The Midwife and the Assassin (34 page)

“What is it?” Martha asked.

“The knife that the gossip brought with Jane's dinner was the twin of the one that killed Marlowe. It had the same carved rose.”

“A carved rose?” the maidservant asked. “That must have come from the Crown. Mrs. Owen favors the roses. All the knives have them on their handles.”

“Do you have any others?” I asked.

The maid opened a drawer and produced a thin-bladed knife, perfect for boning a fowl—or for slipping between a man's ribs.

“Charles Owen killed them,” Martha breathed. “But where is he now?”

My mind returned to Jane and Charles's tearful farewell. I realized then that Charles's resignation and calm resembled that of a man who knew that death was near and unavoidable. And Jane's sorrowful acceptance was that of a woman who knew she would soon be widowed.

“Some kind of plot is underway,” I said. “And Charles Owen does not expect to survive it.” I tried desperately to recall some detail that might have escaped my notice, something that would tell us where Charles had gone, but could think of nothing.

“We have to ask Jane,” Martha said.

I nodded. It would pain me to press her, but if our suspicions were correct we did not have another choice. We returned to Jane's chamber to find her nursing her son. She looked up when we entered.

“There you are. Come see—he is eating well, I think.” The child was indeed nursing with great enthusiasm.

“He is named Charles after his father,” one of the gossips volunteered.

At this Jane's eyes filled with tears.

I could tell then that she knew where her husband had gone, and that she did not expect him to return. “Where is he, Jane?” I asked.

Jane's eyes snapped to mine, her sorrow replaced by fright and anger. “What do you mean?”

“Where is your husband? What is he planning to do?”

Jane's face turned as hard as stone. “Who are you?”

“Where is Charles?” I asked again. “You must tell us. We can save him.”

Jane clapped her mouth shut and regarded us through half-lidded eyes. “You are the midwife who killed Abraham,” she said at last. “Bacca brought one of Cromwell's spies into my chamber? He and I will have to talk about this.”

“Tell us where your husband has gone,” Martha said. “Do not deprive your son of a father.”

Jane's thin smile was as cold as the north wind. “Do not lie to me. Even if you were to find him, my son would never see his father. Charles would be clapped up in the Tower until the day he was hanged. I have no reason to tell you anything, and with Charles already gone, nothing can make me. Perhaps your master is brutal enough to rack a woman a few hours after she gives birth, but even then you would be too late.”

Martha swore a most foul oath.

“If it is any consolation,” Jane said, “you will know when Charles has finished his work. All of London will know. Now, be gone, both of you.”

I glanced at Martha. I knew that every minute we spent interrogating Jane would be wasted, and I did not think we had many minutes to spare.

“Follow me,” Martha said. “I have an idea.” Martha and I left the chamber and she led me to a room at the back of the house. It held a desk and a low bed where Martha must have slept while she awaited Jane's travail. A small chest secured with a heavy iron lock sat next to the bed.

“Do you have your picklock?” I asked. “Can you open it?”

“I don't, and we haven't time,” Martha said. She retrieved a fire poker from the hearth and threaded it through the hasp of the lock. She stood and twisted it with all her strength. The chest's iron studs groaned but held fast. “Help me,” Martha said through her teeth.

I took hold of the poker and the two of us pulled together. With a shriek the staple tore free from the chest. The lock—still secured—fell to the floor.

“Now that's a good lock,” Martha said with a smile.

We lifted the lid to find a sheaf of papers and a leather bag full of coins. Martha emptied the bag on the bed and whistled as the money piled up. “There is a lot of money to be made in keeping a tavern,” she said.

A flash of red from among the papers caught my eye. I pulled out a silk rope with a beautifully tied knot in the middle of it. Martha and I immediately recognized it as a twin to the one we'd found on Abraham Walker's body.

“This proves Charles is a spy,” Martha said. “But we still must find him.”

I handed half the papers to Martha. “Start reading.”

It turned out that the reading would not take us long at all, for nearly every letter had been composed in a cypher. I supposed someone at the Tower might have the time to figure out what the symbols meant, but we did not.

“Here, what's this?” Martha asked. “Last summer, Charles Owen rented a house in Westminster.”

“Let me see.” The paper was nothing more than an agreement between Charles Owen and one George Moody to rent a home described as
near to the chapel now called St. Mary Undercroft
.

“That's next to St. Stephen's Chapel,” I said. “That's where Parliament meets.”

“Why would he rent a house in Westminster?” she asked. “It is miles from here.”

I sat on the bed and closed my eyes. I knew we had the pieces to solve the puzzle. We just had to see how they fit together.

“Jane Owen told us that all of London would know when Charles finished his work,” Martha said.

My eyes snapped open. “Gunpowder and Guy Fawkes,” I said. “Charles Owen intends to blow up Parliament.”

“And that's where Elizabeth and Katherine have gone.”

*   *   *

Martha and I ran pell-mell down Bread Street toward the river. Neither of us spoke, entirely intent on the task before us. When we reached the Salt Wharf, I raced to the water's edge and started waving frantically to the wherries. Within seconds a strong young man guided his boat toward us. I threw myself in and Martha followed close behind.

“Westminster,” I said. “And you must hurry.”

The lad bent his back to the oars and began to pull us upriver. God smiled on us that day, for he rowed with a rising tide and in a few moments we seemed to be flying. But what an agony sitting in the wherry was, unable to do anything except gaze at the riverside mansions as we rowed past.

“Are you with those Leveller women?” our driver asked between strokes. “I've never seen so many women in one place. I can't say I ever want to see such a thing again.”

“We're not with them,” I said. “We have other business with Parliament.”

The lad shook his head in wonder. “This is a curious world the rebels have fashioned. These women are marching, and you have business before Parliament. What is next? Will we be ruled by women?”

When Martha and I ignored his affront the boatman shrugged and began to sing in time with his rowing.

“Will we arrive in time?” Martha asked.

“I don't know.” I fought back the panic that clawed at my throat, screaming for release. “If all he needs to do is light the fuse, then we might not. If he has other work to do beforehand—perhaps.”

“He does not intend to escape,” Martha said.

“No. He will die with all of Parliament. But in a hundred years, he will be no less famous than Guy Fawkes.”

The journey to Westminster seemed to last an eternity, but in truth it could not have been more than a few minutes. “Will the Whitehall Stairs be close enough?” the boatman asked.

“Yes,” I snapped. “Just get us ashore.”

As we approached the stairs I could see the crowd of women still streaming toward St. Stephen's Chapel, where the Commons met. “If he sets off the gunpowder now he will kill more Leveller women than Parliament men,” I said.

“What the Christ do you mean by that?” Our boatman had stopped rowing and now stared at us in horror.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just get us ashore and row downriver as fast as you can. Get away from here.”

A few moments later, Martha and I were running up the steps and straight into the crowd of women.

“Which house is it?” Martha cried out. We could see the entrance to St. Stephen's Chapel in the distance. A line of soldiers stood before the doors, keeping the women from entering the hall.

I shook my head, not knowing whether to scream or weep. “It must be one side or the other, left or right.”

Martha looked around us and spotted a sergeant of the trained bands. He stood in an alley, watching the crowd as it flowed past. “You there,” she shouted. “Which way is St. Mary Undercroft?”

He looked at her suspiciously. “Why do you want to know? Are you here with this lot?”

I approached the sergeant. He was a tall, thin man, with bright blue eyes and a close-cropped beard. I remembered that I was a gentlewoman by birth and a midwife by profession, and I summoned every bit of my authority. I hooked my fingers around the collar of the sergeant's coat and looked him in the eyes. “Sergeant, what is your name?”

“Hirst,” he replied. “Why? What is it?”

“There is a plot afoot to blow up the Parliament,” I said. “The gunpowder is in a house next to St. Mary Undercroft—cartloads of it. If we don't find it, Parliament will be destroyed, thousands will die, and another war will begin. We need your help.”

He stared at me in horror. “You are serious.”

“Never more,” I said.

“Follow me.” Sergeant Hirst turned toward St. Stephen's Chapel and started pushing his way through the crowd. Along the way he shouted for his men, and soon Martha and I had an entire squad of soldiers surrounding us.

“There is the chapel,” the guard said, pointing. “But which house is it?”

I looked again at the letter we'd found in Owen's office. “It just says it is near the chapel.” I wanted to scream in frustration, but I found strange comfort in the knowledge that if the gunpowder exploded now, I would be among the dead. Better that than to lose Elizabeth and keep on living.

“Then we'll search them all,” the sergeant said. He turned to the men who had joined us. “We are looking for a man who intends to blow up the Commons,” he announced. “He is in one of these houses. Go in twos, pound on every door. If nobody answers kick it in. We are looking for…” He turned to me. “Who are we looking for?”

I described Charles Owen as best I could. “Be very careful. He has killed three men with a knife and has no expectation of living out the day. He will kill you without a moment's hesitation.”

“Go, now!” the sergeant shouted. The men dispersed and soon the street was filled with their shouts and the sound of doors crashing open if the owners were slow in answering.

“What about that one?” Martha asked. One house had not yet been searched, and none of the watch were nearby.

“We'll do it,” Sergeant Hirst said. “The three of us.”

We approached the door, and Sergeant Hirst pounded on it with a closed fist. While we waited, I went to a window and tried to peer in, but it was covered with a heavy black curtain. I could see nothing at all. Sergeant Hirst knocked again.

“We haven't time,” I said. I picked up a cobblestone and hurled it through the window. I reached in and pulled the curtain aside. The room was filled with small barrels of gunpowder.

“Oh God,” I moaned. “This is it. This is the house.”

 

Chapter 27

To his credit, Sergeant Hirst did not hesitate. He stepped back, raised his foot, and delivered a terrific blow to the door. The wood around the knob splintered, and the door flew open. Martha and I charged in with Sergeant Hirst close behind. The room we entered had been emptied of all furniture but filled from wall to wall with barrels of gunpowder. Owen had stacked them against the far wall, from floor to ceiling. I could not imagine the damage that would come if Owen succeeded in his scheme. We had the gunpowder, but where was Owen?

“Upstairs,” Martha said. “He must be there.”

We dashed up a set of stairs and ran to the back of the house. Like the rooms below, the upper chamber was filled with gunpowder, but we also found Charles Owen. He was hunched over the hearth trying desperately to light a fire among the wood shavings and kindling. He cried out in frustration when he heard us enter the room.

Sergeant Hirst stepped forward and drew a brace of pistols from his belt. “Stand up slowly. It is over.”

“He may have a knife,” I warned.

“I've no knife,” Owen said. He turned to face us. True to his word, his hands were empty save the flint and steel he'd been using a moment before. He dropped those and stared for a moment at the sergeant's pistols.

“I'll get help,” Martha said. She dashed down the stairs, and I could hear her shouting for the rest of the guards.

A strange smile crossed Owen's face, and in an instant I knew why. “Sergeant Hirst, you cannot fire your pistols near so much powder,” I said.

Charles Owen took that as his cue. He drew a knife from beneath his coat and with a dreadful scream leaped toward the sergeant.

Sergeant Hirst dropped his pistols, more willing to die than to fire them and risk killing us all. He raised his arm just in time to block what would surely have been a killing blow, but Owen's knife cut through fabric and flesh. Blood splashed across them both, and the sergeant cried out in pain. Owen raised his knife again, and Sergeant Hirst threw himself forward, hoping to knock Owen to the ground before he could strike.

But Owen was too quick. He dodged to the side and delivered a terrific blow to the back of Sergeant Hirst's head. He fell to the ground and lay still. Now it was just Owen and me.

My eyes locked with Owen's, and we both heard the sound of men shouting downstairs. There would be no time for him to start a fire using flint and steel. That left only Sergeant Hirst's pistols. Owen dropped his knife and we dove for them simultaneously, clawing and grappling for purchase; I was desperate to live, while he hoped to die.