A Second Daniel

by Neal Roberts

  The widowed Goodwife Rodriguez has said she might call and, though he doubts she’d do so the day after her husband’s death, he decides not to risk it. He trims his beard and straightens himself up properly, putting on a fresh set of barrister’s robes and leaving yesterday’s for the laundry.

  Just before leaving, it occurs to him to strap on the dagger given him years ago by Uncle Avram. Closing his robe, he turns to the mirror once again. Though the dagger is entirely concealed from view, he has the most acute feeling of foolishness. A lawyer and a dagger. What a useless combination!

  As England has neither a police force nor a public prosecutor, any criminal investigation and prosecution must be privately conducted, and privately funded.

  Since yesterday’s encounter with the widow, Noah has decided that the best lawyer to handle the tracking and eventual prosecution of her husband’s murderer would be Jonathan Hawking. A recent graduate of Merton College, Oxford, Hawking came to Gray’s Inn only two years ago, but his wholehearted dedication to the practice of law has shamed many of his seniors. Like Noah, Hawking does not spring from the nobility, nor even from the highest ranks of the new merchant class, having made his way on merit alone — a daunting task in a day when, with a few notable exceptions, advancement requires either social rank or a great deal of money.

  Unlike Noah, who was reared by an academician and largely sheltered from the tumult of London’s seamier side, Hawking has emerged from a common upbringing, maintaining contact with sundry questionable persons from his past. However dubious their reputations, their usefulness to the legal practitioner is beyond question. Hawking works informally with several rough-looking men, each of whom ekes out a living in criminal investigations.

  On his way down the stairs, Noah is pleased to see that Hawking’s door is open and a light burns within. He pauses outside, and sticks his head through the doorway. Hawking sits at his desk, reading documents contained in a thin file. At last, he looks up and his sight comes to rest on Noah’s face. “Master Ames,” he says pleasantly. “Won’t you step in? Please, sit down.”

  Noah looks around the room, but every chair is covered with books, files, or both. “Where?” he asks pleasantly.

  Evidently realizing that his housekeeping has been less than stellar, Hawking shoots to his feet, removes a mixed stack of books and files from the seat of a chair near his desk, and makes a show of brushing it off. “Here,” he says abashedly.

  Noah sits, and the spindly chair creaks ominously. “I’ve asked you many times to call me ‘Noah,’ Jonathan. I wish you would.”

  Jonathan smiles. “What brings you here this morning, Master … Noah?”

  “Did you hear about the murder yesterday, at The Rose?”

  Jonathan furrows his brow. “Yes, something about a man dropping dead from a single-fisted blow. The perpetrator escaped. Why? Has the widow come to you?”

  “Worse than that, I’m afraid. I saw it all, and rode in the hearse that drove the widow home. Nice home, too. Very near here, in Holborn.”

  “What’s bad about that? By the sound of it, she can pay a fee for a lawyer and his investigator, too.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt she can, but I’m an eyewitness to the murder. Unfortunately, I can’t take the case, as a lawyer cannot act as both advocate and witness in the same matter. Besides, I’d look a damn fool arguing my own veracity to the jury.”

  Jonathan eyes Noah skeptically. “Oh, that rule only applies if the lawyer’s testimony is necessary to the case. Surely, there are dozens of eyewitnesses to put on the stand. The murder took place in daylight amongst a crowd of theatergoers, for heaven’s sake!”

  “But what if I were called by the defense?”

  “Nonsense,” replies Jonathan. “If the defense offered your testimony as part of their case-in-chief, they’d be stuck with your answers.”

  “And if, in some respect, my testimony were to differ from every other witness’s? My veracity would be impeached. No, I could not persuasively argue the complainant’s case while the jury is wondering whether I’ve been lying to them under oath.”

  Jonathan sits deep in thought for a moment, and shrugs. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “If the widow shows up here, which she may do as early as today, I’ll refer her to a young lawyer who’s been spending his time wrapped up in old cases.”

  Jonathan nods, then raises an eyebrow. “You mean … me?”

  Noah smiles.

  “Oh,” Jonathan replies flatly. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Well, thank you very much for your confidence, Master Noah.”

  “Just ‘Noah.’”

  “Noah, yes. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Jonathan. As I said, the widow may come ’round today, looking for me. If you see her, please tell her I’ve gone off with Master Neville to see Doctor Lopez, who will be examining her husband’s body this morning.”

  Jonathan smiles, evidently warming to the idea of representing a rich widow in such a high-profile case. “I certainly will. Won’t be going anywhere myself for quite a while,” he says, indicating a stack of unopened files.

  Noah rises. “Right! Good day,” he says, extending his hand.

  Jonathan reaches over the desk and shakes his hand. “Good day! And thank you, Master Ames … Master Noah … Noah.” Jonathan winces.

  “Keep trying. It’s in there somewhere!”

  As Noah leaves, he wonders whether, and when, he’s going to inform Jonathan of what is likely to be the most material fact in the case: that Essex lied about witnessing the murder. Such knowledge is almost certainly possessed by a very few people: Noah, Henry, Southampton, Essex’s page, and Essex himself. Simply putting that fact into evidence will place Jonathan at the center of a political firestorm. And whichever witness Jonathan calls to testify to it is sure to be torn to shreds by defense counsel. Noah shudders to think that such witness might be himself.

  Then again, perhaps the killer will never be found, and all such questions will become moot. That thought raises his spirits, but only for a moment, for it raises an even more troubling question. What if Jonathan needs to know about Essex’s foreknowledge of the murder in order to identify and track the killer? His spirits sink again, and he wonders whether he will really be doing Jonathan a good turn by referring the case to him. Where is this all to end?

  As he reaches the foyer, he dons his outer cloak and boots. He walks out into the chilly day, and asks one of the inn’s staff to bring his mount around to the front of the building. It’s still overcast but appears to be brightening a little. He looks south, and spots Henry on his stout roan turning up Gray’s Inn Lane. He waves, and Henry waves in return.

  Across the dirt path, Noah spots furtive movement behind a big oak tree in the square. Pretending to watch Henry, he keeps the oak in the corner of his vision. Yes, there he is again. A tall, thin man in nondescript brown riding clothes peers around the oak at Noah. In a moment, the movement is gone.

  While Noah is glad to have brought the concealed dagger, he suddenly wishes he’d spent some time learning how to use it in a pinch. As he watches Henry approach at a leisurely pace, he wonders whether Henry might also be in danger. Not likely, he decides, as Essex seems to have a soft spot for him.

  Then something else occurs to him: What if the man in riding clothes is not Essex’s man? Who else might have an interest in impeding this investigation? He tries to dismiss the thought, assuring himself that the man isn’t there to spy on him at all. He shivers in the gloom. The day now looks more threatening than ever, although he’s unsure whether that’s due more to his misgivings than the weather.

  Henry rides up to him, and remains in the saddle. Keeping clear of the horse, Noah speaks under his breath: “Did you see that fellow standing over there by the big oak a few moments ago?”

  “Where? Over on the square? I wasn’t really looking for anyone. Come to think on it, I did see a fellow.”

  “Brown riding clothes
?”

  “I think so. If it was who I think it was, I’ve seen him before.”

  “Where?”

  Henry laughs, and points his chin toward the building housing Noah’s and Jonathan’s rooms. “There! He’s one of Anthony Bacon’s men. Bacon lives upstairs in this building, you know.”

  Noah blushes. “I got the distinct feeling that fellow was spying on me.”

  “Well, I won’t say it’s impossible, but I think it rather more likely you’re suffering delusions of grandeur. Perhaps we should ride over to the Bedlam asylum, and check you in.”

  Noah shudders to think of the horrors suffered there by London’s madmen. “You can’t make mirth of that place.” He thinks a moment. “So, he’s not one of Essex’s men?”

  Henry seems a bit surprised by the question, and he equivocates. “Well, I suppose, in a sense he is Essex’s man.”

  Just then, Noah’s horse is brought around. He places pen, ink, and a few papers in the saddlebag, ties it shut, and mounts with one quick motion. He takes a moment to steady the horse’s nerves, and sidles up to Henry. Together, they turn about and move south toward the end of Gray’s Inn Lane.

  As they’re about to turn toward Ludgate, Noah asks, “Where are we meeting Doctor Lopez?”

  “Well, Lopez lives right here,” says Henry, pointing to Mountjoy’s Inn, which practically abuts Gray’s Inn.

  “Then why are we on horseback?”

  Henry laughs. “The good doctor keeps a place at St. Katharine Creechurch, north of the Tower. It’s where he does his odd business, where he keeps certain … friends, living and dead. That’s where we’re meeting him.”

  “I see. But if I may return to our former topic,” says Noah, “you said that the fellow in brown riding clothes was Essex’s man — ”

  “I said he was Bacon’s man. But Essex and Bacon are very closely allied nowadays. Anthony Bacon wants very much to be Attorney General, and Essex is quite influential with the Queen.”

  Noah is confused. “Last I heard, the office of Attorney General is currently occupied. Besides, I thought the Bacon brothers were related to the Cecils, who are known to be at odds with Essex.”

  “They are, in fact. The Bacons are nephews to William Cecil, Lord Burghley, who is both Lord High Treasurer and the father of Sir Robert Cecil, Secretary of State.”

  “But if Essex and the Cecils agree that Anthony Bacon should be Attorney General, then surely he would be appointed.”

  “So it seems,” mused Henry, “as the Queen relies on Essex and the Cecils, and they agree on so little. But, alas, the Cecils are standing in Bacon’s way.”

  “Why?”

  “Probably because Lord Burghley wishes his young son Sir Robert to take over his place eventually, and would prefer that Sir Robert have no competition. That’s why he asked the Queen to appoint Sir Robert to take over as Secretary of State after Walsingham. Unfortunately, Sir Robert has never really got his hands around Walsingham’s spy network, as nobody’s sure what happened to his files upon his death.”

  “To a layman such as I, all these family relations among the powerful sound a bit like nepotism.”

  Henry laughs. “Noah, even the English monarchy is hereditary. But it’s much worse than you think. For example, Sir Robert Cecil is married to my wife’s cousin.”

  “So, you are related to Sir Robert Cecil … and his father Lord Burghley … and therefore the Bacons, as well!”

  Henry smirks. “You have a mind like a Hebrew scholar, Noah, never knowing when to stop.” Noah suppresses the fear of discovery that shoots through him. Henry’s keen intelligence sometimes brings him fearfully close to discovering the secret of Noah’s faith.

  “Of course,” Henry resumes, “even leaving Sir Robert aside, there’s another reason not to appoint Anthony Bacon as Attorney General. He’s not a well man.”

  Noah shakes his head. “No, indeed. He suffers from the most vicious kidney stones. If you’ve ever seen him suffer an attack, you’ll never forget it.”

  “Essex and the Cecils are at odds over everything,” says Henry, “especially relations with Spain. Burghley is for eventual peace.”

  “And Essex for perpetual war, no doubt.”

  Henry nods. “More or less.”

  “So the Cecils cannot stomach Essex.”

  Henry half smiles. “No one can stomach Essex, except the Queen.”

  “Why does she have a soft spot for him?”

  Henry smirks. “Perhaps you’ll ask her someday.” They reach Ludgate, and pass through in single file.

  Noah breaks the silence. “What of Anthony’s younger brother, Francis?”

  “Francis Bacon may be the most intelligent man you will ever meet. Far surpasses Anthony, but — ” Henry pauses, evidently unsure how to continue.

  “But?”

  “Well, he’s a friend of … Marlowe, y’know.”

  “Marlowe?” Noah cocks his head. “How do you mean?”

  “You know … Marlowe?” Henry moves his hand down to arse level and makes a squeezing motion.

  “Oh … that!”

  “Yes, that. Although the Queen couldn’t care less about ‘that,’ she draws the line when it comes to children.”

  “Oh,” Noah’s face sours. “Not children!”

  “Well, I can’t say for sure, but Francis is certainly acquiring a reputation on that account.”

  They turn onto Paternoster Street and pass St. Paul’s Cathedral in silence. Well-dressed, grave-looking people are leaving Sunday morning service, eying these two irreligious horsemen suspiciously.

  As Noah and Henry move onto Newgate Street, Henry appears to equivocate on some important question, then make up his mind. “I’m going to tell you something because you may eventually need to know.” He glances at Noah, and then faces front once more. “You know, if you carry this ‘Essex’s man’ business too far, you’re going to oversimplify the world at court. Many people have one foot in each camp. Some people have one foot at court, and the other in another country.”

  “What are you saying, Henry?”

  “Don’t go dividing up the world into two camps. Court is more a free-for-all, with constantly shifting alliances of convenience, or, as I like to say, of ‘commodity.’”

  “Does this have any bearing on what we’re doing this morning?”

  “Oh, yes,” Henry laughs darkly. “You do know that Doctor Lopez was on the English Armada expedition?”

  “In which capacity? Ship’s doctor? Portuguese ambassador?”

  As they pull up to the chapel at St. Katharine Creechurch and prepare to dismount, Henry looks Noah square in the eye. “While he was both of those things, he was also a principal investor.” Henry holds his fingers to his lips and arches an eyebrow. This is a strange secret. Noah has no idea what to make of it, but he has no hesitation in agreeing not to tell anyone.

  Henry dismounts, huffing and puffing. “Really must do something about my weight. I’m afraid I’ll cleave my horse in twain if I continue to gain.” He feeds a treat to his horse, whose tail swishes in satisfaction.

  Noah ties off his own horse. For a fleeting moment, he considers removing the papers from his saddlebag and safeguarding them on his person, but decides against it, as they consist merely of scribe’s copies, neither irreplaceable nor particularly sensitive. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “Your mount seems well pleased to carry you.”

  “He is but young.”

  As they walk toward the chapel where Lopez keeps his professional quarters, they notice a well-appointed carriage sitting there all the while, with a driver in attendance. The driver opens the door, and out steps the widow, looking grave but ravishingly beautiful.

  Henry leans toward Noah. “She beat us here. Look sharp, counsel.”

  Chapter 5

  AS THE WIDOW proceeds dolefully toward the chapel entrance, Noah approaches her. Although she has not yet had time to acquire widow’s weeds, she wears a thin black veil. “Good morning, madam,” he
says softly. “I hope you slept reasonably well.”

  She offers him a half smile. Close up, he can detect the strain in her face. “In truth, I’ve passed better nights, Master Ames.” Spotting Henry, she says, “Master Neville.”

  “Goodwife Rodriguez,” Henry nods. “Have you family at home to help you?”

  “Yes, I do, thank the Lord. I have two sons and a daughter, although they are as shocked as I. Fortunately, they have had the presence of mind to do the necessary to sustain life … such as it is.” The sadness wells up in her eyes. “Shall we go in?”

  Noah knows it would be foolhardy to suggest, however courteously, that her femininity might render her unsuited to the coming task, but he feels he must say something.

  “Are you quite sure you’re feeling up to this?” he asks apologetically.

  “Are you?” she asks Noah, one eyebrow raised.

  Henry replies for him. “Master Ames means no disrespect, madam. He and I are accustomed to matters such as this, he being a lawyer, and I a justice of the peace.”

  “Oh? You are a JP, in addition to an MP?” she asks, evidently recalling that Henry is a Member of Parliament.

  “Yes, madam. I serve as a justice of the peace in Berkshire. Our ancestral home near Windsor is known as ‘Billingbear.’ Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

  “I have, indeed,” she says with what small enthusiasm she can muster. “It is reputed to be a socially lively, and very welcoming, place. You should be most proud.”

  “Thank you, madam.” He smiles sympathetically.

  As the widow appears quite determined, Noah offers his crooked elbow. “Shall we go inside?”

  She takes Noah’s arm, lending him an intimate, though forced, smile. The chapel door stands open, and they enter arm in arm. Henry follows close behind, eying the church grounds discreetly.

  Lopez awaits them in the central aisle, dressed in coroner’s robes and carrying a small black bag with leather handles, presumably for his professional instruments. “Goodwife Rodriguez, I was not expecting you. Once again, please accept my condolences for your loss.” She extends her hand. He takes it gently and bows, studying her expression. “Madam, I had intended to show the cause of death to these gentlemen, as they have need to see it. For your purposes, however, I can simply describe the cause of death for you here, rather than show it to you. Perhaps it would be best to send your eldest son to identify the remains.”