The Reluctant Assassin

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘He was that. And how he ever come to fall off that roof, a roof where he’s done repairs half a dozen times before, and he’s never slipped on any roof at all that I know of … He was working on a fine house just outside Warwick; it was being done over, new plaster, black paint on the beams and all, and new thatch. His ladder slipped when he was coming down to fetch more straw.’

  ‘But … I think I saw the place on my way to Warwick! I’m almost sure of it! Black and white, a big house, on the left as you come towards the town.’

  ‘Aye, that would be it. You saw the house, you say? And him?’

  ‘Yes.’ The idea that now thrust itself through Brockley’s brain, was as sharp as a blade. He made his next comment with caution. ‘What a dreadful thing to happen. Did he not have an assistant to hold ladders steady for him?’

  ‘Oh, no, he always worked alone. He said that assistants could be more trouble than they were worth,’ said Mistress Ashley.

  Oh, dear God. That was Daniel Ashley, it really was. But if he was working alone, then who was the man who came and fiddled with his ladder? He shouted at him not to interfere! Was the younger man not an assistant but an intrusive passer-by? The thatcher had been very angry with him.

  And had that young man … moved a safe ladder and made it unsafe? Had Daniel Ashley not died by accident, but …?

  Did I witness it, all unknowing?

  Mistress Ashley said sadly: ‘They said at the inquest that Daniel didn’t fix a ladder rightly, so when he put some weight on it, it slipped and tipped him off the roof, but Daniel didn’t do things like that. Twenty years in the business, he’d been! I couldn’t believe it.’

  Nor did Brockley. Too many things were fitting together, and the pattern they made was not pretty. But here and now was not the time or place to speak of his suspicions. He put a gentle hand over one of hers. ‘Such things do happen. Try not to think about it. I hope … I hope you have been left provided for.’

  ‘Oh yes. Daniel had savings and I can get work at the castle and there’s neighbours who’ll look after little ones while I’m there. My elder girl might get work there as well. There’s usually work for women and girls in a place that size. Even if we do have to put up with that there under-steward whenever my lord is away.’

  ‘One more thing. Did your husband recently seek the services of a courier?’

  ‘Why, yes, sir, he did. Said he’d come across something that he ought to let someone in the south counties know about. He was a bit mysterious. But it happened that he met a courier, a man from Stratford, in an inn, after work one evening, and was able to hire him for the job. I thought it was all very strange. He carried on as though the business made him nervous but he wouldn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Just one more thing. Mistress Ashley, you are sure your husband never told you where the walled house is – or its name?’

  ‘No, he never did.’

  ‘Then,’ said Brockley, ‘when he rode off to go to his work there, did you see which way he turned?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Left, and then right again after a little way, towards the village where you’ve just been. One of those days, I was upstairs, tidying and I looked from the window and saw him turn off.’

  ‘And … madam, forgive me for letting my one question grow into so many … what time he was supposed to be at the house?’

  ‘Eight of the clock or thereabouts, he said. And he left,’ said Mistress Ashley, who had clearly grasped the point of the question, ‘at seven. We have a clock here,’ she added proudly, and pointed to the one that Brockley had already noticed. He looked at it again and estimated that it was not only handsome but probably accurate as well. An hour’s ride away, then, and he had a direction.

  That was something.

  SEVENTEEN

  Glimpsed At A Window

  Brockley stayed long enough at the Ashley house to eat a midday meal. He talked quietly to this person and that; fitting in and not drawing attention to himself. It was easy to remain unobtrusive when so many of the gathering were the late Daniel Ashley’s customers, and were strangers to each other.

  Then he bade farewell to Mistress Ashley and her brother-in-law Will, collected his horse and took his leave. While preparing to set off, he gave some thought to his next move and he did not at once ride off in search of the unknown walled house. He had been gripped by a terrible anger. If his suspicions were right, then Harry was in the hands of people who were prepared to murder others besides Mary Stuart. They had said they wouldn’t kill Harry himself; they clearly had some limitations, but Harry was a child. Daniel Ashley, a grown man, had by the sound of it had less claim on their sense of humanity.

  If they had any idea that he had carried a message from Harry, they might well have decided to silence him. If some unknown spy – Laurence Miller? – had told them that such a message had reached Hawkswood, then Daniel was an obvious and probably their only suspect.

  But he must be careful. In the light of this, careful of himself, for if they could slaughter poor Master Ashley, they would probably slaughter Brockley just as willingly. His rage was like a stone in his chest, but he must be wise, and wary.

  He had taken a glance or two at his reflection in the little silver mirror and concluded that though his nascent beard had certainly changed his appearance, it hadn’t gone far enough. Someone who had seen him when the players visited Hawkswood might yet see through the disguise. He needed to do better. He turned his mount back towards Warwick.

  It was late afternoon by then but it was still sunny and the east gate of the town, by which he entered, was busy with traffic. Carts, horsemen, pack animals, folk on foot were going purposefully in and out and the streets inside were populous. He made an enquiry or two and found what he wanted at the second attempt.

  ‘Wanted for players up at the castle, would it be?’ said the man he had accosted. ‘Allus having masques and the like up there, they are and my lord’s due home from the court any day so there’s likely to be some entertainments soon. Wigmaker, he do a good trade in this town. Straight along there, then a lane to your right. Whole lot of little shops there that do well when a masque’s being planned. There’s a fellow does trick swords as slide into theirselves and make it look like they’re being swallowed, and …’

  ‘Come,’ said Brockley, ‘don’t give all the secrets away! It’ll spoil the fun to tell the audience how the trick’s done. Sword-swallowers want oohs and aahs and if a lady faints with alarm, so much the better!’

  His informant laughed and went on his way, and Brockley followed the directions, which took him into a narrow, twisting lane which, as promised, contained numerous interesting shops. There was indeed one selling trick weapons – swords, daggers and bows. The wigmaker’s shop, however, was the next one along. Brockley attached his horse to the hitching rail next to the door and stepped in.

  He expected the place to be dark, but it was actually well-lit by virtue of a skylight. No doubt the work done here needed a good light. The elderly proprietor was busy combing out a flaxen wig which was positioned on a stand. Other stands, with other wigs on them, were set in a row on one side of the shop, and on the other, a young woman and a young man who looked so alike that they were surely brother and sister were sorting hanks of hair.

  ‘Ah. Good afternoon.’ The elderly man scanned Brockley and assessed him. ‘You’re wanting a wig – helping with a masque at the castle, are you?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Brockley, ‘but the wig is for me. I am taking part in the masque and supplying my own costume. I require a dark wig, shoulder-length.’

  The proprietor left his combing and came to gaze at Brockley with interest. ‘I think I can oblige. Aye. Dark, you say, and shoulder-length.’

  ‘Sounds like that wicked king the third Richard,’ remarked the young man at the counter. ‘I saw a portrait of him once; I were delivering a couple of wigs to the Master of the Revels at the castle and they had the portrait there. It had been borrowed from somewh
ere because her majesty was to make a stay at the castle and they were doing a little play about the battle where her grandfather, the good seventh Henry, defeated Richard.’

  ‘You talk too much, son,’ said the elderly man, and then delved into a cupboard, emerging a moment later with a dark wig in his hands. He whisked the fair wig off the stand, put the dark one in its place and set about combing out tangles. ‘This’ll be the right length, I don’t doubt it, and it’s good quality, all real hair, human hair. Not cheap, mind you, but it’ll last and last.’

  ‘Let me see if it fits,’ said Brockley.

  It fitted very well, and the mirror which the young woman quickly brought, showed Brockley an unrecognizable version of himself. ‘This will do,’ he said.

  He paid, allowed the wig to be placed in a leather drawstring bag, and rode off. He had another purchase to make, since his green hat was quite distinctive. He had better buy something that would look different. By the time this was done, the day was nearly gone. It was not a good time to start hunting for isolated houses. He went back to the inn.

  In the morning, after asking the innkeeper for a noon-piece of bread and cheese and a flask of well water, he left early, still as himself, a commonplace figure in a buff doublet and hose and his old green hat, while his disguises stayed in the bag that hung from his saddle. But once out of sight of the town, he took off his hat, donned his new head of hair, put on the new brown cap that looked so different and pushed his green hat into the bag. He then shook up his horse and set out on his search. He was no longer Roger Brockley. During his solitary night, he had chosen a new name, and taken some care over it. It must have no echo of Hawkswood in it; must not be any name that the players who held Harry might recognize. Sandley wouldn’t do this time.

  His new name must be commonplace but not to a suspicious degree. He must not be called John Smith, for example. No. He would be … he would be … he would be Robin Wilson. And may God smile on my errand, he whispered as he rode past the Ashley cottage (silent now, all doors and windows fast shut though there was a thin trickle of smoke from the kitchen chimney) and took the right-hand turn towards the little village with the tiny church, and the open country beyond. His anger was still with him, burning holes in him. It had driven his cold away so thoroughly that he had almost forgotten it. So far, he had been able to follow the route that Master Ashley had taken when he set off to repair a roof damaged by the gale. But from now on, he had no guidance. The countryside ahead was lonely and rolling. He decided to slant towards the left, which was the south, and make for a hilltop that would give him a good view all round. Then he would work northwards, using hilltops when he could, tracing out a kind of arc that would at all points be roughly an hour away from the Ashley house.

  It was going to be a long and tiresome ride. The day was warm and the wig was hot. Also, the long dark hair that brushed his shoulders felt strange. The first hilltop revealed nothing helpful. Below, he could see a couple of thatched farmhouses, with their fields around them, and a little hamlet just beyond, but otherwise he saw only common land and woods. He rode down the north side of the hill and set off for the next high point.

  From here, he could see a possibility. Yes, there was an isolated house down there, maybe a mile from the foot of the slope just before him. He rode hopefully down but on reaching the place, realized that it couldn’t possibly be the right one. It was a big, cheerful-looking farmhouse, wide open to callers, and as he rode into the yard, two small boys and a large woman with a jolly expression came out of a back door to meet him.

  ‘I’ve just called to ask for directions. There’s a house I am trying to find but I don’t know its name, only its description …’

  ‘Well, come you down, and my lads here will take your horse and you come inside to tell us all about it and take a bite. Ridden far, have you? I’m Emma Jones. My man’s out in the fields, but my boys know how to take care of a horse … my, that’s a fine one you have there …’

  Jaunty was led away and Brockley was swept inside on a hospitable and garrulous tide, seated at a kitchen table, and plied with viands. He mentioned his bread and cheese but Emma Jones regarded them with disdain.

  ‘Bless you, we can do better than that, sir. I’ve been making meat and pippin pasties this very morning; there’s still a few pippins left over from last autumn. And there’s our own cider and elderflower wine … where’s Julie … ah, there you are, lass.’ A girl of about twelve had come into the kitchen. ‘Julie, you get out the pasties and the things to drink, and I’ll talk to our guest here. He wants directions. Now, what be this house like, that you’re looking for, sir?’

  He described the house he wanted, as well as he could, realizing as he talked how little he really knew. ‘I know it’s built of grey stone, with a wall all round and it’s lonely. Why I want to find it is a long story. Forgive me if I don’t recite it to you. But it’s important that I do find this house and my reason is honest. Do you know of such a place?’

  Unfortunately, Emma Jones did not. Her husband came in while Brockley was still there and could not help either. ‘It’s nowhere near here, that’s for sure, or I would know of it,’ he said.

  Brockley, at length, thanked them for the pasties and the cider, which he had preferred to elderflower wine and which proved to be excellent, and took his leave. He must ride on, northwards, and find another hilltop, not too close.

  He was aware, as he rode, of feeling tired. As a rule, Brockley was as much at ease in a saddle as he was in his bed, but now, he thought ruefully, his years must be telling. There had been a time when one wetting would never have made him catch cold. He was better now, except for occasionally blowing his nose, but he had better bear it in mind. He was over sixty now and he had scarcely been out of the saddle since Harry’s letter reached Hawkswood.

  But at least Jaunty’s sloping shoulders provided easy paces; the bay was a comfortable ride. Also, the meat and pippin pasties and the cider had been fortifying. Brockley pressed on.

  An hour later, he had topped another hill and his hopes rose again. Below him was a valley with a village in it, and beyond that a hill much lower than the one where he had drawn rein, so he could see that on the far side of it there were fields and woods – and one lonely house, from which the village probably couldn’t be seen.

  He glimpsed a river that seemed to begin in the hills to his left and pass through one end of the village, and then wind on into the country west of the solitary house.

  The house was too far away for details to be visible but he did have the impression of a grey surrounding wall. He thought he could also make out a farmhouse some way to the west, no doubt the place to which the fields belonged. The river seemed to flow towards it. Like the village, the farmhouse probably wasn’t visible from the grey-walled house. There was a patch of woodland in between.

  ‘Oh, let it be,’ he said aloud, and urged Jaunty on.

  His route took him through the village and there he found an alehouse whose proprietor was helpful. Yes, he knew of the place that Brockley described. Ivy House, it was called. Been taken over as a base by a group of actors, for working on a new play or something of the sort. Queer folk, keep theirselves to theirselves, but they pay their bills right enough. They send a cart into the village now and again for food and ale and whatnot. No, it’s not far, not from here. An hour’s ride, no more.

  One more hour, and he was there. He drew up outside the gate, which was uncompromisingly shut. However, having settled his hat and wig more firmly on his head and run a caressing hand over his chin, which was now adorned with something more than mere stubble, he decided to take the risk and banged on the gate with the handle of his riding whip. Dogs at once began to bark and after a moment, there were sounds of bolts being drawn back and the gate was opened, though not very wide. Two big dogs immediately bounded forward, baying, but were ordered back by the man who had opened the gate, and who was now standing firmly in the entrance, blocking the way.

&nbs
p; ‘I’m lost,’ said Brockley resourcefully. ‘I’ve come quite a distance.’ The alehouse keeper had said that the village was called Timsford but he had better not say he was looking for that, as he might have been seen coming from that direction. ‘I want to find the road to Warwick and I’ve gone hopelessly wrong. Can I come in for a moment? I’d be glad to get out of this saddle even for five minutes and my horse needs a drink of water.’

  The man, who was clad in a sleeveless jerkin over a wool shirt, with breeches, leggings and boots on his lower half, looked uncertain but finally snapped an order at the dogs, who retreated and lay down. Then he stood aside so that Brockley could ride through the gate.

  ‘Stable yard’s through that arch on the right. Trough’s there.’

  ‘Many thanks.’ Brockley dismounted and led Jaunty across the courtyard, trying as he did so to observe his surroundings. Grey walls. Ivy. Yes, this was assuredly the place. He led Jaunty through the arch to find himself in a small and untidy stable yard, where buckets and hay bales stood haphazardly about and wisps of straw were blowing over the cobbles. The trough was full and Jaunty really was thirsty, for when he scented the water, he pulled Brockley towards it, ears eagerly pricked.

  The porter, or groom or whatever he was, had come with them and while Jaunty was drinking, began to give directions to Warwick. ‘You’re a long way off your course,’ he said disapprovingly, clearly regarding Brockley as something of a fool.

  ‘I’ll find my way now. Many thanks,’ Brockley said.

  He was obviously not going to be asked into the house. Indeed, no one had appeared who was likely to have the authority to invite him. He must not arouse any suspicions. This was surely the place and for the moment, that was good enough. As he led Jaunty back through the courtyard, however, he glanced at the front of the house and saw a movement at an upstairs window. For a brief moment, a face appeared.

  He could not be sure … but it looked remarkably like Harry’s face.