told some bawdy stories, making everyone but Buckle laugh till the tears flowed. Then Tom brought the conversation back around to the central topic. “It’s sheer genius, if you ask me, robbing Catholic chapels. It’s like privateering, only on land. Safer and better lodgings when you’re done for the day.”
He realized the truth of the words as he spoke them. Privateers raided Spanish ships, in part for funds to fight the Catholic threat. How did these men’s raids on Catholic chapels differ from what his father did?
Then he remembered: the victims were Englishmen.
Pratt nodded. “It’s like stealing gold from pirates. Who’re they going to complain to?” He took out a silver toothpick with a carved head and put it to use.
“It was good while it lasted,” Buckle said. “But I’m afraid you’ve come too late. These murderers, whoever they are, have spoiled the game. They attract too much attention.”
“There’s got to be a way around it.” Tom refilled Buckle’s cup. “We have to get out ahead of them, is what I think. Separate the two acts, if you follow me. Who’s next on the list?”
Too abrupt. Buckle’s eyes grew stony. “I’ve got a question for you: Who was that person you came in with? The one who left as I came down the stairs?”
“Who?” Tom shrugg
ed. “Oh, nobody special, just a fellow we happened to —”
“Because I’m certain now that I recognized him. Or should I say her?” Buckle set his hand on his hip near the sheath of his knife. “Who are you working for? Francis Bacon? I warned the master he’d set spies on us.”
Before Tom could answer, Trumpet shifted position so awkwardly she tipped over a bottle of wine, causing Pratt to jump out of his seat. Tom laughed loudly and pointed at him. Then he leapt out of his chair, tipped up the whole table, and raced out the back door into a tiny yard, with Trumpet close on his heels.
The yard reeked from an overused privy. They paused long enough to catch each other’s eyes and trade nods. Then they ran together toward a half-open door that led them into a workshop strung with long lines sagging under skeins of wet yarn in a rainbow of colors, stinking of fresh dye. Apprentices in aprons shouted at them as they pushed through the sopping masses, heedless of the stains streaking their doublets.
They burst out of the dyer’s shop into an alley so narrow Tom could barely see the sky between the jettied upper stories. He couldn’t tell north from south and had no sense of where the river lay. “Which way?”
Trumpet shrugged. “Let’s go left.”
Tom had barely taken two long steps before he heard her shriek and wheeled around. Pratt had caught her from behind, circling her small waist with his beefy arms. She kicked and cursed, hindering him, but not much. He lifted her off the ground and started backing toward the dyer’s shop.
Tom leapt up and grabbed the iron bar supporting the sign over the shop door, swinging his legs out to kick the knave in the head. The new hat went flying. Pratt roared and let go of Trumpet but turned the wrong way at the same time as Tom let go of the bar. He landed on Pratt’s shoulders, legs astride his neck.
