A Missed Murder

by Michael Jecks

  Something else was bothering me. ‘Why would Jeffry be talking to this Mal?’

  ‘He was planning something that involved a breadknife, I expect.’

  ‘Why, when Thomas Falkes has disappeared?’

  ‘Perhaps Mal has his own commissions. I don’t know.’

  There was one other thing that bothered me. ‘Was Jeffry worried by Mal? Did he look as though he was anxious? Like a man who is about to be introduced to Mal’s knife?’

  ‘No, he looked like a man who’s just been given the keys to the Queen’s strongroom.’

  Humfrie was watching me with a slight frown. He looked like a benevolent patriarch eyeing a wayward youth. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was hoping to find the money.’ I didn’t say that I wanted those two bags of coin to assist my own escape from the city. I could have cursed to think of the three purses I had lost in the last day. It was ridiculously frustrating.

  That brought to mind the other matter. ‘Oh, I all but forgot. There is another man to be dealt with.’

  Humfrie smiled and nodded to urge me on. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘A Frenchman. His name is Michol, and he is an intelligencer and messenger from the French court.’

  ‘First a Spaniard’s man, now a French? Your master has a problem with foreign visitors?’

  ‘If he has a problem, so do you and I,’ I snapped. ‘If he once grows to believe that we have outlived our usefulness, he will destroy us as swiftly as that!’ and I snapped my fingers.

  He raised an eyebrow and shook his head slowly. ‘I hope you have not told him about me, Master. I would be most displeased if you have.’

  I wasted no time to reassure him. ‘I can’t tell him about you. If I do, he will remove me for certain. But if I am gone, so is your source of income. Don’t forget, your money comes through me.’

  ‘Yes. So you have the money for this second problem Master Blount wishes me to remove?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, the Frenchie? Yes, I have money,’ I said, and fixed a smile of such transparent insincerity to my face that I’m surprised he did not recognize its falseness.

  Perhaps he would have done, but at that moment there was a loud peal of bells from the church. I was confused. This was not the time for any church service. We surely had not been sitting here talking until Nones, and Sext was some time ago.

  It was not only me. Humfrie frowned, and others in the tavern were suddenly quiet. I felt it like a clutching at my heart. Church bells ringing could mean either good news or very bad indeed. Only last year rebellion had swept the land, and now that England’s Queen had married the Spanish heir, both were considered the enemies of France, who might have sent a fleet to invade, I thought. All of a sudden there was a ragged rumble and graunching as stools, benches and tables slid across the floor as men lurched to their feet and ran to the roadway, staring up at the church towers as though an answer could be read emblazoned on them.

  Up and down the street, people were appearing in doorways, windows, erupting from alleys, all staring about and asking what was happening. The din was deafening, and no one could hear a word anybody else was speaking. It suddenly stopped when the bells fell silent, and a boy – an apprentice, I think – sprang on to a cart and blew three blasts on a horn. ‘The Queen! Our blessed Queen has given birth to a healthy son!’ he cried.

  I turned to Humfrie, and the two of us stared at each other. True, if there had been another man to clasp with joy, I would have grabbed him instead, but for now Humfrie would do, and we threw our arms about each other in a hug and danced about the road, even as others followed suit. No one would forget that day. At last the succession was assured. All the confusion and arguments and fighting over the kingdom were done, for a child had been born.

  ‘A son! A son! We will have a king!’ I heard a man shouting with glee.

  Humfrie raised his eyebrow. We had relinquished our grip on each other and now we somewhat shamefacedly made our way back into the tavern and our ales. ‘That man is a fool,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one declaring his joy for a royal son,’ Humfrie said. We sat again, and he took a sip of his ale. ‘It matters not whether it is a son or daughter. Either way, the child is welcome. It means we can have some certainty over who will inherit the government of our land.’

  ‘But a son is better,’ I grinned. I was feeling happy.

  ‘Perhaps, for some,’ Humfrie said. ‘But boy or girl, it means we need not fear for a Scottish invasion or Lady Elizabeth wresting the throne from Mary.’

  I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Why a Scottish invasion?’

  He gave me a long, quizzical look. ‘We have a Queen married to a Spanish gentleman. If Queen Mary were to die without a child, we should have a battle between those supporting Lady Elizabeth and Mary, the Queen of the Scots. Mary of Scotland has the better claim, since Lady Elizabeth has been declared illegitimate.’

  It was ironic, I always thought, that Queen Mary should have been dispossessed by her father. When he chose to divorce Catherine of Aragon, he used a law that meant his marriage was not legitimate, so Mary was born out of wedlock. Then, when he married Anne Boleyn and had Elizabeth, he named her his princess and dispossessed Mary. When Edward VI, Henry’s son, died, his will maintained that Lady Jane Grey was his heir. But the Catholics were strong, and with their support Mary was able to take the throne, overturning Henry’s divorce of her mother, and thereby declaring Elizabeth illegitimate, no longer a princess, and shunned. A pretty foul act by someone who knew how harsh life could be, I always thought.

  ‘Mary of Scotland is Catholic, I suppose?’ I said.

  ‘Aye. But she was raised in France,’ Humfrie said. ‘The Spanish will not be pleased to think that England could be allied to France. That would cut their empire in two, with France and England slicing through their shipping trade. They will do all they can to prevent Mary of Scotland from winning the English crown.’

  ‘What else would they do?’

  ‘Put Elizabeth on in her place, I suppose,’ Humfrie said.

  ‘But she is not Catholic.’

  ‘You think religion will matter when it comes to hard-headed politics? The Spaniards are realists. They are practical. They won’t give a tuppenny knee-trembler for religion if it means they can maintain their empire, keep the sea lanes open, and retain a firm grip on their money.’

  I was not convinced. Still, for now, it was good to know that the kingdom was secure. With one boy-child born, the happy royal couple could make another babe, and then another, guaranteeing the kingdom for their line. Then there would be no need to worry about civil war, rebellion or invasion. It was a profoundly satisfying situation.

  There was a crackling and great shout from outside. Some fools had already collected a pile of wood and old trash from the alleys and streets; now a man had struck flint and steel and set the lot ablaze. When I glanced through the doorway, I saw thick yellow and blue smoke rising. There was singing, and men entered the tavern demanding ales or wine.

  ‘Last time I saw a bonfire like that in the road,’ Humfrie said sourly, ‘it set light to three houses.’

  Back at our table at the inn, I repeated that Master Blount required the man Michol to be … removed. Humfrie required the same payment as before, which I was happy to agree, and then we parted, I to head east towards my home, him west to watch the festivities attendant on the birth of a royal son.

  My thoughts turned to the fiasco of the previous day. If that fool Jeffry had been given two purses of money, as Master Blount had told me, surely the man would have taken it straight back to his daughter and other children to pay off his debts, rather than continuing to Falkes’s gambling den to sink himself further into debt? But I knew enough gamblers to know he wouldn’t. He would have taken any money straight to the nearest chamber where he knew he could bet. His daughter had said as much when she told me that he would be the one betting on which of two snails would win a race. He was an inveterate gambler. Luckil
y, that is an affliction I have myself managed to avoid.

  My feet led me along the road aimlessly. The idea of going to speak with Mal the Loaf was unappealing. I wanted to know what had happened to those bags of money, but that didn’t mean I fancied chatting to a mad felon with a bread knife while he investigated my internal construction. No, in preference to chatting to Falkes’s favourite torturer, I would jump into the river after Jeffry himself.

  It was a hideous situation. All that money had been within my reach, but it had slipped between my fingers. And the last of the three purses hurt the most. That Spaniard, Luys, had been my target. It was outrageous that someone else should amble along, knock him down and swipe what should by rights have been mine. All because I had suffered the misfortune of a fall and cracked my head. I touched the lump gingerly. It was painful.

  I stopped in the roadway, my hand still on my pate. A sudden thought had broken into my mind, and it was so shocking that I was quite floored by it.

  The coincidence that I had suddenly fallen and been struck on the head as I fell, just as a man decided to kill and rob Luys, was too startling to be a matter of chance. What, if I were a gambling man, would be the odds of a man like me suddenly falling over a number of items on the ground, and falling in such a manner as to break my head? Yes, it had been dark, but now I came to think of it, did I slip and then strike my head, or was I struck on the head and so fell? And on what did I fall? Was there a box there whose corner I had hit? I didn’t recall a barrel or chest when I came to. But it was dark in that alleyway. Someone could have been standing only inches from me, and I would not have known it. Not until his blow fell.

  This was all speculation. It was wild and foolish to consider that such things might have happened. There was no reason to suspect that someone had been there, had deliberately knocked me down, and then gone on to murder the Spaniard. No reason whatsoever. It was probably just a sad, unfortunate sequence of events.

  I had just come to this conclusion when I looked up and saw, some yards away, three men who looked oddly familiar. I could not place them for a moment. They were all involved in a close discussion, heads bent together. And then I saw a man behind them, a heavy-set fellow. There was something about him that looked familiar, so that even as he turned on his heel and strode away, I stood craning my neck. Which was unfortunate, because as I did so, one of the three looked up and caught my eye, and I recognized Luys’s bodyguard, Ramon. I quickly placed a smile on my lips as I saw recognition flare in his angry eyes. His expression reminded me of the look he had given me the day before: so distrustful and suspicious.

  Situations of this sort are never easy. It is best to talk quietly, calmly and reasonably, I have learned over time.

  Either that or run.

  I ran.

  People, people everywhere, and each one of them seemed to be in the way. I barged into bakers, butchers, merchants, priests and the odd child, while behind me I could hear from the growing angry voices that the Spaniards were themselves slamming into similar numbers. An elbow caught me in the ribs, and I felt a blow on my shoulder, but I wasn’t going to stop just then. All I could see in my mind’s eye was a pair of dark eyes staring at me along the long, straight perfection of a Toledo blade. I didn’t want to see that in reality again.

  There was an alley, and I darted into it, hoping that I might find the escape I needed. With luck, they wouldn’t see me, I thought, but it was the wish of a hunted fool. Of course, one of them saw me, and I heard a shout as they entered the alleyway.

  Now, I have experience of running. It is one of the most basic skills of a true dipper like me. Every so often, the hand in the stranger’s purse will jar as the owner moves, and that hand can be discerned, grabbing all it can. At times like that, it’s best not to wait and discuss the matter, but pull your hand away and leave by the shortest route. That was what I was doing now. The key thing was to be away. Not to run to somewhere, but just to be somewhere else, somewhere that was not here.

  The alley was narrow, and the buildings overhead jutted out over and above me like massive cliffs reaching up to the sky itself. The sun tried to penetrate, but failed. Garbage and trash lay all about, and I tried to keep from the gutter and the human faeces that lay there, waiting for the next fall of rain. A girl was about to step into my path, but I waved my arms, already too breathless to cry out, and she stopped, gawping at the tall man who ran past ahead of three more who were chasing after him. Four more steps and I was past her; another ten at most and I’d be out into the next road.

  I didn’t look behind me. You don’t look behind, ever. Don’t think about the pursuers, but think of where you are going. You aren’t going to be here for long. Whoever is behind will remain behind, and when you have reached your destination, they will be nowhere in sight.

  A hand, flailing, trying to grab my shoulder. One finger caught my cloak, ripping the fabric, but could not maintain the grip as I hurtled onwards. A moment later, a hand caught my doublet. Even as I felt my onward rush slow, I thrust both arms behind me, letting the doublet slide from me, cloak as well. There was a swift cry and tumble of limbs as the sudden release made my pursuer fall. My relief gave me an added burst of energy, and I suddenly broke into the clear light of a broad thoroughfare, panting and mostly blown as a horse after a race. I cried out for help, saying murdering Spaniards were trying to rob me, that they had raped my wife, killed my son, and now wanted me, too …

  I heard a low growling, a demand of ‘What’re you chasing him for?’ and several garbled comments from the Spaniards. I don’t know if they managed to explain themselves in English sufficiently to satisfy the Englishmen in the road, because having hurled my accusations, I wasn’t hanging around to see what the result would be. I kept on running, now eastwards, now north, now west, pummelling the roads like a madman, desperate to be away from that area.

  In the end, I pelted along until I reached St Paul’s again, and I stood on Ludgate Hill, staring about me and wondering whether I had lost them. A glance behind me was enough to give me a sense of relief I haven’t felt in many a month. There was no sign of them, only the constantly moving crowds, women hawking the wares they held in their baskets, men bellowing, dogs barking or snarling, children running about the place, a horse neighing in complaint at the throng, and bonfires, two of them here, both with blue-white smoke, and all about them men singing or drinking, women linking arms with a few of them, grabbing their costrels or jugs and drinking along with them, others trying to pass by, glaring at the men trying to grapple with them with eyes flaming and angry, slapping at the hands reaching for bodices and bums, while the owners of the wayward hands laughed and jeered.

  I bent, hands on thighs, desperate to breathe, sucking in the air and panting shallowly as I tried to slow my thundering heart. My head was a ringing tumult, my bruised and battered body pounding as if all the smiths in the realm were hammering it. The sweat, which I hadn’t noticed while I was running, was soaking my shirt at the small of my back, under my armpits, and down my breast from the neck to my hosen, and now the slight breeze was making it chill. The doublet and cloak were gone for ever, I was sure. It was enough to make a man weep. The dark-blue material had been beautiful, and now it would go to the benefit of a Spaniard!

  I shivered, and would have gone to stand nearer the bonfire, but if I did, the crowds singing and dancing would have enclosed me and trapped me, were the Spaniards to have reappeared.

  Instead, I made my way to the church. I wasn’t going to enter it, because in the hottest of summer’s days St Paul’s is cold, but I went around by the churchyard and down towards the river.

  It occurred to me that I wanted to see where I had hit my head. I was growing more and more convinced that someone had been there and had tried to break my pate for me. The same man who had gone back to kill poor Luys – the man who had robbed Luys of his money.

  I shivered again.

  The wharf looked different in the daylight. Overhead, grey cloud
s made the river look miserable and thick, like a roiling pottage that’s been left for too long. The smell wasn’t so bad yet. I thought the fishermen must still be out in their boats, or the wind blew from the wrong direction. Or maybe they had joined all the other Londoners that day in celebration on hearing that an heir had been born to the Queen. Half the city would be nursing hangovers in the morning, I thought, but the grim, relentless pain of a drinker’s head was better than the dreich life of daily fear of war or rebellion.

  Standing at the edge, I looked down, my arms wrapped around me. Ridiculous that at this time of year I should feel so cold, but without my doublet I was shivering. The wind seemed to blow straight through me, as if taking the time to go round was too much effort. It was not something for me to worry about just now, though.

  I stepped closer to the edge of the wharf and peered down into the waters tentatively, as though Jeffry could be there waving at me. He wasn’t, of course, but the thought of him suddenly springing up at me, grabbing me and pulling me in after him, was so convincing that for a moment … well, I nearly thought it was going to happen. But no, all I could see was water slowly making its way to the sea, great ripples where it met the piles of the wharf itself, occasionally yellowish scum or bubbles soggily moving past. It did look disgusting, even without the pale, pasty face of Jeffry looking back at me.

  The rope’s end that had been left was still there. It looked such a silly thing to have caused a man’s death. That reminded me of the alleyway and the things in there.

  Where I fell, I recalled, there had been a barrel and a load of metal items on top. The items had all been thrown to the ground. As I walked along the alleyway, I could see lots of things lying all about: broken spars, a stool with a snapped leg, a chain, two large metal hooks, a besom with a handle that was splintered only a foot from the twiggy brush, coopers’ bands and assorted seamanlike things that I did not recognize, and then I saw the barrel. It stood out because it was the only one of a size that matched my memory. I walked to it, remembering how dark and gloomy this place had been the previous night, and stood over the thing, looking all about me. I had fallen about here, I thought. It was near the barrel, and I vaguely recalled the position from when I sat up. My head was throbbing again as if in sympathy with the location of its injury, and I looked at the ground all about with a resentful glower. The metal plate was a sort of round tray, on which discs, chains and horseshoes were collected. Someone had obviously come here and picked them all up again, and now they were sitting on top of the barrel once more. Good.