An Honourable Murderer

by Philip Gooden

  His cloak billowing behind him, his arms outstretched, the figure of Truth tumbled head-first from his aerial seat. It was as if he had launched himself into the air, rather than being flung.

  It must have taken Blake less than a second to reach the ground but I have known hours pass more quickly. There was a horrible crack, like a walnut being split with a hammer. His imposing cloak – embroidered with suns to signify the dazzling light of Truth – wafted up in the air before falling forward and obscuring the top half of his poor body. He lay still, arms spread wide. After a few moments, blood began to pool from underneath the cloak.

  I turned away, feeling sick and cold.

  I thought, it might have been Nicholas Revill up there.

  Still, no one moved.

  Fragments of gold ribbon from the supporting ropes fluttered down on to the stage. The chair, empty but still held up by two cables, creaked backwards and forwards like a giant swing.

  Some time went by, it seemed, before a woman screamed from the back of the chamber. I noticed that Lady Jane Black had fallen down in a faint. Her paper-and-wire horn of Plenty had tumbled on the ground beside her. Hope and Resolution stood as if turned to stone.

  Then, gingerly, several people moved towards the prone figure even as others were starting to edge away from it. Jonathan Snell the elder emerged from behind the backdrop. His face was ashen, the sawdust standing out lividly in the lines of it. Ben Jonson stepped up on to the stage from the place where he’d been conducting operations. My friend Abel Glaze walked in the direction of the corpse. It occurred to me afterwards that both he and Jonson must have been accustomed to death on the battlefield. Snell got there first. He dropped to his knees by the corpse. The only sound was that of his knees striking the wooden boards.

  He reached out his hand to lift the obscuring cloak but I did not see anything more because a cluster of figures now obscured the shape. There was some subdued, broken talk. I moved a little distance off.

  This accident was nothing to do with me. Others could take charge.

  As if the thoughts inside our heads were running together, Jack Wilson said to me, “There can be no more playing today. There is nothing left here for us. We might as well go.”

  “We ought to wait for Master Jonson to dismiss us,” said Laurence Savage.

  “He has other things on his mind,” said Jack.

  A different kind of bustle now filled the audience chamber. People were scurrying to and fro, as if to make up for their previous immobility, and the room was filling up with grandees and their attendants. Bursts of Spanish exploded from various quarters like volleys. Some of the noble onlookers looked as white and clammy as I felt, but in others there was detectable that taste for disaster which lurks inside quite a few of us.

  Before we knew it we were outside in the courtyard of Somerset House. It was a heavy August afternoon. Even so, being out in the air was preferable to being shut up inside a chamber where a death had just occurred. Then we looked at ourselves and realized that we were still wearing our costumes. We could have slunk through the streets as Stubbornness and Fright and Ignorance, I suppose, at the cost of a few jeers. But if Bartholomew Ridd discovered that we’d removed our costumes from the premises we’d be fined, whatever the circumstances. Anyway we had to retrieve our own street clothes.

  So we turned round and re-entered the palace and deposited our gear with one of the tire-boys, who was confined in a small antechamber (small by Somerset House standards yet much larger than its counterpart at the Globe). The tire-boy, not having witnessed the accident, seemed eager to examine our stage clothes for any drops of blood spilt by the dead man and, failing any marks of blood, to hear a detailed account of Sir Philip’s fatal plunge to earth. Laurence rebuked him for his lack of feeling and Jack promised to tell him more later. I was silent because I’d just seen Master John Ratchett slipping past the open door. I was alerted by a flash of red doublet. He turned his head and caught my eye. What was he doing here?

  I failed to discover the reason for John Ratchett’s presence in Somerset House, but I soon found out that he expected me to work very hard for my next three sovereigns. Events had taken a sombre turn with the death of Sir Philip Blake; now they took a dangerous turn.

  Ratchett did not wait for our next assignation in the Pure Waterman tavern on Bankside but accosted me as I was walking into the Strand. I had separated from my companions. The violent death of Sir Philip had put a dampener on our spirits and we had little to talk about. It must be doubtful now whether the Masque of Peace would go ahead. I looked round to find Master John Ratchett walking beside me.

  He knew everything that had occurred inside Somerset House, he said without preliminary. Good, I thought, you won’t require another ‘report’. I can get free of you.

  But I knew I was still under an obligation. I’d been paid. Like Judas, I had accepted my thirty pieces of silver. Or my six pieces of gold. Had even spent a portion of them (on Blanche, the French girl in the Mitre).

  So, when Master Ratchett went on to suggest that I should look into – that was his phrase, ‘look into’ – Blake’s death, I experienced a growing sense of unease. It was an accident, I said. What was there to ‘look into’? Anyone could see that those ropes weren’t strong enough to sustain the weight of the heavily adorned chair and its occupant. The weakest rope snapped, to be followed by the next weakest, and that was sufficient to send the unfortunate knight plunging to his doom.

  “How convenient this death is!” said John Ratchett.

  “How so?” I said.

  “Convenient because it might well have a disastrous effect on the negotiations with Spain – and that would suit many people,” explained Ratchett as we paced down the Strand.

  “But the Spanish party is already in London and the deal is as good as done, isn’t it?”

  “No treaty is worth the paper it’s written on until it’s signed and sealed. Sir Philip’s sudden death might give the Spaniards second thoughts if they grow suspicious about it.”

  “That’s not very likely,” I said.

  “Or at least it might slow down the process, turn it sour. It is vital to ensure that Sir Philip’s demise was as accidental as it appeared. You must investigate, Nicholas.”

  “Why me?”

  “You were there when it happened. You know your way round the – what do they call it? – the back of the stage. You can ask the right sort of questions.”

  “If I refuse?”

  “Why should you refuse? You will be paid, rest assured of that. Your reports are already being read with interest.”

  “Read by the Privy Council?”

  “Who said anything about the Council?”

  I stopped in the middle of the street. I almost seized the fellow by his red doublet.

  “What’s going on here, Master Ratchett?”

  He fixed me with his shrewd brown stare.

  “Nicholas, you leapt to conclusions. You assumed I worked for the Council.”

  “Because you said you did.”

  “No, you said it. I didn’t.”

  My brains were too scrambled to think straight. Hadn’t Ratchett claimed to work for the Privy Council at our first meeting – or had I put the words into his mouth? I couldn’t be sure.

  “Then there was all that stuff you spouted about the Council and the cuttlefish.”

  “That was no lie, the Council is like the cuttlefish, many-armed but with a single head.”

  “And going about deliberately confusing friends and enemies with its inky blackness, to say nothing of honest men!”

  “Calm down, Nicholas. I have nothing to do with the Council . . .”

  “Then I want nothing to do with you!”

  “. . . but I am with another, ah, group which has this country’s welfare at heart.”

  “How do I know that? Why should I believe a word you say?”

  “I swear to you that what I’m requesting now is an honest and honourable business. It
is simply to delve into the circumstances of Sir Philip’s death.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “You are fond of saying no.”

  Very well, I thought. So now I shall say nothing.

  I made to walk away.

  “You cannot back out now,” said Ratchett softly, creeping up behind my back. “If you do, the Council may well be interested in why you have been writing reports for a certain gentleman in Salisbury Court.”

  I turned round.

  “A certain gentleman? In Salisbury Court? More obfuscation. Means nothing to me.”

  “If you want to find out, you only need to ask, Nicholas. Three days’ time at the Pure Waterman. Come to me with some discoveries.”

  And with that he strode off, his doublet glowing. I could have strangled the man. If my brains had been scrambled before, now they were buzzing. I was in deep trouble and, like the man in a quaking bog, any attempt to extricate myself was causing me to sink even further down.

  I had unwisely consented to report on the Masque of Peace preparations for Ratchett in the mistaken belief that he was employed by the Privy Council. I’d been stupid in jumping to conclusions. Very stupid. Now it appeared that he worked for a different ‘group’. For ‘a certain gentleman in Salisbury Court’. This court was situated not far from where Ratchett had left me. It lay beyond Temple Bar and towards the end of Fleet Street, a prosperous enough area even if it was close to the Bridewell house of correction.

  The simplest thing would be to go and enquire in the neighbourhood. I was close by. I wouldn’t have to go and knock on the front door. I could probably find out who lived in Salisbury Court by a casual enquiry.

  It turned out to be easy. The very first person I asked was able to tell me. This was an individual who looked as though he might have spent a bit of time in Bridewell himself. He was leaning against a wall lopsidedly. He didn’t move from the wall during our brief exchange. He repeated my words slowly, chewing them in his mouth.

  “Salisbury Court?”

  “Yes. Who lives there?”

  “That’ll be the Mon-sewer.”

  “Monsewer? A Frenchman?”

  Nothing too unusual in that. There were quite a lot of French people in London (like Blanche of the Mitre).

  “Yes, a Mon-sewer like I said. His name is . . . let me think . . . let me think now . . . his name is . . .”

  “Perhaps this’ll refresh your memory.”

  My penny saw the light of day for only the fraction of a second.

  “Mon-sewer La Boderie is his name. It comes back to me now. It’s a French name.”

  This name meant nothing to me either. I shrugged.

  My lopsided friend said, “He’s the leg-it, La Boderie.”

  The leg-it?

  Ah, the legate.

  La Boderie was the French ambassador in London.

  Thou hast set me on the rack

  I cursed myself, profoundly. I’d turned into a spy. Partly out of gratitude – because John Ratchett had rescued me from a pair of assailants on the river bank – and partly out of greed, I had turned into a spy. Or been turned into one. True, I’d been led by the nose, believing that I was working for the Council at two or three removes. But that was my fault too. Ratchett had chosen not to enlighten me, and so allowed me to sink into a quagmire of my own making. I was more angry with myself than with him. And, more than being angry with both of us, I was frightened.

  What did La Boderie the French ambassador want? I hardly had to ask myself the question. The answer was simple. If the English were coming to an accommodation with their old enemy in Spain, then this was naturally of concern to the French. No doubt Monsieur La Boderie had quite a few eyes and ears at his disposal out on the streets of London and inside its grand houses. He’d want to be kept informed. He might even want to interfere.

  What did Nicholas Revill want? The answer to this was also simple. To get out of the situation with a whole skin.

  As far as I was able to see, I had no choice but to do as John Ratchett had instructed. That is, to enquire into the circumstances of Sir Philip Blake’s death. With luck, I could present Ratchett with an account that showed it was a straightforward accident, even if an unusual one, and so finish with the whole affair. The plump red-doublet had a hold over me – the threat to inform on me as a spy to the Council – and my only defence would be that I’d acted in ignorance. Ignorance might have been my part in Ben’s masque, but even I knew that it wasn’t much of a defence in law.

  Best not to think about what might happen. Best to hasten back to Somerset House and attempt to sweep up a few fragments of evidence which I could assemble into a ‘report’ for Ratchett.

  It wasn’t very far to Somerset House from the spot where I was presently standing near Salisbury Court. The afternoon – still only the afternoon despite all that had happened! – was hot and heavy. As I strode back towards the Strand, sweat broke out all over my body, partly brought on by thoughts of what dire consequences might follow if I fell into the hands of the Privy Council. I might be put to the question. I might be put on the rack.

  Master Revill, you admit that you have been providing information to the French ambassador. You are a spy.

  But I didn’t know who I was providing it for! I thought it was for you, for the Council I mean.

  Ignorance is no defence in law. You must know that.

  I didn’t pass on anything important . . .

  So you’re not just a spy but a useless one.

  . . . because there was nothing important to pass on, I swear.

  Let us be the judge of that. Three pounds a time you were paid – three pounds for nothing? Fetch that rack a further turn, master gaoler.

  No! No! Stop. Please. I’ll tell you anything you want. What do you want to hear?

  What do you want to say, Master Revill?

  I heard Giles Cass make comments about the Spaniards in the Mermaid tavern I heard him questioning why we were making peace with them but he speaks Spanish you know I heard Martin Barton comment on the corruption of the court I heard a man called William Inman make a joke about the Spanish peace he said it would prove poxy and rotten I heard Lady Blake –

  Lady Blake?

  She was having a conversation with Jonathan Snell. He is –

  We know who he is.

  They were talking about chairs and falling down.

  Chairs and falling down?

  Yes, chairs and falling down.

  There was a clap of thunder from not far off. If I hadn’t been so absorbed in my thoughts of the rack and the things I would confess to – that is, to everything – I might have jumped. Instead, I stopped dead in the street, as the first blobs of rain started to fall in their idle summer fashion. I was struggling to recall the exact words which had passed between Lady Blake and the engine-man during the eavesdropped conversation. Then this will come down, was what she’d said, pointing at the diagram, and Oh, it’ll come down all right, he’d replied. Were they talking about the seat from which Sir Philip had plunged to his death only a couple of hours before? What else could they have been referring to?

  For the third time that day I passed through the gatehouse of Somerset House, just as the rain was coming down in thicker blobs and the thunder beginning to close in. There was a flash of lightning as I crossed the great courtyard and I picked up speed. It is surprisingly easy to gain access to these fine places – much easier than it would be to get inside a peasant’s hovel. There are so many people coming and going all the time. The gatekeeper wasn’t interested and if anyone else thought to ask your business (which they generally didn’t), they could be fobbed off with any old answer.

  The audience chamber where the ill-fated rehearsal had taken place was still occupied. There were several Spaniards about. But I was relieved to see that the body had gone. It was probably laid out in one of the adjacent rooms, or perhaps had already been returned to the Blakes’ mansion further along the Strand. A linen cloth was spread ou
t over the area of the stage where Sir Philip had hit the ground. The chair no longer dangled overhead in space.

  Ben Jonson was deep in conversation with Giles Cass. Jonson glanced up as I passed and for a moment didn’t recognize me.

  “I lost something,” I said, gesturing vaguely.

  “Oh yes,” said Jonson.

  “We have all lost something,” said Cass. “A great life has been forfeit.”

  I nodded gravely, as one does at that kind of stuff, and passed on. I slipped around the back of the stage. Things were exactly as they had been a few hours earlier when I’d shinned up the ladder to show Sir Philip where he should go. I glimpsed the barrel-shaped windlass which controlled the ropes. Once more, I grasped the ladder and clambered up. I was no longer much bothered about heights. There were other and more pressing matters to be worried about, like being interrogated by the Privy Council.

  Outside, the thunder volleyed around Somerset House.

  For some reason I’d expected the platform above the stage to be empty but there were two figures standing on the far side. The Snells, father and son. Like Jonson and Cass down below, they were talking earnestly. To one side of them stood the empty chair, hauled up from below. It was darker than before on the floating platform. I sensed rather than saw the lightning which flickered into the audience room.

  The two men looked round when they heard the creaking of the boards.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Nicholas Revill, the player.”

  “What do you want?” said the father.

  “I lost a ring. It’s my father’s. It might be somewhere around here. I came up earlier with Sir Philip – to show him the way.”

  “Oh, that was you with him, was it?” said the son in a friendlier tone than his father’s.

  I pretended to cast around on the floor.

  “You won’t find much by this light,” said Jonathan senior. One of the little oil lamps was flickering by his feet. He picked it up and for an instant I thought he meant to offer it to me, but instead he and his son huddled around the chair from which Sir Philip had plunged to his death. They whispered while the thunder banged about outside. I got down on my hands and knees and felt about for a ring which I would never find since it was safely stored in my room at Thames Street.