The Midwife and the Assassin (19 page)

“We should ask the same thing of you,” I said at last. “In York you were up to your ears in King Charles's business, and such work is much more dangerous now that he is down.”

“The King is dead—or soon will be,” Bacca replied with a knowing smile. “In which case, long live the King.”

“You are serving the Prince of Wales?” I asked. “You admit that so freely?”

Bacca's laugh was not unkind, but his smile remained vulpine. “Half the men in this tavern are in the Prince's service, and the rest will be when the ax falls on his father. But that is enough about me. Now, why don't you tell my why you are dressed like a common housewife?”

I looked at Martha, hoping that she had thought of a lie that Bacca might find credible, but the desperation in her eyes mirrored my own. After a few moments, each of which seemed like an eternity, Bacca continued speaking. Like so many men of his nation, he could not keep himself quiet.

“You will not answer?” Bacca asked with a laugh. At that moment, I realized that whatever his suspicions, he was genuinely pleased to see me. “Very well, let me guess. I do not know what brought you to London, but to be dressed like this you have either fallen into poverty or you are in disguise. I know you are not so improvident for it to be the former, so you must be here as a spy of sorts. And since the Crown is favored by Royalists, you are not serving the King or the Prince. Therefore, you must be Cromwell's creature. I cannot imagine why you would join with such a bad man, but you are a clever woman and you must have your reasons.”

I felt sick at the speed with which Bacca had arrived at the truth, and prayed that he could not tell how close he'd come to the mark.

“The only question that remains,” he continued, “indeed the only question that matters, is why you are here and whether your business and mine will collide. That would be regrettable indeed.”

“Why don't you tell us
your
business? Martha suggested brightly. “And we can tell you whether we will come into conflict.”

Bacca laughed. “That is the problem, of course. Since I am with His Majesty, and you are with the traitor Old 'Nol, we can only lie to each other. What ever shall we do to escape this impasse?”

“We could go our separate ways,” Martha suggested. “With neither of us troubling the other.”

“I think it is too late for that,” Bacca replied. “The troubling is already well under way, isn't it? You must tell me your business, or I shall have to announce who you are to all these men. I should think that they would be very pleased to get their hands on two of Cromwell's spies, especially on a day such as this.”

I took a breath and released it slowly. I knew that only the most carefully crafted lie would fool Bacca. I resolved to measure out the truth drop by drop and dilute it with as many lies as I thought he would swallow. I began by mixing our search for Daniel's murderer with a mystery that Martha and I had solved some years before.

“You are right about the disguise, but wrong about the reason,” I said. “We are not in Cromwell's employ. Rather, we are in search of a murderer.”

Even so practiced a dissembler as Bacca could not hide his surprise.

“Really!” he cried. “What murderer? You must tell me.”

“Someone has killed two of the city's whores,” I replied. “Martha and I have been given the job of finding the murderer.” Martha and I had solved just such a series of murders a few years before. I could only hope that Bacca hadn't heard of our exploits.

Bacca eyed us suspiciously. “Why can't the Justices find the killer on their own? Why summon a midwife?”

“You know the godly,” I replied. “They have treated the whores worse than they have the actors. What doxy would trust a godly magistrate?”

“And why would they trust you?” Bacca asked.

“Since coming to London I have worked with them, delivering them of their bastards. I have done them no wrong.”

“I find your story fascinating, but it does not begin to explain your presence in the Crown. There are no doxies here.”

“We believe that the killer may be a man who frequents the Crown,” Martha said. “We came here in hope of finding him.”

Bacca looked at us, clearly suspicious. “Why did you tell me the truth so easily?”

“We have no reason to lie about this matter,” I replied. “What objection could you have to our work? And as you can see, unless you are the murderer, our businesses cannot collide.”

After a moment Bacca nodded. “If you are telling the truth, you have taken up a dangerous task. Perhaps I can help. Who is this man you are hoping to find?”

I had not expected such an offer and hesitated. Of course I could not refuse—what reason could I give for rejecting such courtesy? But I also knew that an invented name would not fool Bacca for long.

“It is Charles Owen,” I said. “He is the owner of the Crown.”

“Charles Owen,” Bacca repeated. “And what evidence do you have?”

I shrugged. “The magistrate told me not to say. We are not even sure he is the murderer. But we know he frequented the women who were killed. So he may have seen the murderer.” I hoped that my evasiveness on this point would make the rest of my story seem truthful.

Bacca nodded. “I know Charles. He does not seem like that kind of man. But who can know the truth about anyone?” He stood and for a moment I thought we might be free. “I will send him here to answer your questions, and remain nearby to ensure that you are safe.”

“You mustn't tell him why we have come,” I said. “It is better that we catch him unawares.”

Bacca paused and nodded. “Yes, you are right. Better to surprise him. I will say nothing.”

Bacca strode to a man and woman standing behind the bar. They could only be Charles Owen and his wife. Bacca leaned across and whispered to Owen. He looked at us, suspicion clear on his face. When Bacca finished talking, Owen nodded and came from behind the bar. He was a tall, loose-jointed man who moved with such ease he seemed more snake than human.

“You are friends with Lorenzo,” Owen said when he arrived. His accent revealed his origins in England's southwest, Devon or Cornwall, I thought. “He said that you have some questions to ask me. What about?”

When he leaned on the table I was struck by the strength in his arms. Muscles seemed to twitch beneath the skin even when they were still, as if they longed for labor to keep them occupied. I imagined his left hand grasping Daniel's throat, while his right thrust a dagger into his chest.

“We are here about the murder of Daniel Chidley,” I replied.

“Are you now?” Owen's eyes flashed, and the air about us crackled with the threat of violence. “And are you truly so eager to follow him to the grave? Because that, I promise, is what will happen.”

 

Chapter 15

I held my breath, a part of me sure that Martha and I would soon meet the same end as Daniel Chidley. I wanted desperately to signal Lorenzo Bacca that his “friend” had threatened our lives, but did not dare take my eyes off of Charles Owen.

“What do you mean?” Martha asked. Her eyes remained sharp and her voice did not quiver as I knew mine would if I spoke.

Owen stared at Martha, but after a moment his demeanor softened and he sat down. “I mean Daniel was playing a dangerous game with dangerous men, and you would be wise not to join in.”

“What game?” she asked. “What men?”

Owen looked toward the door as if he were waiting for someone. I could not tell if he did so out of fear or anticipation. His eyes returned to us, but he remained silent.

“How did you know Daniel Chidley?” Martha asked. “You favor the King, and Mr. Chidley was a Leveller—there's not much common ground there.”

“We both hated Cromwell, didn't we?” Owen spoke so softly Martha and I had to lean toward him to hear. “Strange times make for strange bedfellows. Cromwell or one of his creatures must have had his fill of Daniel's agitating and killed him. As I said, that's a shame but not a surprise.”

I marveled that he spoke so openly of his hatred for Cromwell, but I supposed there was no safer place in London to say such things.

“You think he was killed by Parliament men?” I asked.

“It makes the most sense, doesn't it?” Owen replied. “Cromwell fears the Levellers as much as he does the Royalists. And if he'll sentence His Majesty to death with that counterfeit trial, he'd hardly balk at putting so low a man as Daniel in his grave with no trial at all.”

I considered how best to put Owen off his guard, and decided to play our ace of trumps. “Daniel wasn't killed by Cromwell,” I said. “He was working for Cromwell. He was a spy.”

Owen stared at me with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. “Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you here?”

“We are looking for Daniel Chidley's murderer, just as I said,” I replied. “We heard that you might know something of it.”

“And it seems we were right,” Martha added.

“The Italian said you are midwives. Why are you sticking your beaks into such a business?”

“We are here for his wife,” I said. “She doubts the Justices will do their part, and asked us to help her find Daniel's killer. Did you know that Daniel Chidley was working for Cromwell?”

“No, and I don't believe it, either,” Owen said. “Whoever told you that he was, was leading you astray. Daniel and I disagreed on many things, but he was a true Leveller. As I said, you should look to Cromwell's men. But I'll warn you now. Be careful—if you come too close to the truth, they'll not hesitate to kill someone like you.”

“What did you and Daniel do together?” I asked. “What was your work against Cromwell?”

Owen laughed bitterly. “Do I seem such a fool as to tell you that? I'd sooner find a rope and hang myself.” He paused for a moment and peered at me through narrowed eyes. “For all I know, you work for Cromwell, and wish to trick me into a confession.” He stood. “I've done nothing wrong, so finish your drinks and go. I've no desire to see you here again. You'll bring nothing but trouble on yourselves and those around you, and I've got enough trouble of my own.”

I peered at Owen's belt as he walked away, wondering if he might carry a knife, but I could not catch a glimpse beneath the tails of his shirt.

“Mr. Owen,” I called after him. “Where were you on January eighth? It was the day after the King's trial was announced.”

Owen returned to the table and leaned over us, his jaw tight. “Are you mad, yelling that aloud? There are as many dangerous men in the King's employ as in Cromwell's, and I'd sooner not get their attention.” He looked about the room before continuing in a whisper. “I had no call to kill Daniel. I told you—he and I were not enemies.”

“Where were you on the eighth?” I asked again.

“Here with my wife. This place doesn't run itself. Or maybe I was at the docks looking for wine newly arrived from France. But wherever I was, it wasn't at Daniel's. I had no wish to see him dead.”

“Is that your wife?” Martha nodded toward the woman we'd seen him with earlier.

“My wife?” Owen was taken entirely aback by the question. “Yes, why?”

“You said you were here with your wife, or out on some other business. If that's true, she can tell us. Let us ask her, and then we can be on our way.”

Owen slammed his fist on the table. We'd asked one question too many. “You'll not speak to her. Not today, not ever. And if I see you here again, you'll be much the worse for it.” He started away before turning back to us. “You would do well to learn the lesson of Daniel's death. When you take a knife by the blade, you risk being cut.”

“I don't need to finish my ale,” Martha whispered as Owen stalked off. The suspicion that had greeted us when we entered the Crown had become open hostility, and I said a prayer of thanks that Lorenzo Bacca had stayed nearby. A smile graced his lips and he nodded farewell as we made our way to the door.

“My God,” Martha gasped as we escaped into the street. “That was an unlikely haphazard.”

“Meeting Lorenzo Bacca after so many years?” I said. “It was remarkable indeed. Suddenly London seems very small. Do you think he believed our lie about the murdered doxies?”

“He seemed to. It was a story well told.”

“Well told or not, he is still an assassin in the service of Prince Charles,” I said. “And Daniel was both a Leveller and a spy for Cromwell. Bacca had at least two reasons to kill him.”

Martha nodded. “If he is the murderer
and
he saw through the lie about the doxies—”

“Then we would find ourselves in great danger,” I finished. We walked a bit faster, hoping to put more distance between us and Bacca.

“And what of Charles Owen?” Martha asked.

“He's strong enough,” I said. “And he is certainly a man of violent passions. Either he or Bacca could have killed Daniel.”

“Or it might have been Jeremiah Goodkey or Mr. Marlowe,” Martha said.

“Aye,” I said. “Or one of them. We should go to the Horned Bull. I should like to tell Colonel Reynolds of all that has happened.”

“I imagine you would,” Martha said with a laugh.

We found our way to the Bull with no trouble—a deed of which I was unreasonably proud—and to my pleasure we arrived at the same time as Will. I embraced him, and he gave Martha a kiss before leading us to the dining room. He seemed tired, and he was well covered with dust and mud.

“So you've been out of the city?” I asked, gesturing at his clothes. “You'll not get that dirty from cobbled streets.”

Will laughed. “You don't miss much, I'll grant you that. What have you two been up to today?” He had no intention of telling us where he'd been.

“Is Colonel Reynolds here?” I asked.