The Midwife and the Assassin (21 page)

“Why is that?” Martha asked.

“He loves the King more than is good for him, and he has an improvident tongue. But he is no murderer.”

“How can you know that?” Martha clearly trusted Walker less than Katherine did. “People have secrets. People change.”

“He is a man of talk, not action. He always has been. He never took up arms for the King, even when His Majesty was riding high. He would never take such a step now that the King is down. If you are going to discover Daniel's murderer, you will have to look past such a coward as Charles Owen.”

“By this you mean Bacca or Jeremiah Goodkey.”

“I do not know this Bacca, but Goodkey is another matter. He is a creature entirely unlike Charles Owen. During the war he was willing to spill blood for his beliefs, and if rumors are to be believed he did so by the gallon. I don't think he would hesitate to kill again if he thought it was necessary.”

“We've seen his temper,” Martha said.

“There is that as well. Goodkey is cunning enough to plan Daniel's murder and choleric enough to kill him on the spur of the moment. I don't know that he is guilty, but it would not surprise me in the least.”

“Are there others you suspect?” I asked.

Walker shrugged. “A few, but none as much as our friend Goodkey.”

“Who else?” I sensed that Walker knew more than he was saying.

“Some in Cromwell's camp, I suppose. Cromwell's spymaster is a man named Marlowe. His hands are already so bloody from killing that adding Daniel to his tally would not trouble his conscience.”

I caught my breath. If Walker knew about Marlowe, could he know that Martha and I were in his service?

“Why would this Marlowe kill his own spy?” Martha asked.

“Spy-craft is a dangerous business,” Walker said. “It is an easy thing to cross the wrong man and find yourself dead. If Marlowe thought that Daniel had betrayed him, Daniel's life would not be worth a cup of day-old ale.”

“And if Marlowe
did
kill Mr. Chidley?” Martha asked. “What would we do then?”

“Do?” Walker laughed. “I would challenge you to find a Justice of the Peace willing to arrest Oliver Cromwell's chief intelligencer. If Marlowe or any other of Cromwell's men killed Daniel, there is nothing we
can
do. Look first at Goodkey, for he at least is vulnerable.”

“I do not like it,” I said. “If one of Cromwell's men is guilty…”

Walker interrupted. “There is no profit in stretching for fruit that is beyond your reach, and you cannot reach a man like Marlowe. Pick the fruit that is within your grasp. Jeremiah Goodkey is that fruit.” Walker stood. “I should go. If you learn anything more—about Goodkey especially—tell me. I may be able to help.” Walker bid us farewell and he started down the stairs. Martha and I waited to speak until we saw him on the street below.

“He seemed rather eager to guide us away from Charles Owen and toward Goodkey,” Martha said.

“He knows them both,” I replied. “He was simply telling us what he thought.”

“I do not trust him.”

“He is Katherine's friend,” I said. “And if she trusts him, so should we. We cannot make every man we meet into a suspect. Let us go to the Nag's Head and talk to Jeremiah Goodkey. Perhaps he will clarify matters.”

*   *   *

As soon as Martha and I entered the Nag's Head it was clear that we would have better luck talking to Goodkey than we'd had on our previous visit. I did not think the Levellers' passions had burned themselves out, but someone at least had banked the coals. A handful of customers—mostly men today—were scattered about the room, talking in low voices. As usual, Jeremiah Goodkey stood behind the bar.

When Martha and I sat, he came right over. He had more gray in his hair than I'd first realized, and the lines on his face would soon become wrinkles. The man was Katherine's age, at least, but there was no question that he retained the strength of his youth, for his forearms each were as thick a Christmas log.

“What will you have?” he asked. Without the overheating effects of politics, Goodkey seemed far more congenial than menacing.

“Small beers,” I replied. In truth I would have preferred something stronger, but I also wanted to keep my wits about me. Goodkey returned with our drinks and set them on the table.

“And a word,” I said.

Goodkey looked at us in confusion but sat down. “What word?”

“We are here about Daniel Chidley's murder,” I said.

As I'd hoped, this caught Goodkey off his guard. He looked surprised for a moment and then fearful.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“How long ago was Daniel murdered?” Martha asked.

Goodkey thought for a moment. “Weeks,” he said. “A month soon enough.”

“Aye,” Martha said. “And have the Justices found his murderer?”

Goodkey snorted. “If they looked for Daniel's murderer, it would only be to make him a constable.”

“Exactly right,” I said. “Mrs. Chidley knows this, and set out to find his murderer herself.”

“That sounds like Katherine,” Goodkey said with a smile. “And she's enlisted you into her army? That sounds like her, too. So why are you here among Daniel's friends?”

“He wasn't killed by a stranger,” I replied.

“Who then?” Goodkey asked. “Daniel talked more than most, but this is London. If talking were reason enough for murder, we'd all be murderers or murdered.”

“Daniel was a spy for Oliver Cromwell.”

Goodkey burst out laughing. “That is madness. Daniel would bow to a bishop before he served that tyrant.”

“That may be true,” Martha said. “But he was a spy all the same.”

“Never.”

“Katherine Chidley found letters he wrote to Cromwell's spymaster,” I lied. “As well as letters the spymaster wrote in return.”

Goodkey stared into my eyes, searching for some sign that my accusation was false. “It is true?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Well, that might indeed get him killed, even by a friend,” Goodkey said. “And you think his murderer might be one of my customers.”

“That is one possibility,” Martha said.

“What is the other?” Goodkey thought for a moment and realized the answer to his own question. “You think
I
killed Daniel.”

“You had reason enough,” I replied. “And you're strong enough to hold him with one hand and stab him with the other.”

“But I had no idea he was a spy, did I? So I couldn't have done it.” Goodkey's denial seemed genuine enough, but I could not credit it entirely.

“That's the question,” Martha said. “If you knew he'd turned against the Levellers, you'd have killed him.”

“But I didn't know.” Goodkey insisted, and paused for a moment. “Of course, if I did kill him, I'd deny knowing of his betrayal. How can I convince you?”

“Where were you on the morning he died?” I asked. “If you can answer that, we'll readily believe in your innocencey.”

Goodkey shook his head. “I'll tell you, but it won't help: I was here, by myself. I live upstairs and spent the morning reading in my Bible. I was there when I heard of his death. I didn't go out, and nobody came in.”

“Do you carry a knife?” Martha asked.

Goodkey blinked at the question and then glanced at his right hip. Quick as lightning, Martha leaned forward and snatched at Goodkey's belt. She came away with a knife in her hand. Goodkey started to object but stopped himself. I watched Goodkey's face as Martha examined the blade, but I could not read his expression.

“You might have asked,” Goodkey complained. “What tavern-keeper
doesn't
carry a knife? I use it every day.”

With a flick of her wrist, Martha flipped the knife so the blade was in her hand and passed it back to Goodkey. He accepted it and looked at us warily.

“It's not the blade that killed Daniel,” she said. “It's too wide and has a curve to it.”

“Daniel was killed with a stiletto?” Goodkey asked. “Then you can forget about any tavern-keeper. We have no use for such a knife. We're in the business of cutting, not stabbing.”

“The fact that you aren't carrying the knife doesn't prove your innocencey,” Martha pointed out.

“I did not kill Daniel,” Goodkey insisted. “He was my friend.”

“Then who did?” I asked. “He was a vocal and opinionated man who betrayed his friends. He would have made enemies faster than his shop made coats.”

Goodkey's eyes darted about the room, and for a moment his unease reminded me of Charles Owen's. “Well, it would be the King's men, wouldn't it? They hate him for opposing the King, for selling coats to the New Model Army,
and
for joining in with the Levellers.”

“Who do you mean?” I asked. “You have someone in mind.”

Goodkey's eyes searched the room yet again, as if he feared that one of the King's spies might have slipped in when he wasn't paying attention. “There is a man,” he said at last. “An Italian. He is very dangerous.”

Martha and I glanced at each other. He could only have one person in mind.

“What is his name?” I asked.

“It is only rumors,” he said. “I cannot be sure.”

“Tell me,” I insisted.

Goodkey leaned toward us, coming so close that our foreheads nearly touched. “They call him Bacca. Lorenzo Bacca. But if you trifle with him, you will regret it.” Goodkey rose to his feet and nearly ran for the safety of the bar.

*   *   *

“And we're back to Lorenzo Bacca,” Martha said. We'd left the Nag's Head and were making our way back to our side of the Cheap.

“Aye,” I said. “Just before he died, Daniel told Colonel Reynolds he'd discovered a plot. Perhaps the Royalists intended a rising to rescue the King.”

“That would be reason enough to see Daniel dead.”

“More than enough,” I said. “And if Daniel had to die, why not send Bacca?”

As we walked in silence for a few minutes puzzling over our next steps, I realized how we could use Goodkey's suspicions about Bacca to our advantage. We paused outside Katherine's shop and I explained my plan.

Martha nodded. “That should work. Let us go inside.”

Katherine looked up when we entered the shop. Half a dozen young women sat hunched over tables, cutting and sewing wool cloth into coats. Katherine gestured for us to wait and returned to inspecting one girl's work. “Nicely done,” she said to the seamstress. “That is what we need.”

After examining a few more coats, Katherine said, “Come, let us go upstairs.”

As soon as we reached the parlor, Katherine turned to face us. “You've learned something, haven't you?”

“Nothing for sure,” I said.

“Tell me.”

“We spoke to Jeremiah Goodkey,” I said. “He denies killing Daniel, but he suggested one who might.”

“Who is it?”

“One of the King's men,” Martha said. “An Italian named Bacca.”

Katherine thought for a moment. “You think Daniel might have discovered a Royalist scheme to return Charles to the throne.”

“Bacca frequents a tavern called the Crown. Do you know it?”

“Aye,” Katherine said. “It is a den of vipers if ever one existed, full of Royalists to the very top. You think Bacca killed Daniel?”

“It is possible,” Martha said. “There is also the owner of the Crown. He is a man named Charles Owen. It is said that he loves the King above all else.”

Katherine shook her head. “I don't know him, but if he loves the King he'd have every reason to hate Daniel. Have you learned anything else?”

“All we have are suspicions,” I said.

“That is not all,” Katherine said. “Now we have names. Bacca, Owen…” She paused. “And, though I hate the idea, there is Jeremiah Goodkey. With those three, we have a place to start, and that is no small thing. What shall we do now?”

I thought for a moment. “You can hardly frequent the Crown,” I said. “So Martha and I should look to Bacca and Owen.”

Katherine nodded. “And I'll see to Jeremiah. If he killed Daniel, I'll find out. He could not keep so deep a secret for long.”

Martha and I bid Katherine farewell and returned to our tenement. Martha went out for our evening meal, and I wrote a letter to Elizabeth. I told her of the King's trial, and the confusion it had brought to the city. After a moment's consideration I added,
You should remain patient, but it is possible that you might soon join us in London.
I knew I was taking a risk in writing this, but I could not leave her without hope.

“Now all I need is the name of Daniel's murderer,” I said to myself.

*   *   *

In the days that followed, London tossed itself about like a fevered patient. Every conversation was about the King's execution, and everyone spoke in hushed tones. But how else could it be, given the path England had chosen? With the death of Charles, England would have neither King nor Queen, and only the Lord knew what such events might portend. On the night of January twenty-ninth—just a handful of hours before the King would die—Katherine Chidley appeared at our door, her face a solemn mask.

“These are weighty days,” she said. “And tomorrow is the weightiest of them all. In the morning I will go to the Banqueting House and witness the overturning of the old order. Will you two accompany me?”

“You are going to the King's execution?” I asked.

“Aye,” she replied. “Where else is there to be on such a day?”

I considered the question and realized that she was right. If Elizabeth someday asked where I was when King Charles was executed, did I want to reply,
Asleep in my bed
? No, these were shaking days, and I too would bear witness to them.