She looked through the window. ‘It does not matter.’
‘It does if you want me to help. You know who I am. Fair is fair.’
She watched as a silhouetted bird flew past, alighting on a nearby rooftop. ‘I am Mercia Blakewood, if that means anything.’
‘No, but ’tis a pretty name. And your father?’
She was going to refuse to answer when she felt a surge of filial pride. Why should she keep silent? Turning from the window she looked directly at him. ‘My father is dead. He was Sir Rowland Goodridge.’
Nicholas banged both fists on the table and pushed back his chair in surprise. ‘What, the fellow who just had his head—on Tower Hill? You’re his daughter?’ His eyes flitted to her clothing. ‘But you’re in grey.’
‘I am not in mourning because I do not want attention.’ She looked around the room. ‘Please, be quiet.’
‘But I was there!’ he continued. ‘And not three weeks later here you are looking into some supposed crime from the past.’ He shook his head, but his lips were smiling. ‘You have some nerve.’
Her face set. ‘So now you know, will you answer my question? Did you ever hear anything about the Oxford Section?’
He paused for a moment, thinking. Then his smile broadened to a grin. ‘Mercia Blakewood. My new friend.’
She frowned. ‘Well?’
‘Being honest, I would have to say that the answer to your question—’
‘Speak, man!’
‘The answer to your question is no.’
She threw herself back in her chair. ‘Wonderful.’
He chuckled. ‘But I can still help you, I think.’
‘How?’
‘Well, if I was looking into this mystery – me, a lowly farrier, and not a noble lady such as yourself – I’d go back to the robbery itself. Do you know who the thief was?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘I’d say that was a good place to start.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘And how would you, a lowly farrier, propose to go about starting it?’
‘It was an army escort, right?’ He raised a playful eyebrow. ‘So ask another soldier. There are plenty of them about.’
Chapter Seven
‘Where are you taking me?’
Mercia was struggling to keep up as she followed Nicholas the long length of Thames Street. She was wearing pattens underfoot, their chunky iron bars raising her boots above the mud of the road, but she was unaccustomed to using them over such distances, and the going was tiresome. Fortunately, Nicholas was a master, forcing people aside so she could walk under the overhangs of the houses and shops, helping her avoid the sewerage that periodically rained down from above.
‘Not far now,’ he called as he turned into Benet’s Hill, passing St Benet’s church where Inigo Jones, the great architect, had been buried twelve years before. Soon after, the great bulk of the massive St Paul’s Cathedral that Jones had helped maintain came into view and they emerged onto the surrounding square.
Despite Jones’s efforts, the huge church was in a sorrowful condition, sadly neglected in recent years. What should have been the city’s foremost place of worship instead hulked over its flock, forlorn. Nicholas weaved his way through the shouting crowds to the cathedral’s west side. Here, on the steps of Jones’s new portico, several beggars sat huddled around the towering columns, calling for alms from worshippers entering the church.
‘Time to bring out your money,’ he said.
She stepped back. ‘Why?’
‘One of these poor lads served in the army. What he doesn’t know about soldiers … let’s just say he knows a lot.’
They approached a grimy, cross-legged man with very short ginger hair. Wearing a faded jerkin that seemed more holes than cloth, he was beckoning to passers-by with his one remaining arm to add to the scarce coin in the cap on the step beside him.
‘Amputated in the war,’ said Nicholas. ‘That was fifteen years ago and he’s still on the streets. Such folk fight readily for their masters, then when all’s done they’re cast adrift. London is full of old soldiers like him.’
Mercia looked on the beggar with compassion. ‘You think he can help?’
‘If you help him, yes.’ Nicholas crouched down to the piteous figure. ‘Hello, Michael. How’ve you been?’
‘Nick, you old rogue.’ The beggar looked pleased to see him. ‘Not seen you for a while.’
Nicholas shrugged. ‘I got a job.’
‘Good for you.’ Michael glanced between him and Mercia. ‘Got any grigs?’
‘Don’t make me laugh. Who has farthings these days?’
‘Any tokens, then?’
Nicholas pointed up at Mercia. ‘This lady wants to ask a question. She’ll pay you for it.’
‘Oh yes?’
Feeling sorry for the amputee, Mercia passed him a silver shilling, worth a whole twelve pence. It was so old Elizabeth I’s face adorned the front, but now the King had recalled all the coins hammered during Cromwell’s regime, money was becoming scarce, particularly the smallest denominations such as halfpence and farthings. Enterprising merchants were producing tokens of their own for housewives to use in their daily shop.
‘That’s generous.’ Michael’s voice was croaky, hoarse from years of calling out. ‘What do you want to know, love?’
She sat on the step beside him. An unpleasant odour rose from his jerkin, but she shuffled closer all the same. ‘Hello, Michael. Nicholas says you served in the war.’
‘That’s right.’ Michael nodded. ‘Lot of good it did.’
‘Do you remember around the time of the Worcester Fight?’
‘I was down here by then.’ He coughed into a tattered piece of cloth that was lying on the step. ‘Got my arm blown away at Dunbar the year before. Cromwell’s great victory over the Scots.’ He scratched at his stump. ‘Changed my life, sure enough. But ask your question. I had mates at Worcester.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her father had been with Cromwell on the Dunbar campaign. For all she knew this man could have been under his command. ‘There was an incident around then. A coach caught on fire. It was carrying the King’s paintings.’
He set down the cloth; it was as black as soot. ‘You don’t mean the Oxford Section? That robbery gone wrong?’
She looked at Nicholas. ‘See, it was famous.’ He pulled a face and she turned back to Michael. ‘Do you recall anything about it? About the men who guarded the coach, maybe? They would have been soldiers, perhaps fought alongside your friends.’
He rocked back and forth. ‘I know quite a few things, me.’
A twinge of excitement stirred. ‘Could you tell me?’
‘Perhaps.’ He looked at the coins in his cap.
‘Now, Michael.’ Nicholas stood up. ‘She gave you a shilling. That’ll get you a good dinner and you know it.’
‘Bah.’ The beggar shuffled on the step. ‘I don’t know much myself, is what I mean to say.’ He coughed again. ‘But the man who was in charge of the escort, him I do know. We all do, us old lot. He’s a gunsmith now. Colonel Stephen Fell.’
Nicholas grinned. ‘Fell off what?’
‘Fell’s his name, you little arsworm.’
‘You make it sound like he’s still alive,’ said Mercia, ignoring the joke. ‘I thought all the guards were dead.’
‘Of course he’s alive.’ Michael shook his head. ‘Those highwaymen killed the rest, didn’t they? But the lucky bastard lived, even if he couldn’t fight any more. He came to London too, and doing much better than me.’ He sniggered. ‘He sells arms, and here’s me begging for alms with one arm.’ He looked at Mercia. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Nicholas. ‘You have your shilling. But thanks.’
The veteran shrugged, turning his attention to other passers-by. Thanking him herself, Mercia followed Nicholas round the side of the dilapidated cathedral, dodging the cheese merchants who were busy distracting their customers’ attention t
o slip semi-green slices in their unsuspecting baskets.
‘That was very helpful,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘It was, wasn’t it?’ Nicholas smiled. ‘You still don’t know who the thief was, mind.’
‘But this Fell should, if it was a solider under his command. Do you—no, thank you.’ She waved away a smartly dressed man who was patting her sleeve, trying to sell her a trinket box. ‘Do you know where the gunsmith quarter is?’
‘Just outside Aldgate,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ll take you there.’
‘There is no need. You have been kind enough already.’ She sighed, wrenching her arm from the persistent hawker. ‘Will you stop that?’
‘She said no.’ Nicholas grabbed the peddler by the shoulders and pushed him away; almost stumbling, the man shook his fist and swore, but Nicholas lunged forward and he scurried on his way. ‘See,’ he said, brushing at his hands, ‘London is dangerous. It would be on my conscience to let a woman wander the rough streets alone.’
She scoffed. ‘You sound like my friend Nathan.’
‘He seems a sensible fellow.’
‘And you have no other motive?’
He grimaced. ‘Well, I might want to make sure you don’t forget your promise about Lady Markstone. To be blunt, I’ve been let down by the high and mighty before.’
‘Please, I am not high and mighty. And I keep my promises.’ She walked towards the street. ‘But if you wish to come’ – he bounded after her, enthusiastic – ‘then find us a carriage to take us.’
She smiled as he stalked away to do as she asked.
Stephen Fell’s workshop occupied the ground floor of a large timber-framed building in a dusty alley between the Minories and Goodman’s Fields to the east of the city. A freshly painted sign of a pistol and musket hung still in the absence of wind: the alleyway was close, stifling even in mid April.
A blue-clothed apprentice of about sixteen glanced up from polishing a musket as they entered. His bored gaze rested on Mercia for an instant before he went back to the weapon, one of a range of firearms displayed around the shop, no doubt to impress potential clients. The sound of metal on metal rang out from a separate room behind.
Nicholas picked up a doglock pistol. ‘Impressive. Mercia, these are good quality.’
‘Can I help?’ asked the boy, not looking up.
Mercia approached him. ‘Is your master at home?’
‘If you want to see the colonel, you’ll have to make an appointment. He’s not available.’
‘’Tis important,’ she persisted.
‘Of course it is,’ yawned the boy. ‘But—’
‘My mistress would like to buy a gift for her betrothed,’ interrupted Nicholas. ‘But she will only speak with the master, not some novice whelp.’
The boy stopped his work, narrowing his eyes. ‘As I said, the master is out.’
‘Do not lie, whelp. We can all hear he is working in the back.’ Nicholas fingered the smooth edges of a decorative crossbow casually displayed amongst the firearms. He pulled back the shaft, playing with the taut string. The boy stayed put until Nicholas drifted the crossbow’s aim in his direction and stroked the trigger mechanism. Swallowing, the boy disappeared into the back.
Mercia swivelled round. ‘Put that away. You could have killed him.’
‘No I couldn’t, there’s no bolt in here. And you get to see Fell now – look.’
A gigantic man was entering the room, his stocky frame bursting from under his filthy work apron. Black grime was caked across his sweating forehead, or rather his sweating head, for the man was completely bald.
‘Colonel Fell?’ said Mercia, feigning indifference at his bulk.
‘I am Fell,’ he said. ‘Jeremiah says you want to see me about a gift? What is this, a gentleman’s toy house?’ He laughed, contorting his abused face into a kaleidoscope of lines and dimples. Several small scars lined his cheeks, while his nose was pushed to one side, evidence perhaps of a poorly healed injury.
‘I am sorry to distract you from your work,’ said Mercia, ‘but in truth I do not want a gift.’
‘Damned fool always gets things wrong.’ Fell rubbed his sweating head with a cloth. ‘Jeremiah! Get out here!’
‘No,’ she said hastily. ‘I am here about a different matter.’
Fell sniffed, wiping his nose on his apron. ‘And what would that be?’
She looked at him. ‘The Oxford Section.’
Even through the dirt she could see Fell’s face pale. He stared at her, as if trying to determine her intent. Then the apprentice reappeared, looking sullen.
‘I—’
‘Go fetch a pie.’ Fell kept his eyes on Mercia. ‘’Tis time you ate.’
‘But—’
‘Go!’
The boy blew out his cheeks and shuffled off, helped into the street by Nicholas’s heavy boot. Fell glanced at him.
‘Where did you find him, the bear pits?’
‘In a tavern brawl, rather.’
‘You should have left him there.’ He began to circle her, round and round, an intense heat seeming to radiate from his body. ‘You want to talk about the Oxford Section, do you?’ He stopped. ‘Why?’
She put on a warm smile. ‘I am interested to know what happened, Colonel.’
Fell scratched at his injured nose. ‘It burnt, love. Burnt to nothing in the embers of a highway robbery gone wrong.’
‘I know that is a pretence of Cromwell’s. Please. I merely want the truth.’
Fell came closer, staring at her nose, her brow, her cheeks. She could feel Nicholas tensing behind her. Then Fell recoiled, reaching behind him; of a sudden she was staring into the barrel of the musket the apprentice had left on the counter.
‘Put that down,’ said Nicholas.
‘Or what?’
He scoffed. ‘You aren’t going to shoot.’
‘Aren’t I? I suggest you both leave.’
Mercia stood her ground, guessing the gun was unlikely to be loaded if the apprentice had been cleaning it. ‘I need a name, Colonel. Then we will leave you in peace.’
Fell snorted. ‘Why in heaven’s name should I help the daughter of Rowland Goodridge?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You know me?’
‘You must be his child. You may be out of mourning but you look exactly like him. The same pompous nose, the condescending eyes.’
‘Hey,’ snarled Nicholas. ‘You treat her with some respect.’
‘Her precious father never showed me any.’
Mercia clenched her jaw. ‘I assume you knew each other in the army.’
‘You could say that. I’ll never forget his face, at least. Not even now ’tis clean off his neck.’ He sucked in his cheek, calculating. ‘Very well, my girl,’ he said at last. ‘As you’re here I’ll play. Whose name do you want?’
She held his gaze. ‘The villain who turned on you as you marched. I know the Section was stolen, not burnt.’
‘Oh yes? That sort of knowledge could be dangerous.’
Nicholas edged closer. ‘Are you threatening her?’
‘What do you think this is?’ Fell waggled the musket. ‘It was made clear to me at the time that I should forget the whole thing, and I have done.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘But you want to know, I’ll tell you.’ He dropped the musket on the countertop. Nicholas darted to Mercia’s side, but she stayed him from approaching Fell with a finger, suspicious as to why he would suddenly be willing to talk.
‘There were four of us in the escort, the paintings stacked in a cart.’ Fell stared over their heads into the past. ‘Not an hour out of Oxford I heard a gunshot. Fairchild behind me cried out, goes down. I look to the forest, thinking to see a highwayman, but then another gunshot, and now Allinson falls. I look all around, but nobody’s there. “North,” I call. “North, draw arms!” Then a noise behind me, the cocking of a gun. I turn and I ask, “Where is he?” and North answers, “He is here, you fucking fool.” And he smiles, child of Satan. He shoot
s. I fall, red playing on my chest, black spinning before my eyes.’
‘But you survived,’ said Mercia after a pause.
‘As you see.’
‘This North is the thief?’
Fell nodded. ‘James North. Nobody has seen him since, not that I know of.’
‘Does anyone else know what happened?’
His face clouded. ‘Not from me, save my wife. And then she gossiped she knew something others did not, so they sent a brute to beat me to keep her quiet.’ He pointed at his misshapen nose. ‘They made her watch. She barely spoke to anyone ever again, she was so scared.’
Mercia winced. ‘Cromwell was an unfeeling creature to set such a punishment on you.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t Cromwell.’ Fell laughed, a deep malice in his eyes. ‘The man who ordered me beaten was your father.’ He wrung his large hands. ‘Why do you think I’m telling you this? Rowland Goodridge destroyed my wife. Perhaps this knowledge will destroy his daughter too.’
‘You bas—’ Nicholas bent back his arm, but Mercia grabbed it before he could strike.
‘No. Let us leave this sad man to his toys.’
Troubled by her encounter, Mercia sped from the alley into the street, knocking into an old man collecting money for the city poor; his wooden box slipped from his shaking hands onto the sewage-strewn road. It was one little thing on top of everything else, and she hurried on, upset. Behind her, Nicholas handed the box back to the trembling man.
Catching her up, he dared a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t mind what Fell said.’
She shook it off. ‘Please, there is no need to talk of it.’
‘He accused your father of ordering those injuries on his face. I think perhaps you do want to talk of it.’
She whirled around, scaring three scavenging pigeons into flight. ‘Mr Wildmoor, I do not know you. I am not obliged to discuss anything with you. I thank you again for your help today, and I will return the favour by speaking with Lady Markstone for you. That is all.’ She stormed away, leaving him standing beneath the Aldgate.
In truth, she was desperate to talk. Her exhilaration at roaming the big city in the search for answers with a strange, alluring man had dissipated into the hazy air. She realised how much she wanted Nathan to be with her, rather than this unknown man she had met following an inn fight. In that instant the city was disappeared to her, and she was completely alone, sensing nothing of the life going on around her.
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