The Midwife and the Assassin (18 page)

My eyes drifted to Jeremiah Goodkey. His forearms bulged as he rubbed a cloth across the bar. He could have overcome Daniel with no trouble at all.

“You think Daniel was killed by a Leveller?” Katherine asked. “By one of his own friends?”

“If the killer thought Daniel had betrayed the cause,” Martha said, “he might not have let mere friendship stay his hand.”

“And once Daniel entered the world of spies, he might have made other enemies as well,” I said. “After all, it is not only the Levellers who oppose Cromwell.”

“You mean it could be one of the King's men,” Katherine said.

“Aye,” I said. “Cromwell has many enemies who would be happy to see him dead. Thus so did Daniel.”

“Could the murderer be this Thomas Reynolds or Mr. Marlowe?” Katherine asked. “Perhaps they demanded Daniel's service, and Daniel refused.”

My heart leaped in my chest at this suggestion. I tried to push it away, but could not. While I did not believe that Tom was behind the murder, what about Mr. Marlowe? Could he be so cunning as to kill Daniel Chidley and then ask us to solve the crime? The possibilities for deception in this matter echoed endlessly.

“I don't know,” I said at last. “It is possible.”

“I should like to talk to Abraham Walker,” Katherine said. “And I want to tell him everything we have learned.”

“The man we met at your home?” Martha asked. “I thought he was a cloth merchant.”

“Aye, he is that,” Katherine said, “but he is more as well. He kept himself a neutralist in the wars, and thus made himself into a man that all parties trust. He may know better who Daniel's enemies were.”

“Do you trust him?” I asked.

“With my life,” Katherine replied. “He has been a true friend for many years. He will not hesitate to help us.”

I nodded my assent and Katherine went in search of Walker.

As soon as we were alone, Martha asked the question that was already on my lips. “
Could
it have been Marlowe?”

“I don't know,” I replied. “Anything and everything seems possible now.”

“But would he kill Daniel and then send us to find the killer simply to muddy the waters?”

I could only shake my head in confusion.

We sat in silence, puzzling over Marlowe's knot. And then it came free.

“If Mr. Marlowe did kill Daniel, he might be trying to fell two birds with one shot,” I said. “He murdered Daniel for reasons of his own, and then sent the two of us after Goodkey and Owen. He'll hang whichever one we settle on as the killer, not caring who it is. Daniel is dead, and so is one of Cromwell's enemies.”

Martha nodded. “He'd see one enemy murdered, and another executed for the crime. A good day's work even for so devious a man as Marlowe.”

“Or Mr. Marlowe could be telling the truth. Perhaps Jeremiah Goodkey or Charles Owen
did
kill Daniel.” I shook my head in wonder and confusion. “For a man who sewed coats, Daniel Chidley had his share of enemies.”

“And if we are not careful,” Martha warned, “his enemies could become ours.”

“Then the sooner we finish this business, the safer we will be,” I said. “Let us hope that Abraham Walker knows something of consequence.”

 

Chapter 14

We had hoped to speak to Mr. Walker the next day, but before we had the chance, all of London was thrown into a frenzy when the trial of King Charles ended and he was sentenced to death. When word reached the Cheap, the entire neighborhood poured into the street, weeping and shouting over what had happened. Martha and I wandered alone along Cheapside Street, watching and listening to the crowd.

When we reached St. Mary-le-Bow church, a chapman—the same one I'd heard singing of Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot—was singing of more recent events.

Now thanks to the powers below

We Englishmen do reap what we sow;

The Bishop's Miter has been cast down,

And along with it has gone the Crown,

With no such thing as bishop or king,

Good order has fled the land,

So come clowns, come boys, come hobbledehoys,

Come females of each degree,

Stretch out your throats, ladies bring in your votes,

You'll make good the anarchy!

“Katherine would have him by the ears, if she heard him,” Martha whispered. Indeed, some women in the crowd began to murmur against the chapman. Unfortunately, he did not realize that he had one foot on a rolling stone and would soon be tumbling downhill.

“Let's have King Charles,” says John,

“Nay, let's have his son,” says Hugh,

“Let England have none,” says Jabbering Joan,

“We'll all be kings,” says Prue.

This proved too much for one woman in the crowd, and an egg flew past the chapman's head before splattering against the wall behind him.

“What, you want to lay all this at
our
feet?” she cried. “Which of the so-called judges that sentenced the King was named Joan? Which Parliament man is named Prudence? All I see are Richards and Williams. It is you men who have brought us to this point, not us women.”

By the time she'd finished her speech—and reached into her basket for another egg—the chapman had fled.

“The King was never so popular until he found himself in prison.” I nearly leaped from my boots at the sound of Katherine's voice. She had slipped in behind us and now joined our little circle. “Before Charles was captured, those who hated him, hated him worse than the devil. And those who loved him, loved him not so well as their supper. But now that he is neutered, the people have forgotten his sins and long only for the order he promised but never provided.”

“And what about you?” Martha asked. “Do you hate him worse than the devil?”

“I hate tyranny, whether it is the King's or Cromwell's. And I will oppose it at every turn.”

“But now it seems that one tyrant will send another to the scaffold,” I said. “How do you reconcile that?”

Katherine smiled broadly. “We have put ourselves in a difficult place, haven't we? In this matter, I find I must side with the King. This rump of a Parliament had no more right to judge Charles than the three of us would. I cannot complain that the law mistreats the poor and then acquiesce to its mistreatment of the rich. So, yes, last year I wanted the King brought down, and now I oppose his execution.” She laughed at the contradiction.

By now the crowd had begun to disperse and Katherine began walking toward the Nag's Head. I realized that this could be a good time to speak to Jeremiah Goodkey about Daniel's death. In all the excitement about the King's conviction and condemnation, he might make a small mistake, and that could be enough. I told Katherine of my plan and her face grew pale.

“You really think Jeremiah might have killed Daniel?”

“If he discovered Daniel was working on behalf of Cromwell…,” I said.

Katherine breathed deeply and nodded. “I hate to think of such a thing. Jeremiah is a good friend, and I hope he is innocent of this. But he
is
of a choleric humor, and if he thought that Daniel had betrayed the Leveller cause, he might have resorted to violence. Do not let my wants and desires stand in the way of your search.”

We arrived at the Nag's Head to find it full to overflowing. All the talk was of the King's fate, of course, and many an argument had already become heated. Katherine disappeared into the crowd while Martha and I edged toward Jeremiah Goodkey, hoping to catch him unawares. We found him behind the bar, arguing with a small, rat-faced man.

“So long as the King lives, there can be no freedom.” Goodkey pounded the bar with so much force that the glasses rattled. “I'll not defend this Parliament, but for now, the price of freedom is the blood of kings.”

The rat-faced man said something I could not hear, but his words so enraged Goodkey that he lost all semblance of control. His hand shot out and seized the man by the front of his shirt. With no apparent effort, Goodkey pulled his opponent halfway across the bar and shouted into his face, “You'll not say such things in my tavern.”

The rat-faced man tried to speak, but he could not catch his breath.

“Perhaps we should return another time,” Martha murmured. “He does not seem to be in the mood to answer questions.”

“Aye,” I said. “But where shall we go?”

“We could find Charles Owen,” she said. “On this of all days, the Royalists will be more restrained in their passions.”

“Let us hope,” I said.

*   *   *

As Martha and I made our way to Charles Owen's tavern—it was aptly named the Crown—we discussed the best way to approach him, and the challenge before us quickly became clear.

“Jeremiah Goodkey at least knows our faces,” I said. “But Owen is a stranger. He will not take kindly to a pair of women wandering in and questioning him about a murder.”

“Let us leave the questions for tomorrow,” Martha said. “Today, we can just listen. Once we have the measure of his character we will better know how to approach him when the time comes.”

I nodded in agreement. While such a quiet approach would slow our search for Daniel's killer, I could not argue with her thinking. “There is one other problem,” I said. “What do we do if Charles Owen proves to be the murderer?”

“What do you mean?”

“We only know of Owen through Mr. Marlowe. How would we explain our discovery to Katherine?”

“There was no
CO
among Daniel's notes, was there?”

“No,” I said. “And no meeting place signified by the letter
C
.”

“So he never met Charles Owen—or anyone else—at the Crown.”

“Or the meetings were secret enough that he burned the notes immediately,” I said.

We walked in silence, puzzling over the riddle before us, but found no solution.

“We will have to untie that knot when we come to it,” Martha said.

I nodded. “But we should take this as a warning that if we are not careful, we will be caught in our own lies,” I said. “We saw this trap, but there must be others.”

We found the Crown with no trouble—Tom had provided a map to help us—and Martha and I stepped out of the winter wind. As we shed our cloaks I looked about the room, wondering which of the men was Charles Owen.

On the surface, the Crown had much in common with the Nag's Head; it too had rough-hewn furniture that had seen much use. A chaotic mixture of chairs and benches was scattered around tables both large and small. On this day, however, the crowd could not have been more different. While the men and women at the Nag's Head had held forth long and loud over whether the King's execution was just, the Crown's patrons had no such disagreements. At the Crown, the execution was nothing short of murder.

A few of the men who saw us enter stared at us with open suspicion. I tried to imagine Daniel slipping in here on some piece of business, and wondered if such a visit might have begun the chain of events that led to his death. Might Martha and I have begun a similar chain by our entrance?

I pointed to a large table—one that would invite company—and Martha and I crossed to it. “This place has the feel of a wake,” Martha murmured as we sat.

“Aye,” I said. “For them it is the prelude to one. It will be a dark day when the King is beheaded.”

Martha went to the bar and returned with two pots of ale, and we sat back to wait and listen. After a time the warmth of the fire and the strength of the ale pulled me into a dull-witted state. Had I been more alert, I might not have been caught unawares by the man who slid onto the bench next to me and put his arm around my waist.

I turned in shock at such familiarity, and had to fight back a scream when I discovered Lorenzo Bacca sitting beside me. I tried to speak but could not, a malady that afflicted Martha as well.

“Words fail me, Lady Hodgson,” Bacca purred. His accent raised the hair on my neck. “I have so many questions for you, I cannot think where to begin.”

*   *   *

It had been nearly half a decade since I had last seen Lorenzo Bacca, but in no way could I have forgotten him. In the course of trying to prove that Esther Wallington had not murdered her husband, I had come to suspect that Bacca had done so. Not only was he an assassin in the King's employ, but he had promised to kill me if I persisted in my search for the murderer. I counted my refusal to be quailed by such threats as one of my first acts of true courage.

While Bacca had proven to be innocent of that particular crime, there could be no question that he was as dangerous a man as I'd ever met. There was a striking congruity between Bacca's visage and his character, as his ruthless nature was matched with sharp features and the smile of a wolf. In the years since he'd fled York his hair had thinned a bit and there were a few more lines around his eyes, but time had treated him well.

“You simply
must
tell what brought you to … this.” He plucked at my wool skirts as if I might be verminous with lice. As was his habit in York, Bacca wore the most colorful and expensive combination of silks and wools imaginable. Even among the King's men, who favored such clothes, he stood out like a swan among ducks.

“And once you have explained your common dress,” he continued, “I hope you will tell me why you are here in the Crown, on this of all days. I cannot guess at the answer to either question, so it is with great anticipation that I look forward to your explanation.” Bacca raised an eyebrow and waited.

My mind raced to find answers that would satisfy him. None presented themselves, and I briefly considered leaping to my feet and running for the street. Bacca must have sensed this, for his hand remained snug on my hip.