A Missed Murder

by Michael Jecks

  Anyway, I was dashing along the lane when my boot hit something. Instantly, there was a swirling clamour of metal. In my attempt to avoid the damned pillar, I had forgotten the blasted things I had knocked from the barrel. It was a clattering timpani, a rising chorus of metallic pandemonium. Startled, I almost stained my hosen. I sprang back, and only after a moment did I take a breath and continue on my way. But then something struck my brow. It was sharp, I thought, and massive. And that was about all I thought, because as I fell on my arse I could feel my consciousness slipping away.

  Sometimes, when I have been injured, I have been able to recall the moments leading up to it. Other times, like this, there are only sparks of memory that flash and fade.

  I know I collapsed, I know I landed on my back, and I know my head hurt because I had struck it. But apart from that, all I know is, as I lay there, I began to slide into what felt like a pool of warm, thick, black oil that had opened up beneath me, and now swallowed me whole.

  The evening had started so well, too.

  I was out with a club of friends, drinking, when the message was given to me. And what a messenger!

  When I first saw her, the main thing that impressed me was the low cut of her bodice and how insufficient it appeared for the restraint of her natural attractions. Why, I thought, a swift slice with my little knife at one of the laces would bring down the entire edifice. It was a rather ignoble thought, perhaps, but it was enough to bring a smile to my face. Any man would have thought the same.

  She was a woman in her middle twenties, I would guess, and slightly shorter than the average, with fine features and a slightly – not to be ungallant, but you know what I mean – a slightly vacant air about her. Those large, luminous blue eyes were slanted downwards away from her delicate nose, and she had full lips, as soft and as pink as rose petals. Her face itself was a pleasing oval, with a high brow and delicately arched eyebrows of a pale colour. The hair that I could see was a delicate golden with strawberry tinges, and I was convinced that there were freckles all over the bridge of her nose and over both cheeks. She was absolutely adorable, and although I was rather occupied at that moment, she was definitely a diversion I would have sought out with enthusiasm, given the chance. I watched her idly as she stood near the doorway, peering about the room with a perplexed expression on her features. She reminded me of a puppy I had once seen at a neighbour’s house when I was a boy. It always looked like this: desperate to please, but unsure how to do so.

  Others did not have the same feelings about her, if they noticed her at all. Beside me was a scruffy churl who called himself Leadenhall Bob. He cast a short glance at her and sniggered. It was probably her obvious lack of funds. Bob was a mean, thieving devil at the best of times, and he saw only her obvious shortcomings as a potential victim of his charms: her skirts were threadbare, her feet clad in cheap shoes that were more scuffed than an apprentice’s after playing football in the streets, and the coif laced under her chin was deserving of a lengthy wash; it was almost entirely grey. There was no point investigating the contents of her purse, plainly. The rest of our party didn’t so much as glance in her direction. My own charge, the Spaniard called Luys, seemed to find it impossible to focus on her. He allowed his head to slump back to the table and began a mild, melodic snore.

  We were sitting in the White Bear at the time, at the later end of the evening. I was there with a company of friends – Leadenhall Bob, Lawyer Abraham, Willyam of Whitechapel among others – and with us were a few young women of variable virtue whom we had found in the street and who were keen to entertain us while we had the funds. I was in the fortunate position of having money just now, because I had my new job, but these fellows were men I had met in the days before my recent good fortune, when I was a cut-purse never more than a few steps from the gallows tree. Willyam and I had heavy leather tankards of rich, dark ale, and Bob, too, but the Lawyer stuck to wine.

  Willyam had a little packet of golden rocks. ‘What are they?’ I asked.

  He uncovered the packet. It was a square of soft pigskin, and inside were yellow stones, all strangely smooth-sided. ‘These? They are called Persian pyrites.’ He held one up. ‘It looks like gold, doesn’t it? I thought it was when I first saw it.’

  I took a piece. It did look like gold, certainly, but was considerably lighter. ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ He grimaced. ‘Just some dark fellow with a hood over his face, but his purse on his hip. He never saw me, but I was hopeful the purse had more than this in it!’

  ‘I see.’ A man who dipped his hand into someone else’s purse would occasionally find something unexpected. ‘What is it worth?’

  Willyam shook his head with resignation. ‘Nothing. It’s just a stone. Soft, too. Although I’ve heard that you should be careful holding it in your hand. It can burn. If you hit it with metal, it will make sparks like steel and flint.’

  ‘Exciting,’ I said. Ale was of more use; that was my own thought. A stone that sparked was good when lighting tinder, but little help for anything else. Besides, I was more interested in the woman who had entered.

  I didn’t know then just how much trouble she would cause me.

  ‘I say that those who said Spain would make a good bedfellow are all liars,’ Bob said, casting a disdainful look at the snoring Spaniard.

  Lawyer Abraham tipped his head and peered at Bob from hooded eyes. He was not trained in the law, but with his rangy frame and balding head, he had something of the look of a lawyer, and the manner, too.

  It was Willyam who answered Bob’s question. ‘Why?’

  ‘They come over here, taking our houses, fondling our whores, and don’t let any Englishmen into the King’s household,’ he said, eyeing Luys without favour. ‘I say we’d be better if the Queen was still unmarried.’

  I didn’t want to get involved in a long debate. Bob was the sort of man who would decide he didn’t like something in politics, and would chew at it like a dog with a bone until all about him were well-nigh ready to slaughter the fool. He had once been employed in a bishop’s household and thought that allowed him to pontificate about the doings of the great and mighty.

  Willyam shook his head. ‘What of it? You’ve lost that boat: it’s sailed already. Queen Mary, God bless her, is married to her Philip of Spain, and that’s that.’ I’d known Willyam for a half year, and most of the time he was amusing company. He was thin-faced, with a chin you could use as an awl. His eyes were too close together, but he couldn’t help his looks. He had a good brain and, better, light fingers. Willyam had once been a servant in a great house, I had heard, before his interest in other people’s money had led to his losing his post and almost being taken to answer probing questions in court.

  ‘There could be another rebellion,’ Bob muttered darkly. He was a shortish man, with curly brown hair and a thin mouth, who, in all the time I had known him, managed to look disgruntled about one thing or another.

  ‘There could. Or there could be a visit by serious-minded men with weapons, to take loose-jawed fools who talk too loudly to the Tower to explain why they had something against the Queen’s husband,’ Abraham drawled.

  Willyam glanced at me. ‘Very true. We can’t afford to have disputes about the Spaniard’s rights to be with the Queen, now that she has chosen him, can we? Besides, who would you have her take in Philip’s place? The French Prince? Spain is surely a better ally.’

  ‘Ally? They’ll be bringing us into their wars, you mark my words. They aren’t satisfied with coming over and forcing us to drink their wine; they’ll want to have our army join them, and then they’ll bring their popish priests over, and …’

  Willyam shook his head and glanced at me, giving a roll of his eyes. It was the same every time Bob had too much to drink. He was determined to complain to all and sundry about the shocking marriage of the Queen to her Prince. But that was months ago. Their baby was expected at any moment. I said, ‘They are married, Bob. Your complaint
s can achieve nothing! What, do you expect her to copy her father and try to divorce Philip? She is happy, from all the reports.’

  ‘How can she be happy with him?’ Bob muttered, submitting to the wine by slumping back.

  ‘Easy,’ Willyam said. He held his hands out like an angler describing a monster fish. ‘The Spaniard is hung like a donkey!’

  The woman at the doorway was a great deal more interesting than such conversation.

  Although at that moment I was engaged with a curvaceous young whore called Lizzie, who had sprawled herself over my lap in an act designed to give me a good view of her cleavage while she muzzled lewdly at my earlobe, which was guaranteed to send me into a frantic fever of lust, this new face was distracting.

  ‘Who is that?’ I said.

  Lizzie chuckled in my ear, and her hand explored beneath my codpiece. ‘Why, don’t you have enough to deal with already?’ she said breathily.

  It was more temptation than I could bear. I bent to her, but even as I did so, there was a call from the barman. ‘Anyone here called Jack Blackjack?’

  Looking up, I saw the woman at his side. She gazed about her at the room with every indication of concern.

  ‘You been planting saplings in that lady’s garden?’ Willyam asked with a sneer.

  Lizzie sniggered, then pouted up at me. ‘Aren’t I good enough?’

  Lawyer Abraham turned and subjected the woman to a close inspection. ‘Well, I always knew Jack preferred blondes,’ he drawled.

  Bob lifted his head with apparent difficulty. He was like a puppy which begins to doze while sitting up, and his head was now unconscionably weighty as he peered at her. ‘I wouldn’t mind her warming my bed.’

  Willyam winked at me. ‘But what if she was a Spaniard, eh? You’d want her to make a move homewards quickly enough, I’ll wager.’

  ‘I could make an exception for her … for at least ten minutes,’ Bob sniggered, but then his head began to droop again.

  ‘After the wine you have had,’ Lawyer Abraham said thoughtfully, ‘I think your exception need only last a moment or two.’

  ‘And you would have to hope she would want a curly-haired simkin like you!’ Willyam said. He took a longer pull at his ale.

  I looked at the woman again. She was looking around the room, and then I saw her give a fleeting frown as she gazed in the direction of our little table, momentarily meeting my glance.

  Willyam turned to look at her, and I saw him give a fleeting smile, a confidential, sly little easing of his lips as he caught her eye. I knew what Willyam was like, pretty much. I hadn’t known him that long, but he was always the one who would try to push his way ahead of any man who took the fancy of an attractive little tart. A forceful fellow, with the morals of a true dipper, which is to say that he was a thoroughgoing thief with the morals of an alleycat. What he cared about more than anything was whatever was good for him. Still, he bought his own round when it was his turn, and in the last months I had not had that many friends.

  However, Willyam looked as he truly was – a scruffy near-vagrant – whereas I was clad in a new dark-blue doublet, with tight-fitting hosen, a short cloak of dark blue lined with blue silk, and a cap of scarlet, with an extravagant feather springing from the side. I was, in short, the picture of a wealthy young nobleman. Willyam stood no chance.

  I extricated myself from the sultry Lizzie, stood, straightened my codpiece, tugged my doublet and made my way to the woman. As I approached, I pulled my cloak slightly, to show off the lining to better effect, and smiled.

  She looked me over, and I could see that she was already springing from the idea of a brief conversation to pummelling some sheets with me. I am lucky with my face. Where men like Willyam suffer from narrow-set eyes or skin pocked by youthful spots or other complaints, I have a good head of hair and a face that inspires trust. I have dark-brown eyes, and I make an effort to use them well, lowering my head as if in deep sincerity when I speak. My straight nose and regular features never fail to win over women of all qualities, and usually their husbands too.

  ‘Mistress,’ I said, and bowed elaborately. ‘I am your most devoted servant. I saw you enter, and …’

  ‘I must speak with Jack Blackjack, Master. Do you know where I might find him?’

  The man from the bar sniggered and walked away as I smiled lecherously. ‘I am he. You were looking for me? What is your name, pretty maiden?’

  She looked doubtful. ‘I was told to look for a man who had a square face, brown eyes and a little scar on his left cheek.’

  I smiled at her. My face has always been my fortune. Women look at me and see a bold yeoman they want to coddle. God would never have given such looks to a black-hearted devil, they think.

  Turning my head, I indicated my scar. I always think it gives me a devil-may-care appearance, a proof that I am a bold, adventurous type – although I won it from falling while fleeing a furious miller who wanted to exact vengeance for my deflowering of his daughter. Deflowering, indeed! That little hussy had been more practised than half the women in Piers’s brothel.

  ‘Who told you to seek me?’ I asked.

  ‘Master Blount.’

  The name was enough to make my cods shrivel.

  John Blount is, I suppose, my master. He is a loyal servant to Sir Thomas Parry, the comptroller to Lady Elizabeth. Blount last year found me and deemed me to be ideal for his purposes. He had come to believe that there was a need for a man who was determined, bold and ruthless: an assassin.

  You see, the nation was embroiled in ructions again at that time, about a year ago. The fool Wyatt was raising Cain in Kent, and leading an armed mob against London to push Queen Mary from her throne and replace her with Lady Elizabeth or Lady Jane Grey. Behind the scenes the men aiding each woman vied for control, and men vying for power can grow dangerous. Blount sought an assassin to use as a final resort in certain cases. In me he thought he had discovered his perfect killer. He little knew that the sight of blood always leaves me weak and enfeebled.

  However, his scheming meant I would be better served by accepting his offer of a position than refusing it. To refuse would place me in a delicate situation. I would be in the uncomfortable position of knowing his plans. That, I was sure, would not be a secure berth for me: a man seeking to hire an assassin would not balk at removing an irritating witness to his plans. Then again, there was the other weight in the balance: I was poor, with no home, no friends and no prospects. Blount was holding out the offer of a house, new clothes and food, as well as a goodly salary.

  If the worst came to the worst, I could always take his money for the present and then flee, I thought. It seemed to me to be the best of all worlds. Money, women, a warm home … who could refuse it?

  However, Blount was a hard man to escape from, and it was not easy to disappear. If I fled London, I might survive, if I wanted to. The kingdom outside London always struck me as wet, miserable and filled with fools who could barely speak English, or not in a comprehensible manner. London was my home. Yet if I were to escape his clutches and remain in the city, I had an uncomfortable conviction that he would find me.

  It was not a pleasant reflection.

  All this, and more, passed through my head as I gazed at her.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend. Do you want the message or not? I’ve spent half the day trying to track you down. Your servant was little help. I’ve been traipsing all around the city since noon.’

  ‘Noon?’ It was about an hour before midnight now, I reckoned. My day had been extraordinarily busy. I had not seen this woman before. She looked still more fretful as I stared at her. ‘Why did he send you to find me?’

  ‘How should I know? Look, I have a message for you: he wants you to ignore the Spaniard’s man and instead deal with …’ She reached down into her cleavage. I tried to keep my eyes from her bosom, but not very hard. ‘This man.’

  I took the slip of parchment with a sense of utter hopelessness. There was
a name on the strip of parchment, but I could not read it. Not because the name was written in code, an especial code that a friend of Blount’s had devised, but more because my eyes were rheumy and incapable of focusing accurately after so much ale, especially in the dark. ‘What does this say?’

  ‘It says Michol, who hails from near St Olave-towards-the-Tower. Can’t you read?’ she asked, somewhat sharply, and snatched it back. ‘Give it to me! It says, “He has a square face, dark hair, is in his early thirties.”’ She went on to describe a genial-looking man, his clothing, his hat, his manner. He sounded a contented soul.

  ‘You are sure of this?’ I demanded.

  She peered at me with a faint air of bewilderment. ‘Of course.’

  ‘He didn’t say something like “When you have completed your task with the Spaniard’s fellow, then see to this Frenchman?”’

  ‘No, of course not! Why should he? No, he said to ignore the Spaniard or he would be angry.’

  I had no answer to that, of course. Because the simple fact was that I had plans in train already. The Spanish spy, our friend Jeffry, was to die that very day, in almost exactly an hour.

  It was that which made me suddenly sober up. There was a cold sweat breaking out on my brow. The careful preparations I had in place already to ensure that this specific man would die were foolproof, and yet now I was being ordered to cancel them and make for a new target.

  That was all very well, but if the wrong man were to die, there would undoubtedly be consequences. It would no doubt be my fault, or the blame would be laid at my door, and that would have to mean that I would lose my house, clothes, and perhaps more.

  It would be painful, I was sure.

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked, a little hoarsely. ‘Where is Blount?’

  ‘He was going to meet with someone. He said he would return in a few days,’ the woman said. She was clearly nervous, her eyes flitting around the room, resting briefly on the men at the table.

  A few days! He was doing exactly the same as me: trying to creating a strong alibi. He would be keeping his own head down and out of any possible nooses, while leaving me standing on the scaffold!