A Missed Murder

by Michael Jecks

  Today he looked worse than usual. His grey features were waxen, as though he had a constant sheen of sweat over his face. Still, he allowed us all inside, and soon I was sitting with Bob and Lawyer Abraham while our Spanish friend and Willyam went inside to enjoy themselves.

  Later, when Willyam had returned, smiling like a hound who’s eaten a cat, I was tempted to enter a chamber with one of the less expensive wenches.

  If only I had. I might have missed a lot of pain and trouble.

  By the time Luys was ready to plead exhaustion and beg to be released, we were all growing fidgety. There was one fubsy wench there who could see my eye on her, and who had lips that pouted delightfully, and whose breasts were like plump melons, and although I was tempted to go and investigate the depths of her cleavage, I had not yet managed to separate my charge from his purse. I was keen to keep a clear head.

  We took our leave of the brothel, not without a regretful glance at the pouting beauty on my part, and began to make our way back to the river. The wherrymen were mostly gone for the evening, but I saw one man asleep in his boat, curled up with a blanket over him against the evening’s chill, and he grumpily agreed to cross the waters one last time. We all scrambled in – Luys almost falling into the water, he was so wearied after his exertions – and we were sworn at foully by the master of the craft.

  Soon we were crossing the river, the wherryman aiming at a point far upstream, while the current pulled us downriver. As if by a miracle, he deposited us at almost the same place where we had taken a boat earlier that evening. Before long we were happily ensconced in the White Bear once more.

  The evening’s drinking continued well. I had thought to get Luys wicked drunk in a hurry, and then to relieve him of his purse in a game of cards or dice, and make my cheerful way home, and all appeared to be succeeding surprisingly well. I had pushed food and strong ale into him, convinced that the two together would induce a sense of well-being and comfort, such that when a game was proposed, he would be agreeable. It usually works. Soon I was happily groping the lovely Lizzie, while my Spaniard was outside spewing.

  I should have gone with him, obviously. I knew that even as he rose from the table, his face blotched and pink, and hurried from the room. But the fact was that Lizzie was an entrancing distraction, especially since I had remained celibate while my friend made free with the assets of the mistress of the game at the Cardinal’s Hat, and all I could think of at that moment was the delicious young strumpet wriggling on my lap.

  Luys came back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and I winced to think how he must reek. English ale is strong food for those with English hearts and stomachs, but this foreigner clearly had weakly blood from too many years drinking wine. Still, I had to appear concerned. ‘Are you well, Luys?’

  ‘Yes, I think some of the ale was off,’ he said, but there was a frown on his face.

  ‘Is something troubling you?’

  ‘There was a man out there, just now. He did not know that I could see him, and he was only a shape in a doorway, but he kept watching this place.’

  ‘What sort of a man?’ I asked.

  ‘Heavy, ugly,’ Luys belched. He grinned at me and took another draught. ‘He was like a man I saw before, watching outside here before we crossed the river.’

  He gave me another grin and then slowly subsided until his cheek was companionably resting on the table.

  I did not like the sound of this. Raphe had mentioned a large, ugly man outside my house, too. Was it Blount’s man, Bear? If not, who was this fellow, and was he following me? I tried to elicit further descriptions from Luys, but at the moment he was smiling happily and seemed incapable of waking.

  It was a little after this that the buxom angel appeared, just as I was thinking of slipping Lizzie from my lap and removing the purse from his waist, but with the messenger’s appearance all thoughts of my Spaniard’s purse – and Lizzie – fled. There was no point thinking of such matters when John Blount was likely to want to see me racked and disembowelled for killing the wrong man. Especially since after disembowelling me he would really go to town on my remains. Of that I was certain. I didn’t feel well.

  I had intended to remain here with Luys, but now I had other matters to occupy me. I left my little gathering to go and find Humfrie before he could kill Jeffry. That was the thought uppermost in my mind as I drained my tankard and gave my farewells.

  ‘We’ll look after your Spanish friend.’

  Willyam’s words struck me hard. I couldn’t leave the poor fool with Willyam and the others. They’d empty his purse in the blink of an eye. It was only professional politeness that had kept them from doing so already. No, I would have to protect him, clearly. But how to do so, when my house was in the opposite direction to the quay where Humfrie was going to kill Jeffry? I resolved that I would take Luys with me and hope that his presence would not harm my effort to save Jeffry.

  I roused him with difficulty and got him to stand, just, with one hand outstretched on the wall, the other at his belly. When I pulled at his arm, trying to persuade him to come with me, he was as reluctant as a hound on a leash for the first time. He kept on muttering gibberish, or so it sounded to me. Perhaps he was just speaking in his own language. In any case, after some oaths and mentions of his suspect parentage under my breath, I did succeed in getting through to him.

  ‘Tired. Need bed.’

  ‘Aye, well, let’s go then,’ I said, and steered him into the road and towards the river where Humfrie was.

  ‘You are a best friend to me,’ Luys slurred.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Men say these English are only sons of pigs, but you are kind. I like you.’

  The insufferable fool threw an arm over my shoulders. He reeked of vomit.

  ‘Good,’ I said.

  ‘You not son of a pig. You nice man.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  He continued in this vein for most of the journey, beery, vomity, garlicky breath wafting all over me. By the time we reached the little alley leading to the quay, I was myself about ready to throw up. With relief, I heard him say that he was rather sleepy, and I let him sink to a sitting position at the entrance to the alley. While I watched, he stretched out his legs, finding a pool of what I hoped was water – although, this being London, I wouldn’t vouch for it – closed his eyes with a sort of beatific relief, and began to issue a whistling alternating with a low rumble, rather like light rocks rolling down a hill.

  I left him there. The rest you know.

  I came to with that almost-glad-to-be-alive feeling that I have been growing to know so well. It was almost because at the back of my mind there was a sort of feeling that, now I was awake, what or whoever it was who knocked me out would feel entitled to continue with his Battering Jack project. It was not something I wished to carry on.

  There was a brief period of pain. My head was a mass of bruises and pain, and I did not attempt to sit up yet. That shows how much I have been learning. There are correct ways of recovering from head injuries, and there are painful ways. I have had more experience of them in the last year than most hardened boxers would win in a lifetime.

  This time there was a loud hissing in my ears. It was irritating, but sticking fingers in both meant I could hear nothing – nothing but the hissing. It was apparently there to stay for the nonce. When I opened my eyes, there was an interesting display of stars in the darkness. At first I thought it was the sky I was looking at, and I enjoyed the display for its own sake, before realizing that as I blinked the display was beginning to fade. By the time I felt composed enough to sit up, the stars were almost gone.

  My hat had been struck from my head and was lying upside down in the kennel. I leaned over, picked it up and eyed it distastefully. There was a distinct odour about it that did not bode well. That was when I realized that my hosen were damp, but fortunately I think it was only a little water from the river that had lain in the cobbles of the alley. Finally, I mov
ed my shoulders. Although there was a little wetness on my back, my new doublet felt undamaged, and I could not discern the smells I feared.

  It was then that I remembered what I had been doing in the alley. I stood and had to pause, toppling and grabbing at the pillar that stood some two yards from me. I was like a seaman sailing on a wild ocean, clutching at a mast for support. As my head span and bile rose up my throat, stinging as it came, I grew aware of a stiffness at my face, and when I touched it, I realized I had been bleeding profusely. Blood had coagulated all down my left cheek, and had run into my ear and hair while I was unconscious. My head hurt.

  I was, then, still in the alley where I had fallen. The dish full of metalwork that I had earlier knocked flying was the cause of my stumble, I realized. I had stepped on assorted tubes, chains and other things, and, being unexpected, the sensation had caused me to try to leap away, only to fall clumsily and hurt my head. So much was clear. Now it came to me that my Spaniard was probably still snoring at the other end of the alley, and I set off to find him. It would be just my luck if the fool had woken and made his own way home. Bearing in mind how drunk he was, I should not be surprised if he were to walk straight into the river and drown. Well, if he had, I was not going to worry about him. I had more important things to consider.

  Before Humfrie left, we had arranged to meet the following afternoon at a small tavern not far from St Paul’s churchyard. I had an urgent need to discuss with him what we should do about the absence of Jeffry, and to discuss the new target, and he suggested lunching together. Now I was considering possible options again as I made my way carefully along the dark alley.

  If there had been a watchman there, he would have been able to follow my progress, as a series of clatters and curses tracked my wake. My shins were barked on low barrels and a table, my hand was scraped badly on a section of exposed stone on one building, and my head pounded painfully all the while. I truly detested that dark alley. The darkness was fearful. In it I could easily imagine all kinds of horrible wraith or monster. Perhaps that was why no watchman went to investigate. Most watchmen were older men who had a lifetime of excitement behind them, and who did not get old by seeking out danger intentionally. Walking into a drear little alleyway that led to the Thames was no way to ensure a long and fruitful life.

  Nor, apparently, was resting at the top of an alley. Because, when I reached Luys, the first thing I saw was that his lovely, weighty, intriguing purse was no longer with him. The second thing I saw was that Luys’s purse was not the only thing missing.

  So was Luys’s life.

  He was lying in the same place as when I had left him. His face had the same dropped-jaw daftness that I had seen before I went to talk to Humfrie, and if it were not for the fact that his chest was not rising and falling, I would have thought him still sleeping, nothing worse than that. But even in the dark I could see the bloody stain that blackened the front of his jack. It spread from his breast, almost in the middle, but not quite.

  I had to turn away. This was appalling. I hate blood, I really dislike bodies – and some bastard had taken the purse as well. On top of the accident that had all but broken my head, and the sudden death of that damned fool Jeffry, this was enough to make me want to heave my guts up.

  My belly complied.

  Even as I hurled up all the ale and food of the day into the kennel, I was thinking despondently about the chances of escaping this series of catastrophes. Without the purse of gold, escaping far away was more troublesome, and escape I must, if I were to evade the righteous anger of Master Blount for killing the wrong man. I knew Blount, and the excuse that ‘You told me to kill him originally; it’s not my fault you changed your mind’ would not cut his pat of butter. He would want to know why … and that brought up another difficulty, which was that he must hear from his messenger that she had got her message to me on time. So that meant Blount must assume I had killed Jeffry after I had been told not to. That would look like intolerable disobedience to him. I knew him quite well by then: he looked on me as a mere automaton and nothing more. I was a servant, and was I to become troublesome, he would remove me. I had no illusions about concepts of honour or loyalty. Blount was a hard, violent man. I was his murderer because, by using me, his own plots and evil plans failed to be spotted. After all, if he was always in plain sight, he must be considered innocent. It was the same as the arrangement I had fixed with Humfrie.

  ‘Oh, God’s ballocks,’ I muttered. This was not good. I looked at Luys again. ‘And now you, too.’

  With a shock, I recalled the Spanish servant. He was a bodyguard, if I had ever known one. The memory of his flashing rapier blade intruded into my thoughts. I had a sharp picture in my mind, absolutely precise and clear, of his cold eyes gazing at me along the length of the steel. They were colder than the blade itself, and the idea that he could hear of the death and robbery of his charge might lead to his making enquiries about me. A Spaniard, one of the horde of foreign gentlemen in the household of the new King, would be sure to seek vengeance.

  Have you ever swallowed water from a stream in winter? It goes down easily enough, but you feel every inch as the chill freezes your insides, and when it hits your belly, it’s like having a lump of lead there. Well, that was how I felt now. My guts were chilled, and I could almost believe that my internals were turned to ice. Those eyes. So cold, so threatening. They seemed to be telling me that he would remove all my limbs for fun before starting to make me regret this death.

  Too late. I already did.

  This was the moment when Luys talking about the man who had been following him, or us, came back to my mind. Raphe had spoken of some cove outside my house, too. Who was he? Blount’s Bear, a Spaniard seeking to protect Luys, or a London rogue who wanted to see me implicated in the murder of one of the Queen’s husband’s servants? There was a rattle along the road, and I shot a glance in that direction, but it was just an old Tom cat, from what I could see, rootling about in some trash. For a moment I imagined a large, bluff fellow standing beyond, watching me, but when I blinked he disappeared. Perhaps he had never been there.

  What could I do? I was racking my brains when I had a sudden inspiration. Until I met Luys, I had been determined to leave London. My bag was still packed. Luys’s purse was a loss, but it was only ever an attractive addition to my funds. This, now, was proof that I must get out of London. Permanently. Perhaps I could escape the fate that seemed to be beckoning.

  Of course, there was the other money: Jeffry’s. I had not seen it on him. What if it had been found by Humfrie and moved to his own belt? I doubted it. It is one thing for a foreigner like Luys to walk the streets in a new land with a purse containing half a treasure-ship of gold, thinking he could not trust the servants to keep their thieving hands from it, were he to leave it at home; it was quite another for a Londoner born and bred to think that it would be anything better than instant suicide to walk the streets with that kind of sum in plain view. More likely, Jeffry would not have carried such wealth on him. He would have concealed his money somewhere safe.

  Now I was torn. Should I run, with the little I had saved, or should I hunt for Jeffry’s money and take it? It would help me with my retirement, were I to find it. It could support me for many years.

  I thought I heard a noise again. What, would I spend all the rest of my life wandering, worrying about a man over my shoulder with a knife? Far better to have wealth behind me before fleeing London. I must find those purses.

  With that resolution, I set my face to home.

  But as I went, I was aware of a sound, a pattering, as of light shoes running in the dark behind me. I glanced around and saw a large shadow – like a man in a robe with a cowl, I thought.

  It was enough. With a hand clapped to my bloodied brow, I ran, and barely stopped until I reached my house.

  There was a thin mist the next morning when I arrived at Shoreditch. There was no breeze to stir the air, and I found my nostrils were immediately assaile
d by the smell.

  It is a miracle to me that more people don’t die there. The Shoreditch is a mean little rivulet, which runs down a shallow depression in the foul, marshy ground. Over the years it has become home to a poor, weakly population; they are not healthful or virile. All have the complexion of people who have lived amidst the fumes of contagion and malady. For although the place was, I am sure, once full of fit and exuberant people, the fact is that the sewers of a large part of East London run straight into the brook. If it were as sizeable as the River Fleet, the effluent would be dissipated somewhat, but here, on the eastern fringes of the city, the stream was too low for much of the year. All the effluent from a hundred channels ran straight into this stagnant, overwhelmed water course.

  The result was that the poor denizens of the area fought against the evil odours through the whole year. Turds floated down the Shoreditch, moving sluggishly towards the Thames, but often through the year there was too little water, and you could see them forming dams wherever a twig or branch had fallen in and caused an obstruction. There were two that I could see from where I was standing.

  There was a wooden bridge that was just wide enough for a London car to pass – a wagon or cart would be too wide. I took this, warily stepping on the creaking timbers. At the farther side was a growing community, with small houses and scruffy hovels clustered around a church with four gables and a low tower. There was an old abbey there, too, but that was in the process of being demolished. It made a sad sight in the thin mist.

  Why was I here, wearing a light cap to replace my hat that was in desperate need of cleaning, a linen pad over my broken forehead, and a headache that was constantly rumbling at the front of my skull? Because Jeffry had a home out here. Perhaps he had a place in London, too, and I intended learning where he lived, so that I could search for the two purses which I was coming to think of as my own.

  My head hurt. All the way, I felt every step through the lump at my skull, which seemed almost to ring with the swelling, as if with every step the clapper of a great bell was slamming into it. I felt quite nauseous when I awoke. Walking here, near to the open sewer that was the Shoreditch, several times I had to clap a hand over my mouth and pause, for the threat of vomiting was always close.