by Neal Roberts
“You are bringing these two gentlemen down to see the wound?”
“Yes,” he replies somberly, obviously hoping she will wait in the chapel.
She inhales and exhales deeply. “I will accompany them.”
Lopez looks to the two men. Seeing no objection, he turns again to the widow. “Very well, then. Please follow me.” He turns smartly and walks at a moderate pace to the rear of the chapel, where a wooden door leads down rustic stone steps.
He lifts a small torch from the wall and turns. “Please watch your step, and hold firmly to the railing. The steps are quite old, and the railing is much more reliable.” He descends the staircase, which is only wide enough to permit them to pass singly. Lopez is followed by Henry, then the widow, and finally Noah.
Reaching the base of the stairs, the doctor leads them into a small chamber with an earthen floor and walls of coarse ancient stonework. Although brightly lit by two torches, and redolent of the incense that burns in one corner, the chamber nevertheless retains the cool dampness natural to its subterranean location, and emits a vague combination of odors strongly suggesting the persistent presence of death.
At the center of the room, which is barely large enough to hold them all, stands a wheeled cot, upon which lies a gray sheet atop the corpse. The body is evidently lying on its back, as a bump in the sheet reveals the location of the nose. Noah sees the widow shrink back at the sight, and supports her firmly about the shoulders lest she swoon.
Lopez turns to address them as though a small class of students, clearly respectful of the mortal remains about which he will now hold forth.
“Goodman Rodriguez was a man about forty years old, in very good physical condition. But for the fatal attack upon his person, I expect he would have lived well into old age. I found no sign of heart disease, gout, or any of the myriad other ailments that often accompany high living and advancing age.” He pauses to look at the widow, who seems to be holding up fairly well so far. “The cause of death was the violent insertion of a sharp instrument above the right eye that caused him to expire instantly.” He lowers his voice reassuringly, and addresses the widow. “He did not suffer, madam. It was over in an instant.”
“How can you be certain he died immediately?”
“His heart must have stopped immediately, as there was very little blood. If he had lived for any duration, a wound so deep as this would have resulted in massive blood loss, which would have been evident at the scene. As I personally attended at the scene, I have no doubt that death was instantaneous. Also, from Lord Essex’s description of the event, the deceased fell immediately and never again moved. This is all consistent with sudden death. I will now reveal the portion of the face affected by the blow.”
The widow does not turn away, although the doctor waits another moment for her to do so. He deftly moves a small corner of the sheet to reveal the eyes from temple to temple. Noah marvels how concealment of the rest of the face makes it possible for the widow to observe without recoiling in horror.
Even regarded clinically, however, this is a grievous wound. The eyeball has been crushed beyond recognition. A yellow fluid, now caked, has evidently leaked out of it, dripping across the bridge of the victim’s nose, pooling on his closed left eyelid, and continuing toward the left temple. Although there is small sign of blood, the tiny flow out of the wound has forked into two small rivulets, one mixing with the yellow fluid, the other running in a very thin line across the eyebrow toward the forehead.
Lopez draws a small ruler from his breast pocket and places it vertically by the right temple to demonstrate the depth of the wound. “The lethal instrument was what the Italians call a ‘stiletto,’ roughly resembling an ice pick. I estimate that the instrument penetrated about four inches into the brain in less than one second.” He applies his index finger to the ruler to indicate the point of deepest penetration.
Noah senses the widow’s legs beginning to give way at last. He supports her firmly. Although he admires her courage, he expects that, if he had been in her position, he would have rested with a verbal explanation delivered upstairs in the chapel. This really is too much for anyone in her position to bear.
Lopez also notices her swoon. “Madam, there is really nothing more to be learned here.”
“I’m not leaving yet. Allow me to identify the body.” She braces herself. “I am prepared.” Tears well up in her eyes.
After a brief hesitation, Lopez reluctantly pulls the sheet down, revealing Rodriguez’s whole face, which is undamaged but for the fatal wound. She looks for a moment, then winces and buries her face in Noah’s chest. “That’s him,” she blurts.
“Have we finished our business?” asks Noah curtly.
Lopez nods.
“Then, let’s get out of this awful place.”
Noah assists the widow in climbing the uneven stairs ahead of the others. As they reach the top, he can hear Lopez splashing his hands with a liquid smelling strongly of spirits. Noah seats the widow in the foremost pew of the chapel, and draws up a wooden chair for himself. “While I cannot be certain, this has every appearance of a professional assassination. I strongly doubt that the assailant was attempting to rob your husband. To the contrary, the ‘robbery’ appears to have been a mere feint intended to mislead investigators. Would you accompany me to Gray’s Inn, where I can introduce you to the young lawyer I think would be ideal for this prosecution?”
She looks into his eyes, in evident anguish. “Oh, Master Ames. I would much prefer a more mature man such as yourself to handle this.”
Noah hesitates a moment, contemplating the inevitable legal issues to be presented by his continuing involvement in the investigation. “I’ll ask this young lawyer, whose name is Master Hawking, to keep me abreast of the case. Would that suit you?”
“Have I no choice in the matter?”
“You have every choice as to which lawyer to retain, other than myself. Regrettably, for a variety of legal reasons I can explain whenever you wish, it is poor practice for a lawyer to undertake the prosecution of a crime that he himself has witnessed.”
“Very well, then,” she says, closing her eyes. When she reopens them, they glisten with tears. “Would you escort me to my carriage? I would like a few moments alone. I shall meet you at Gray’s Inn within the hour. Would that be agreeable?”
“Of course it would,” he assures her, and escorts her to her carriage, gently situating her inside. The driver nods sharply to Noah and shakes the reins. Noah stands before the chapel, watching the carriage draw slowly away and recede into the distance.
Henry steps out of the chapel and pats him on the shoulder. “She’ll recover.”
“What did Lopez say?” asks Noah.
“More secrets. They shall remain between us?”
“Of course.”
“Lopez said that the man who did this had almost certainly been in Walsingham’s service.”
“How would Lopez know the murderer once worked for Walsingham?”
“He is familiar with some of their methods, as he worked for Walsingham. And, remember, as the deceased Master Rodriguez was holding a note in Walsingham’s hand, he was likely working for Walsingham, as well.”
“Good Lord! Did everyone work for Walsingham?” Noah blurts in exasperation.
Henry looks around evasively, but his gaze eventually lands back on Noah’s amazed countenance.
“You?” says Noah, in startled disbelief.
“Yet more secrets.” Henry nods. “Yes … and for a long time. You must understand, Noah. When Walsingham yet lived — and he died only two years ago — the Privy Council was not divided into factions as it is now. If Walsingham wanted your help, you gave it without hesitation, and without much concern that someone else might object. There was a feeling then that we were all on the same side.” He smiles wistfully. Evidently, there is no longer such a feeling of unity. “Anyway, my friend — and confidant — I must prepare for a business meeting tomorrow, to be followed b
y attendance at Parliament.”
“I don’t suppose any of you surviving Walsingham alumni have any idea who committed this murder?”
Henry’s face turns grim, and he stares at the horizon. “No, and I expect that finding out shall cost us dearly … all of us.” Henry hugs him, mounts his horse with some difficulty, and rides off toward Lothbury.
The churchyard is desolate and the clouds threaten as Noah returns to his horse and impulsively checks his saddlebag. The knot is secure, and he’s pleased to see no sign of any attempt to gain access to his papers.
Just as he is about to mount, something thick and leathery strikes him hard on the back of the neck. Stunned, he topples sideways and feels a pair of strong hands lower him to the ground. As the world spins out of control and then turns black, he catches the briefest glimpse of highly polished gold.
Somewhere close by, a horse chuffs impatiently. As Noah opens his eyes and looks around, the overcast sky seems impossibly bright, and the back of his neck throbs mercilessly. Slowly, he begins to realize that he’s been bludgeoned. There is no sign of anyone.
Still on the ground, he reaches his hand carefully around to the back of his head. Nothing sticky. He brings the hand back to his face. No blood. Well, that’s a mercy.
The horse clops impatiently in place. As his eyes adjust to the daylight again, he realizes that nothing in the churchyard has changed, so that he cannot have been unconscious for more than a few minutes. He has the uncomfortable feeling that his eyes are bugging out of his head, as though he has the worst hangover of his life. As he rises, the pounding in his neck makes him gasp aloud.
He looks at his saddlebag once again, and the knot remains secure. He feels for Uncle Avram’s knife in his robe. Still there. He glances around warily as he unties the knot on the saddlebag and makes a cursory examination of the papers. Just as he left them.
Nausea wells up in his throat, and his forehead grows moist with sweat. He places his hand up against the horse, and lowers his head to vomit, but nothing happens. He shakes off the feeling, unties the horse, and mounts. Once again, his neck reminds him that he’s been struck hard. He groans as he grabs the reins and directs the horse slowly back toward Gray’s Inn, lost in solitary thought broken only by an occasional twinge induced by the horse’s jostling.
There are so many possible explanations for this assault. It might have been a robbery. He reaches his hand into his robe. His purse is still there, and jingles when he shakes it. No robbery.
If the assailant didn’t want the papers, and didn’t want his purse, then what was the point of the assault? Perhaps the assailant was searching for papers that turned out not to be in the saddlebag. That would mean that the assailant opened the saddlebag, whether before or after the assault, and knotted it again precisely as Noah had originally done. It would have been no great feat, as Noah had used the simplest of knots. In fact, Noah had tied the knot for the sole purpose of enabling him to detect later whether it had been untied.
One thing seems clear: the assailant did not intend to inflict any lasting damage on Noah’s person (at least for the present), as he assisted Noah to the ground, preventing any further injury from his fall. He shivers to think that the assailant could have killed him just as easily as he clubbed him.
The possibility remains that this was a warning. By whom? About what? He recalls seeing the glint of gold as he lost consciousness, and now connects it with the gold hilt of the ceremonial sword carried by Essex’s page at The Rose. As the page was standing at the door awaiting Essex when the murder took place, he is one of very few people with reason to believe that Noah knows Essex lied about witnessing the murder.
Is the widow in danger? While Noah wishes to keep the assault upon himself secret for the time being, if his silence will enhance her jeopardy, his conscience forbids it. With this worrisome thought, he shakes the reins, picking up the pace in the hope that he’ll be waiting at the inn by the time she arrives.
Pulling up to the inn just as it begins to drizzle, he feels sure that a downpour will soon come. He removes the papers from his saddlebag, places them in his pocket, hands off his mount to the stable boy, and goes indoors. He checks his appearance in the looking glass in the foyer, brushes a few leaves out of his hair and off his robe, and smooths back his hair. He’s started to feel better, as well, except for the occasional throb in his neck.
He finds Jonathan in his apartment, deep in study, precisely as he left him, although the stack of unopened files now appears noticeably shorter. Just as Noah is about to make Jonathan aware of his presence, he hears both the downpour and the widow’s carriage arriving outside.
He strides quickly to the entryway. Through the windows, he can see the widow, no longer veiled, flying up the outside stairs to escape the gale, and the driver quickly slamming the carriage door shut, holding a cloak above his head for what little protection it offers.
As Noah opens the door, Goodwife Rodriguez runs heedlessly into his arms, startling them both. A strong draft of wet wind follows her into the inn and blows her hair forward around her shapely cheeks. Their faces nearly touching, they look into each other’s eyes for a long moment, her sweet breath striking his senses as some natural perfume. Although Noah does his best to seem embarrassed, in truth he is tempted to hold her to his body and kiss her on the mouth. Instead, he stands her firmly on her own feet and takes a step back.
“Oh, I am sorry,” he says. “I’m so clumsy sometimes! Please let me take your wet things.”
She seems nonplussed for a moment, then quickly recovers and removes her wet cape and hat, handing them to Noah. “Not at all, Master Ames. It was I who nearly ran you down, not you me.”
Noah carefully hangs her wet garments from pegs in the vestibule, spreading them out to give them plenty of air to dry.
“There,” he says, “now come meet Master Hawking.” As he escorts her to Jonathan’s apartment, he notices that the floorboards squeak heavily under his own footfalls, but only slightly under her delicate steps.
He knocks on the open door, and sticks his head through the doorway. “Jonathan?” Jonathan looks up, and smiles expectantly. “I have with me Goodwife Rodriguez, of whom I told you.” As she steps into the room, Noah is surprised to see that she once again wears her veil.
Jonathan’s eyes open wide. “Oh! Well!” he blurts, rising to clear off two seats this time. “Welcome, Goodwife Rodriguez. I am so sorry to hear of your loss. I expect Master Ames has told you something about me?” He offers the cushioned chair to the lady, while Noah settles for the same creaky one he used on his previous visit.
She sits daintily in the proffered chair in what strikes Noah as a suitable pose for a portrait, a pretty one at that. “Master Ames has told me only that he greatly respects your dedication and intelligence.”
“Well, that’s excessively kind of Master Ames, I assure you. But I will do my best to get justice in your cause, if you will have me.”
Noah sits quietly as Jonathan conducts a prolonged and thoughtful interview of the widow, grateful for the respite, as it gives the throbbing in his neck a further opportunity to recede. At Jonathan’s prompting, she goes step by step through the murder and its aftermath, briefly relates everything she told Rodriguez in the hearse, and ends by recounting Noah’s pronouncement that her husband’s murder was an assassination, not a failed robbery. She makes mention of neither Walsingham’s note found in her husband’s purse, nor the falsity of Essex’s claim to have witnessed the murder. Noah assumes she knows nothing of either.
“So, you were with Master Ames and Master Neville at the … viewing?”
“I was. It was gruesome, but I thought I owed it to my late husband to see it through.”
“Commendable. Do you have any suspicion as to who might have done this?”
Noah’s ears perk up at this. The widow hesitates, studying her hands, which now work nervously against each other in her lap. She looks up with eyes as wide as innocence, and shakes her h
ead: “I’m sure I have no idea.” Her gaze returns to her hands. “If I think of anything else, however, I shall be sure to let you know.”
Noah readily recognizes that averted gaze, having seen it on hundreds of witnesses who were withholding something important. He wonders whether it is as obvious to Jonathan, but lets it pass for the moment.
“Very well,” says Jonathan, standing up and offering his hand to the widow.
She rises hesitantly. Before Jonathan can raise the question of payment, she says, “Please be sure to send your debit note to my home. I shall pay it at first opportunity.”
“We barristers are permitted to accept payment only from a referring solicitor or attorney,” Jonathan replies. “Since Master Ames is a barrister, as am I, I propose that you and I deal through Attorney Thistlethwaite, who maintains an office just across the way. I shall instruct him to submit his debit note to you. I will be sure to see a copy.”
“Attorney Thistlethwaite?”
“Yes,” he replies gravely, relieved to avoid further discussion of legal fees with a grieving widow. “He will need to know where you live, of course.”
“Quite near here,” she says, and draws a calling card from her purse. She writes her residence address on the reverse side and hands it to Jonathan.
“Holborn?” He looks up at her in surprise. “Why, this address is in sight of this inn!”
“So it is,” she replies. “That’s why I felt free to send my driver home.”
Noah speaks up. “With your permission, Master Hawking, I shall escort Goodwife Rodriguez home. She has already had a very hard day.”