A Missed Murder

by Michael Jecks

  The woman’s lip curled. I glanced over at the table. The Spaniard was still sprawling, with his cheek resting comfortably in a puddle of spilled ale. He wore a smile. At his side, Willyam had taken advantage of my flight to accommodate Lizzie with a new lap, and he had his hand inside her bodice while she squeaked and laughed, and Bob and the Lawyer were engaged in an argument, no doubt once more about the Spanish or the French.

  Perhaps it was just that this woman was unused to such low dives. A group of men over at the far wall were cheering on a couple who were enthusiastically coupling, while bawds and drunks egged them on with crude shouts and curses. There was a gaming table where men were gambling with money they could ill-afford to lose. It never ceases to astonish me that men who can barely claim the coins to put food in their bellies will still keenly throw the few pennies they possess to enrich a man who owns a pair of skimmed dice.

  I stood there for what seemed like an age. Suddenly, a hand landed on my shoulder. I gave a startled convulsion, like a deer who hears a hound baying in the distance. It was Lawyer Abraham, saying Bob was growing tedious, and asking did I want more ale? I shook my head somewhat dumbly and stared about me again. This was terrible news. I found my eyes returning to the woman. She had a steady, confident gaze and held my eye while I considered.

  There was only one thing to do.

  I fetched my snoring Spaniard and left.

  I am supposed to be an assassin, but don’t hold that against me. I have never killed anyone on purpose, except during the Wyatt rebellion the previous year, and that was because I couldn’t escape the city beforehand. Believe me, I didn’t want to be involved.

  It was never my intention to become an assassin. But when Blount offered me cash, a house, new clothes and the chance of a lifestyle I could never have imagined, I would have been a complete fool not to accept it. I don’t know anyone who would have paused to consider before snapping up the offer. And I could always run away, I thought.

  But that little detail of actually being expected to kill people – that was always going to be a problem. Yet the new house, the clothes, the money … they were a strong compensation.

  It so happened that I was on friendly terms with a young woman called Jen. It was an entirely pleasant relationship up until the moment her husband found out.

  He was a fellow called Thomas Falkes, truly a villain of the foulest water. In terms of twisted crookedness, he could outdo the screw on a cider press. He could compete happily with the worst men in London, which means the worst in the whole of England. Worse even than the politicians and lawyers of the city, most of whom were in his purse, for his purse was deep. He was a swindler, blackmailer, procurer of whores and fence of stolen goods. There was no crime so small that he wouldn’t conceive a means of profiting by it. But for all that, he was very keen to protect his own woman, and when he heard that I was regularly taking her mattress-galloping, he took umbrage and attempted to investigate my interior organs after skinning me alive. I escaped that and hurriedly left the city. When I returned, he was no longer in business – I think John Blount had devised a means of keeping Falkes occupied for the nonce – and I returned to squiring young Jen.

  She was worth the effort. Jen was a slim thing, pale as a pewterer, with red-gold hair so abundant that its weight seemed to keep her chin tilted upwards. She had vacant blue eyes, and lips that were always on the verge of smiling, as well as a pair of bosoms that could suffocate a fellow if she rolled on to him. Still, he would die happy.

  Aye, Jen was a lovely little thing, sweet as a piece of sugar-candy, and of course she was deeply in love with me. She loved my intellect, my easy-going nature and, no doubt, my good looks – for Thomas was an ugly brute with the manners of a night-soil collector. Compared with him, I, with my smart clothing and good manners, must have been a source of great joy to her. Yet still, although she was plainly devoted, there were occasions when she could lose her temper, and when she did, it was a sight to behold. In the last few months her rages had grown more regular, and only yesterday, after her latest eruption, I had decided to set her aside. Life was troublesome enough.

  The first time it happened was some seven months ago. We were in a tavern, and I happened to cast a glance at a young doxy in the corner. It was little more than that – scarcely more than the time it takes to blink – but Jen began to screech at me, declaring that I must be the savagest man in all London to take a woman like her and then eye every whore in town. It was entirely unreasonable, and I was swift to make my feelings known, you can be sure, but later we made up and all was satisfactory once more. Still, it told me that this was a wench to be wary of. And I was right.

  The day before, I happened to meet another woman. We repaired to a tavern, where one thing led to another, and I was about to lead her to an upper chamber for a little horizontal wrestling when I heard a piercing shriek. It was Jen. I suspect she had followed me. Perhaps she had followed me every time I was out and about.

  Fortunately, there was not too much at hand, for Jen had a propensity for flinging objects in a manner that made them as devastating as a king’s cannon. If she could be harnessed, she could destroy whole towns, I swear. On this occasion, I was able to dart out of the path of the majority of her missiles, and others at the tavern took hold of her and forced her to withdraw, to general merriment. She was tugged from the chamber, her bodice moving thrillingly, and I took my own leave, with the doxy on my arm. The last thing I heard was Jen’s threat that she would set her father on to me.

  Well, really, I thought with a light chuckle. How fearsome.

  And so that morning Humfrie came to visit me.

  To be honest, my problems with Jen had slipped into the background at the time. You see, before Humfrie arrived, I was called to visit my master, John Blount, and his news was enough to drive thoughts of Jen, Jen’s father, and the wench in the tavern, into the middle distance.

  ‘I have a man I need you to remove,’ Blount said as I entered his chamber.

  Not the best welcome I have ever received. It sent a shiver down my spine to hear it, as you can imagine.

  Blount’s house was on St Martin’s Lane, nearer St Martin’s Le Grand than Aldersgate, only a short distance from St Paul’s. A fairly modern house, it was narrow, three-storeyed, with beams and wattle liberally spattered with limewash. Blount lived in a studied, bleak manner like any puritan. His servant, the man I had come to think of as the Bear, from his huge size, let me in and directed me to the rear parlour where Blount was wont to meet his agents.

  It was a smallish chamber, bare apart from a table, chair, stool and a number of candles. A simple wooden cross hung from a nail in the wall. There was only one window, and that gave a clear view over a small garden and orchard to the church of St Nicholas.

  ‘Who?’ I asked, after clearing my throat several times to bring my voice down to below the mouse-like squeak that threatened. All the while my breakfast attempted to reappear. I have never got used to the idea of removing people. It sounds clinical and straightforward, to borrow the terminology that Blount and others would use, but for me it only meant men, blood and bodies. I had no liking for blood, as I have said, and the idea of attacking men was also unappealing. I have always found that men, when they discover themselves the unwitting victim of an unprovoked assault, will often grow determined to defend themselves, and that usually means that they will launch their own offensive against me.

  ‘You must have heard of the Queen’s favourite adviser? Renard? He is from the Spanish imperial court and waits on Queen Mary at every opportunity, even more so now that she has married Philip, the son of the devil!’

  He could still make himself angry like that on occasion. Whenever I heard him speak of the Spaniards, he grew warm. I could almost believe that he had some bad experience with a Spaniard when he was young, for he could barely speak of them without spitting.

  ‘What of him?’

  Blount sat at his table. His dark eyes were flaming coals d
eep in their sockets as he glared at me. A heavy brass candleholder held a single stick that dribbled and sputtered, making his high cheekbones seem even more pronounced with shadows that moved. ‘He is the enemy of your Lady and mine. Sir Thomas Parry has learned that he still agitates against Lady Elizabeth and has instructed a man to see her destroyed.’

  ‘Who is this fellow?’

  ‘A low-born son of a churl, called Jeffry of Shoreditch. He has been paid to foment trouble for her.’

  ‘What of the Queen? Or Philip of Spain? Do they have a hand in this?’

  Blount sneered at me. ‘You think even Mary could think of such a foul deed?’

  ‘She saw to Lady Jane swiftly enough.’

  ‘Lady Jane Grey was foolish enough to marry a man who had the brains of an ape, without the subtlety. She tried to take the throne when Edward died, and then allowed Wyatt to stir rebellion in her favour.’

  ‘In her favour?’

  ‘Whether it was the truth or not, only God can know,’ Blount said. ‘Be that as it may, Wyatt fomented rebellion and the Queen believed it was in order to install Lady Jane on the throne. She has spent the last year attempting to prove that Lady Elizabeth also had a hand in the uprising, but there is nothing to associate her with Wyatt, which is why her head still rests on her shoulders. But if this man should succeed, it may go evilly with her. As for her husband, he would scarcely dare to attack Lady Elizabeth. No, this comes from another quarter – from the ambassador himself, I’ll wager.’

  I would have questioned him further, but he gave me no time and ran on immediately. ‘Now, I must see him dead quickly. I will not permit any danger to the Lady Elizabeth. Ideally, remove him before this day is ended.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He looked at me severely. ‘Your task is to find this man, pursue him by any means necessary and execute him before he can proceed with his foul plot. There is to be a bonus for you in the matter, too,’ he added, disapprovingly.

  It was a strange aspect of this grim-featured man that he could happily chat about murdering others, but the subject of money was distasteful to him. I was being rewarded, it was true, but I never saw the harm in a little extra incentive. ‘Yes?’

  ‘He has been paid two purses of gold to pursue his foul stratagem. Sir Thomas has agreed that you may keep them. But you must complete this assignment urgently. Is that clear?’

  ‘As clear as a millpond,’ I said. My interview was evidently at an end, for Master John had already dismissed me from his mind and was studying a sheet of paper with a frown.

  I left.

  My first act was to hurry back to my own house, where I began to select a collection of valuables that would serve me well once I had fled the place.

  Fled? Of course, fled. I cannot kill men willy-nilly. I have seen men expire, and it’s not pleasant even when you aren’t responsible. The idea of hunting a man down and killing him in cold blood was appalling. I could no more do that than fly to the top of the tower of St Paul’s! No, I had promised myself ever since the horrors of Woodstock last year that as soon as I was instructed to commit another murder, I would be off, and my meeting with Blount was enough to convince me that my time had come.

  It was a shame if this man Jeffry was truly determined to harm poor Lady Elizabeth, but that was not my fault. No one could say that I was responsible for his actions. And Lady Elizabeth had many resourceful, clever and bold men at her command even now. Her pale complexion and youthful charm had won over many who were determined to be her enemies, from all I had heard. There were plenty who would seek to protect her, no doubt.

  Politics is a mess, of course. While thinking of Lady Elizabeth, I could not help but remember a rather more dumpy maid I had seen last year, sitting alone in a chamber, looking rather lost. She was the Queen herself: Mary. And now Queen Mary was a married lady, wedded to the heir to the Spanish empire, King Philip of Naples, no less, and ready, so it was said, to produce her first pup. Some said it was a disgrace that the English throne should be allied to the Spanish, but it all made little difference to me. Whoever ran the kingdom, my life would continue as before, I hoped. And now this Jeffry of Shoreditch wanted to hurt one young woman to enhance the position of the other. All because the Spanish ambassador thought it was in the interests of his master, the King of Spain, I supposed. Philip would not want his English crown to be threatened by the machinations of Lady Elizabeth.

  Her face came back to me. I had met her at Woodstock last year, when she was still incarcerated there, and she had made quite an impression on me. Slim, pale, with extraordinary eyes set in that fine face, she was entrancing. And ruthless as an adder. She was more scary than Mary, in my opinion. But there was also something in her that I could see would attract a certain type of man. An adventurous type would consider her a challenge. I wouldn’t! Once you get to playing hide the sausage with royalty, you know your life expectancy will reduce daily. Lady Elizabeth may be worth a tumble, but I had the distinct impression that she would exact her pound of flesh from a man who attempted such familiarity.

  I had my things packed away and threw them into a satchel. My purse holding all my worldly wealth was at my belt. The strap went over my shoulder, and I was about to leave when I recalled my secret stash. There was a loose brick in the chimney, and behind it was a small collection of pennies. I was about to reach inside the chimney, when my servant, Raphe, appeared.

  ‘You going out, Master?’ he said.

  Raphe was a tow-headed lad of some seventeen years. He was no bottler of skill and ability, nor was he competent as a steward. When I first took this house, I had a steward called Atwood, but he made me nervous. Soon Master Blount appeared and suggested this fellow instead. Atwood left shortly afterwards, and Raphe arrived.

  It was tacitly agreed between me and John Blount that he would remain. Personally, I wondered whether the lad was Blount’s bastard son and he was keen to keep the fellow occupied. It struck me early on that his function was less likely to be that of servant, more that of spy: watching me. Standing before my door, he eyed my satchel with undisguised interest.

  ‘Yes. I have a task to perform for Sir Thomas,’ I said loftily. The house was, after all, owned by Blount’s lord, Sir Thomas Parry, the confidential servant and comptroller of Lady Elizabeth. Any plots that John Blount was involved in must be known to his master, and if they weren’t, they should be. I wasn’t going to be the secret agent of Blount against his master!

  I left the last pennies behind. Raphe was rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, his weaselly eyes fixed on me, but I didn’t care as I marched to the door. I was going.

  It was not yet the hour for a midday meal, so I thought to buy a meat pie for later. I could eat it while walking, and put many miles behind me. But where could I go? I couldn’t remain in London; that was sure. Blount had men everywhere, and there was nowhere I could hide, except six feet under, which is where I might well end up, once he exacted retribution. In preference, I thought I should make my way south of the Thames, perhaps get advice from Piers at the brothel known as the Cardinal’s Hat. He would be able to help.

  I bent my way towards London Bridge along Fenchurch Street, mind fizzing all the way. There was the thought of the two bags of gold which Blount had said I could take, which did make my feet slow whenever I thought of them. Two bags of gold, after all, was a treasure to any man. I hoped Piers would be able to help me think my way out of this mess. I reckoned I would need all the help I could get. Yet the thought of being paid two bags of gold … it was a hard decision to leave the city when there was an incentive like that. In my mind’s eye, I could see the purses. They had a glorious heft to them. I could all but feel them – the wonderful mass of both, one in either hand.

  As though in a dream, I strolled down St Margaret’s Lane, and it was only when the missile narrowly missed my shoulder that I realized there was a disturbance.

  There are some people who come to London and are welcomed with open arms. Usually, it is the type
of character who turns up with full purses, like the ones I had been imagining, just begging to be emptied. Some foreigners are gratified to be greeted by the smart set. They are glad to be entertained by new friends, visiting taverns where games are played on which guests can play chance and hazard the devil to take their money. He usually won’t, but his minions – the thieving scum of a dozen English towns – will happily do so for him. Dice that have been shaved or fitted with weights, cards with markings, or a bystander who keeps a careful watch on the visitor’s game and alerts his companion with unnoticeable signs – all are used in the shady streets of London. The visitors are welcomed and leave poorer, but a great deal wiser.

  Men who visit London from abroad are the best of all. From early on being pleasantly surprised by the welcoming kisses of the womenfolk, to discovering the delights of the stews and brothels, they find the city attractive. It is bustling, loud, noisome, dangerous, but fun, exciting and thrilling, all at the same time.

  However, the visitors who come arrogantly declaiming the people of the city, who declare the place a foul pit of deceit and crime, are never welcome.

  I was aware of the noise shortly after the second missile. Others might stand and gawp, but I knew my London mob, and when something flies past my ear, I don’t wait to see what it was; I duck and find shelter. There was a ‘car’ beside me, one of the long, thin vehicles designed for London’s narrow streets. This, twelve feet in length and three wide, offered some protection. Swiftly, I shot around to the side of it, and then became aware that the missiles were nothing more than small bread rolls.

  Now that I could concentrate, I was aware of a series of cries and roars. Looking ahead – in my dreaming I had not noticed this before – there was a wall of men and women blocking my path and the road. A pair of ungodly little heathens of some nine or ten years were egging the adults on.

  On the car above me, the carter was grumpily staring over the heads of the crowd, muttering to himself. While he watched, his pony lifted his tail and added his own pungent comment to the delay.