The Midwife and the Assassin (16 page)

“Aye,” I said. “The murderer could be one of the Levellers, or he could be one of the King's men. In their eyes, Daniel was a rebel whether he belonged to the Levellers or to Cromwell.”

“Who knew he was a spy for Mr. Marlowe?”

“According to Colonel Reynolds, only him and Mr. Marlowe. He must have been discovered by chance.”

Martha thought for a moment. “What if Mr. Marlowe was too secretive?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Marlowe kept Daniel Chidley's work so secret that everyone else in London saw him as a voice against Parliament and in favor of anarchy.”

“True enough,” I said. “That is what
we
thought.”

“What if a Parliament man grew tired of Daniel's factious nature and killed him?”

“You are suggesting that one of Cromwell's men might have unknowingly murdered Cromwell's own spy?” My head spun at the thought.

“We must consider it,” Martha said. “Daniel could have been killed by any man in London!”

“Perhaps so,” I said. “But Colonel Reynolds provided us a place to start.” I held up the letters that Tom had given me. Martha and I spent over an hour reading through them together. As we read, I realized they contained a miniature of England's civil wars, for even if we ignored Martha's wilder ideas, every faction had a reason to kill Daniel Chidley.

“Jeremiah Goodkey,” Martha read aloud. “Isn't he the owner of the Nag's Head?”

“Aye, he's old enough, but he can hoist a new keg of ale as if it's empty.” The letter told us that like so many in the Leveller faction, Goodkey had fought in the wars on Parliament's side. According to Mr. Marlowe's notes, Goodkey was
a man of a noxious and rebellious spirit, bent on overturning all order, all at once. He favors nothing so much as anarchy in both church and state.

“Of course, the King's men would say the same thing of Cromwell,” Martha noted drily.

“Speaking of the King's men, there's Charles Owen,” I said. “According to Mr. Marlowe's notes, he's no less dangerous than Goodkey. The only difference is that he favors the King.”

Like Goodkey, Owen was a tavern-keeper, owning a house called the Crown, which lay south of the Cheap not far from the Thames. The King's men had been using the Crown as a meeting place for many years, and Royalist newssheets were freely available there. According to Tom's notes, a handful of plots had been hatched in the Crown, and Mr. Marlowe had come within a hairsbreadth of closing it down and arresting Owen as a traitor.

“If the Crown is such a nest of vipers, why would Mr. Marlowe allow it to remain open?” Martha asked. “Surely he could have arrested Owen, nailed the door shut, and been done with it.”

I turned the page and continued to read. “It was kept open at Colonel Reynolds's behest,” I said. “He convinced Mr. Marlowe to watch rather than act.
Better to keep the King's men in the light where we can see them than to chase such rebels into the shadows where they may be lost.
”

“He may regret that decision,” Martha noted. “And what about Katherine Chidley?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I think we must revisit the question of her guilt.”

I gazed at Martha, my mouth hanging open. “Revisit her guilt?” I cried. “You convinced the constable of her innocence! You saw her sorrow at Daniel's death.”

“I have also seen her passion,” Martha replied. “And who would be more likely to discover his treachery than his own wife? If Katherine discovered that Daniel was a spy for Cromwell, she might have killed him to protect herself and the Leveller cause.”

I hated the idea that Katherine might be guilty, but I could not dismiss it out of hand. If Katherine realized that Daniel had betrayed her, her fury could have boiled over into murder.

“What about the bruises on Daniel's neck?” I asked. “She is too small to do that, no matter how angry she became. You said so yourself.”

“Perhaps she told Jeremiah Goodkey of Daniel's treachery,” Martha replied. “She let him into the shop, put Daniel at ease, and then Goodkey plunged the knife into his chest.”

“It is possible,” I admitted. “But right now we have nothing but blind suspicion. We will start with Goodkey and Owen, and work our way outward from them.” I knew it might be a mistake to ignore Katherine at the outset, but she was a friend, and I would not allow myself to nurse such suspicions until we had some sign of her guilt.

That afternoon, Katherine's maidservant, the same one who had summoned us to view Daniel's body, appeared at our door. Mrs. Chidley had invited us to dinner. We agreed, of course, and accompanied the maid across the street. On that day, winter had resolved to show its strength, and even the short walk chilled us to the marrow. I wondered if the Thames ever froze the way the river Ouse had in York.

As we passed through the shop—now empty of the journeymen the Chidleys employed to sew cloth into coats—my eyes were drawn to the spot where we'd found Daniel's body. There was no sign of what had happened, of course, and it seemed as if the world had forgotten about him entirely.

We found Katherine in her parlor, talking with a man whom I'd seen coming and going but had never met.

The man rose when we entered, and Katherine introduced him as Abraham Walker.

“He was Daniel's friend,” she said. “We have been in business together for many years. He supplies us with cloth. Abraham, this is Widow Hodgson and Martha Hawkins; they are midwives come of late to the Cheap.”

Walker offered a warm and easy smile as he greeted us. Despite his rich clothes—he'd clearly done well for himself in the cloth trade—he was a bland and colorless man, neither so handsome that you'd want to remember him nor so ugly that you'd want to forget. I put his age around fifty, but he still retained a good measure of youthful vigor.

“I came to see Mrs. Chidley as soon as I heard about Daniel's death,” he said. “I would have arrived sooner, but I was called to York on business.”

The reminder of my exile from my adopted city was an unwelcome surprise, and for a moment I wondered if Walker had wandered past my house or dined with any of my friends who also were in the cloth trade. I could not ask, of course, and in truth it did not matter. I would return to York when the Lord Mayor died, but until that day I preferred not to think about it.

“I was just telling Mrs. Chidley of my visit today to the Justice of the Peace and the coroner,” Mr. Walker said. “She asked me to discover what they've learned about Daniel's death. But she wanted you two to be here as well.”

Martha and I looked at Walker in anticipation. “What have they found?” I asked.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “They dressed it up in finer language than that, of course, but in the end they had to admit that they have no idea who killed Mr. Chidley.”

I was not surprised, of course. The Justice of the Peace did not know of Daniel's spy-craft, so he would never even look to men like Goodkey or Owen.

The four of us talked for a bit more, but Walker said nothing of consequence. The one question I had—but could not ask in his presence—was why Katherine had wanted us to hear his report. As soon as he had gone, Katherine closed the door behind him.

“I am glad you are here.” Her eyes shone as she spoke. “I must speak to you about Daniel's death.”

Before Katherine could tell us why, her maidservant slipped into the room and announced that dinner was ready.

“Good,” Katherine said. “I hope you will join me. It will be a fine meal.”

We did, of course, and were well rewarded for our trouble, as roasted meats and fresh bread filled our bellies, and red wine warmed our blood. After we'd finished, Katherine dismissed her maidservant and returned to the subject of her husband's murder.

“I know I have not yet finished grieving for Daniel,” she said. “But I will not let sorrow keep me from action. I intend to find Daniel's killer.”

“What, by yourself?” The words escaped my lips before I could soften them. Katherine did not notice my rudeness, or at least she did not mind.

“The law has little interest in the matter,” she replied. “That is clear enough. The magistrates saw Daniel as nothing but a seditionist and provocator, and consider themselves well shut of him. None will say it to my face, of course, but the men charged with finding Daniel's murderer consider his death to be a gift from God.” She spat the words as if they were poison.

“Surely not,” I replied, but without much certainty.

“If you don't believe me, you know neither my husband nor London's governors,” she said. “If I want justice, I will have to take it for myself. You are not such a stranger to the world to think otherwise, are you?”

I thought of my last days in York and the terrible things I'd done—things I'd
had
to do—in my own search for justice.

Katherine read my face. “I've not known you long, but I know you well, Bridget Hodgson. And I know we are of the same mind. You've seen how the wealthy and the powerful use the law as a weapon; you've cursed the unjustness of their laws. And you've done what you could to put things right, no matter what the letter of the law said.”

“Aye,” I said. “I have.”

“Why did you bring us here?” Martha asked. “What have we to do with your search for Mr. Chidley's killer?”

“Daniel was a difficult man,” she said, “and one who did not shy away from an argument if he thought he was in the right. No matter what the controversy was, or how powerful his opponent might be, he took a stand and would not abandon it no matter what came to pass.”

“So he had many political enemies,” I said.

Katherine shook her head. “That is what the constable and Justices might say, but there is many a mile between an argument at the Nag's Head and murder.” Katherine paused. “No, Daniel was killed over another matter, something more urgent than the shape of some future government.”

“But what could it be?” I knew the answer, of course—his work for Mr. Marlowe—and at that moment my question felt like a lie, for I pretended ignorance of a fact that could help her find Daniel's killer. My unease at betraying Katherine nipped at me yet again, but I knew that such little pains would be nothing compared to those I would feel if I crossed Mr. Marlowe.

“I do not know why someone would kill Daniel,” Katherine replied. “But discovering the answer to that question is the first step in finding his murderer. And I should like you both to help me do it.”

I stared at Katherine, unable to find my tongue.

“I know it is a great deal to ask,” Katherine continued. “But I must have justice for Daniel's death. And justice demands that his murderer be hanged, as surely as it demanded Grace Ramsden's release. But I cannot do this alone.”

“It is one thing to see an innocent woman set free,” I said, “but another to see a guilty man hanged. What is more, in Grace Ramsden's case, there
was
no murderer. If we set out in search of Daniel's killer, we could find ourselves in grave danger.”

“I know,” Katherine said. “This is why I will not accept your answer until tomorrow. You must make the decision on your own.”

I nodded my thanks, and after saying our good-byes Martha and I returned to our rooms, once again ducking our heads against the cold north wind as we crossed the street.

“This is more than passing strange,” Martha said once we were inside. We had pulled chairs closer to the hearth and huddled over the fire as it grudgingly warmed the room.

“To be asked by two different people to solve the same murder?” I said. “Passing strange, indeed.”

“We shall have to tread carefully,” Martha said.

“Aye, we will,” I replied. “Do you still think that Katherine might have had a hand in Daniel's death?”

“It would take an audacious woman to murder her husband and then announce her intention to find the killer,” she replied. “But she is nothing if not audacious.”

“But you are agreed that we will accept her request,” I said.

“Aye,” Martha said. “But I cannot help feeling that we have wandered into a new and dangerous land.”

“That we have,” I replied. “And it is home to all manner of beasts and savages. Let us hope we are able find Daniel's murderer and return again.”

The next morning, Martha and I crossed the street to tell Katherine we would help her find Daniel's killer. We found her in the shop, inspecting the stitching on a pile of coats and reprimanding a journeyman for poor workmanship. The journeyman—a strapping lad who stood a full head taller than Katherine—was on the edge of tears.

When Katherine had finished, she turned to us. “You will help?” she asked.

“Aye,” I said. “If a gossip will not help you solve a murder, what use is she?”

“Good,” Katherine said. “Come upstairs and we'll talk.”

 

Chapter 13

Once we settled in Katherine's parlor, we turned to the mystery of Daniel's murderer. “I assume you've thought about who might have wanted to kill him,” I said.

“Aye,” Katherine replied. “But as I told you, nobody comes to mind. An argument over politics does not turn easily to violence.”

I considered pointing out that the English nation had just fought a war in order to bring down a tyrant: What was that but a long and bloody argument over politics? Martha spoke up before I could press my point.

“Have you looked through your husband's papers?” she asked. “Perhaps they contain some hint of what happened to him. A threatening letter, a business dispute, or some other secret.”

Katherine looked at Martha, her eyes flashing. “Some other secret?” she asked. “Say what you mean, Martha Hawkins.” Katherine's voice had a dangerous edge to it, and I hoped that Martha would be careful in her choice of words.