A Second Daniel

by Neal Roberts

  The twins and the dark one snort a laugh. Again, Arden speaks for them. “They are not, sir. I am of a noble family, but my branch is not titled. I am a Neville, sir.”

  Noah’s eyebrows rise. “Related to Master Henry?”

  “I believe so, sir … distantly.”

  “Yours is a noble family, indeed.”

  Arden’s chest swells with pride.

  Noah resumes. “How long have you four known each other?”

  “All our lives, sir. We went to public school together. With Hawking here, sir.”

  “Do any of you have athletic skills?”

  This draws a general laugh. “We’re all Eton football, sir. And horse.”

  Noah smiles in return. “Good. Can any of you shoot?”

  This appears to shake them a bit.

  “Guns, sir?” asks Arden.

  Noah nods.

  The dark one steps forward. “Andres Salazar, sir. I shoot competitively.” Although he looks Spanish, he sounds quite English.

  “Salazar,” repeats Noah thoughtfully. “Is that Portuguese?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “Do you speak Portuguese?”

  “Fluently, sir.”

  Noah nods. “That might come in handy. Have you a sidearm here at Gray’s, Master Salazar?”

  “I have several, sir.”

  “Keep them clean. And purchase ammunition. I’ll pay that bill, too.” He turns to the others. “One last question. Is any of you related to a member of the Privy Council?”

  Their eyes grow wide. Evidently, they have not anticipated how politically explosive a law case can be. They shake their heads.

  “Very well. Thank you, gentlemen. Leave word with Jonathan where you will be for the next few days, even if you go out only briefly. And do not discuss this with anyone else. On your honor, and for your own safety! Go now. We will be in touch presently.”

  They nod as one, and file out, the last one closing the door. Jonathan furrows his brow. “As you’ve evidently decided we need those four, it appears as though you’ve learned a few more things about the Rodriguez case.”

  Noah informs Jonathan about the purse snatching and the thief’s disguise and fear of identification, and he summarizes what he’s learned — and guessed — about the reasons for Robert Cecil’s visit to the spectators’ gallery. Finally, he tells him that an unnamed informant has provided Skeres’ name without explanation, but has advised that whoever is to speak with Skeres should bring some of his rougher friends along to the interview.

  Jonathan asks about Henry’s position in relation to members of the Privy Council involved in the affair. Noah explains that Henry is a favorite of Essex and a relative of Cecil, which gives him any number of possible motives for throwing the investigation of the Rodriguez murder off track. While he assures Jonathan that Henry would never knowingly lead them astray or into a trap (of that much Noah feels certain), men trusted by Henry might manipulate him into doing so unwittingly.

  They will have to proceed with caution. Step by step, as though planning to mount a particularly difficult case at Queen’s Bench, they plot the first serious steps in their investigation. They agree that tonight Jonathan will speak to Graves, the shady but reliable character who’s assisted Jonathan in the Rodriguez case since its inception. Tomorrow, they have two calls to make.

  And the latter might be dangerous indeed.

  Chapter 10

  AT NOON THE next day, as Noah and Jonathan wait for the stable boy to bring their mounts around, each is lost in his own thoughts.

  Noah is overwhelmed by the lingering memory of Marie, her sheer beauty and softness. Even though he’s washed since leaving her side today, an occasional hint of her scent seems to waft toward him on the fresh breeze. He inhales deeply the warmth of the day, surrendering to the yearning for life she has newly revived in him. While it seems ironic for his Creator to have enriched beyond measure a life now in danger, he cannot help but feel grateful for the strange coincidence by which she’s appeared at a moment of increasing peril, like a warning beacon sent to pierce the gray cloud of profane indifference that enshrouds him after so many years alone.

  Jonathan has been up since dawn. His eyes are red, not only from the barrister’s bane of reading far into the night, but from worry, as well. An hour earlier, as agreed the previous day, Jonathan dispatched Graves to ascertain whether Nicholas Skeres is presently in London, and where he might be found. Although it seemed a simple enough task to Jonathan, Graves reminded him that making inquiries into the whereabouts of someone wishing not to be found is among an investigator’s most dangerous jobs, one that can readily lead to a drubbing, or worse. The stable boy brings the horses around, and Noah and Jonathan tie leather bags securely to the saddles.

  Jonathan mounts and turns to Noah. “As we’ll be retrieving Walsingham’s letter from the constable about two o’clock — assuming we’re fortunate enough to find he still has it — I told my investigator Graves to meet us down there.”

  Noah nods his approval, and they begin their progress. As London Bridge is not particularly crowded that noon, the journey takes less than a half hour. Reaching the stone gate at the base of the bridge, they dismount, turn right, and meander through Southwark Priory to the constable’s station that guards its western entrance.

  Noah leans toward Jonathan. “Now, remember: A man’s deficiencies in the English language do not make him stupid. In any event, I’ll warrant the constable has wits enough to realize when he’s an object of fun, and you must bear in mind that we need his assistance.”

  “Be assured,” replies Jonathan.

  “Oh, and there’s no need to mention our names, unless we’re asked.”

  As they approach the constable’s booth, out comes the man himself, seeming preoccupied. He looks up at the clop of their horses’ hooves. Spotting Noah, he smiles and bows. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re the gentleman barrister who’s been servicin’ the young widow.”

  Jonathan snorts, and Noah arches an eyebrow at him.

  “Actually, Constable Barn-Stable,” says Noah, placing equal emphasis on both halves of the name, “this young barrister is representing the widow in the prosecution of her husband’s murder.”

  Barnstable nods gravely to Jonathan. “Terrible thing, that! Ought never ’ave ’appened. But me and my men can’t be all places at one time, can we?”

  “Of course not,” Noah says sympathetically. “By the way, do you recall discovering a note in one of the victim’s pockets?”

  The constable seems confused. “Why, sir! Had Goodman Rodriguez been victimizing people?”

  “I was characterizing Goodman Rodriguez as the victim. Do you recall discovering a note in his pocket?”

  Barnstable stares at the ground, deep in thought. For a long while, he appears to be in a trance.

  “Constable?” says Noah, jarring him to attention.

  “Why, yes, sir, I do recall a note. I gave it to the widow, did I not?”

  Noah pretends to be thinking hard. “As I recall, we made a list of the contents of all the pockets, but handed the widow only the coins and the empty purse.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” He snaps his fingers. “Now you mention it, Lord Essex’s man come here some days ago lookin’ for the same note.”

  Noah shoots Jonathan a glance. “Which of Essex’s men? Was it Goodman Wheaton, the one remaining at the scene after the earl left?”

  “No, I know the one ye mean, but it wasn’t him, suh. I’d seen this one before, about town. Must say I don’t much like the look of ’im.”

  Noah nods knowingly. “Did he tell you his name?”

  “He did, suh, but, well … I meet so many people in this job, it’s — ”

  With a look of distaste, Jonathan ventures, “Was it Gelly Meyrick?”

  The constable’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why, it was, young suh. Now look, if he’s a friend of yours, I’m sorry I — ”

  “Oh, he’s no friend of mine,” Jonathan
assures him.

  Noah asks, “I take it you turned the note over to him?”

  “Why no, suh. I’m embarrassed to say I could not find it anywhere.”

  Of course! Noah realizes that’s why the note was sought in his own saddlebag and Marie’s purse.

  Jonathan asks, “Did you look in your file?”

  “Beg pardon, suh?”

  “Your file?”

  “Not sure I take your meanin’, suh.”

  Jonathan is speechless. “Well, how do you keep your papers arranged?”

  “Arranged, suh?”

  Noah chimes in. “I believe my young friend wishes to know whether you customarily store papers found in the course of your job in some special place.”

  “Oh, no, suh. Too many things to keep track of. But now you mention it, Goodman Meyrick asked me that, too.”

  Jonathan looks at Noah and shrugs in defeat, but Noah is not prepared to give up quite yet. As he looks at the constable’s clothing, something dawns on him. “Constable, do you recall what you did with the note that day?”

  “Can’t say’s I do, suh.”

  “I believe you put it in your pocket.”

  Barnstable’s eyebrows pop up. “I did, suh? Which pocket?”

  Noah points to the right pocket of the constable’s doublet. “That one.”

  The constable stuffs his hand in his pocket, and draws out a paper that appears to have been through the wars, as though it’s been wrinkled and flattened dozens of times. He hands it to Noah. “Is this it, suh?”

  Noah unfolds and reads it. “This is it. Why, thank you, Constable, for your customary care.” He hands a coin to the constable, who misses the sarcasm completely.

  Barnstable’s eyes light up. “Why, thank you, suh, very much! Tell you the truth, I didn’t want to give it to that Gilly man, anyways, even if I’d found it. Um,” he beckons with his finger, and Noah leans in toward him, “if you see the earl, suh, you won’t mention my givin’ that to you, will ye?”

  Noah smiles darkly. “I can assure you, Constable, that he will not learn it from either of us. Right, my friend?”

  “Most assuredly,” says Jonathan.

  The constable seems mollified. “It will be just between us, then. Good! Now will there be anythin’ else?”

  Noah shakes his head. “Nothing today, Constable. Good day.”

  “Same to you gentlemen.” And with that, he bows briefly and disappears into his station.

  Noah hears a hissing behind him, as of someone trying to get attention. He turns, but sees no one. Handing the note to Jonathan, he says, “I suppose we need not be concerned that the constable’s clothing will be worn out by the laundry.”

  The hiss returns. Noah turns, and this time spies Jonathan’s man Graves partially concealed behind a stone building adjacent to the cathedral. Noah points him out to Jonathan, who seems perplexed.

  Graves beckons with his hand. As he clearly has no intention of being lured out of his hiding place, Noah and Jonathan walk their mounts over to him.

  Jonathan seems irritated. “What’s the matter with you?” he demands sharply.

  “I didn’t want that constable spottin’ me, that’s all. Had a small run-in with him years ago. Couldn’t understand a bleedin’ word he said. Made me feel like mebbe I was crazy. Y’know?”

  Noah suppresses a smile.

  “Anyway, you two gentlemen’ll want to be at the Boar’s Head in Eastcheap tonight at eight. Seems to be where Skeres holds court. He don’t know you’re comin’. At least, I think he won’t. But you better come with sharp weapons, and no mistake.”

  “Thank you, Goodman Graves,” says Noah with concern. “We shall surely be armed. But we shall only be making inquiries. Do you really think it might come to that?”

  “Aye, sir. It may well.”

  “In that case, we would benefit greatly by your experience, Goodman Graves. You know, it would be prudent for us to have your wits about us.”

  Graves snickers dourly. “Well said, sir. I’m afeard that’s exactly what you’ll need about ye. My wits. Not that they’re so fine as you gentlemen’s, but I’ve been in places so dark … so … evil … ” He winces in disgust, and his voice trails off.

  Jonathan appears unsettled by his response.

  “Well,” says Graves, “that says it all. I’ll be going with ye, Master Hawking.” He sighs resignedly. “And you, Master Ames, mebbe you go into the Boar’s Head first, all alone. Y’know, just eat and drink, and keep t’yerself. That way, if anythin’ … unexpected happens, you’ll be in a position to go for help right away.”

  Jonathan says, “But you’ll be coming with me, Goodman Graves. Won’t you?”

  Graves places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be there with ye, Jon … I mean, Master Hawking. I don’t suppose they’ll want to be messin’ with two of us.” Although Graves offers Jonathan a reassuring smile, Noah can see grave doubt just beneath the surface.

  Noah begins to suspect that two — even three — might not be enough to handle Skeres and his men, and considers what to do about it.

  Beneath the hood of a drab woolen cloak stained with years of travel, Noah sits alone at a small table in the main room of the Boar’s Head Tavern. Before him are a few small plates of mutton and parsnips, and a large tankard of ale. He has deliberately held his words to the barest minimum. When he’s spoken at all, he’s done his best to mimic closely the speech of those around him. So far, he seems to be succeeding in drawing no especial notice, but for the mild flirtation of one young serving wench who seems to have detected something pleasing in what little she could see of his face. He hopes she has not espied the mask he has at the ready under his cowl.

  Even so early in the evening, the night has turned chill. The innkeeper, a Mistress Quickly, has built a small blaze in a fireplace behind a long serving board evidently being held in reserve for a group not yet arrived. Noah has chosen for himself a table with a good view of the reserved section.

  The air in the room is thick. Adding to the smoke of the wood fire is a stench spewed by a weed called “tobacco.” A stationary cloud of foul-smelling smoke floats around each of several customers burning the weed in the tip of a long-stemmed tube. By snippets of overheard conversation, Noah has deduced that the tubes are called “pipes” and that the “smokers” are mostly seamen who’ve sailed the New World under the privateer Francis Drake. Noah finds the acrid smoke obnoxious in the stagnant air, and feels the urge to cough, until some blessed person opens a window.

  A large floor-standing clock with a visible pendulum tells the time as quarter to eight. Noah is nursing his ale, occasionally poking a parsnip with his fork, when a group of three men strides in noisily through the rear and occupies the reserved table without hesitation.

  First to enter, and well dressed, is the scarred man that Noah saw two days ago spying out a window in the front room of Southampton House. Noah quickly turns his gaze aside and draws the hood more closely about his face. Trying not to look as alarmed as he feels, he prays that the scarred man did not get a good look at him walking past the earl and Lopez on Chancery Street. Next come two serious-looking men. A few moments later, a fourth man staggers in behind them, appearing to be either lame or drunk. Drunk, Noah suspects, for he collapses into the nearest chair.

  Mistress Quickly wipes her hands on her apron as she greets the men. “And would each of you gentlemen be wantin’ a tankard of ale to begin?”

  The scarred man stands behind the table and addresses the innkeeper in surprisingly refined tones: “Why, yes, Mistress Quickly. For each of us, except Bob here, who’s had enough already.”

  One side of the scarred man’s face contorts into a sneering rictus so hideous it sends shivers up Noah’s spine, but the innkeeper takes it as a smile, and smiles in return. The scarred man seems pleased by her response, and bows in a courtly manner entirely out of place in this sort of establishment. Either he has some noble pretensions, or believes such behavior to be e
xpected of him.

  The four assume seats facing out at the room, with the fireplace behind them. The scarred man sits at center table, flanked by his two earnest followers, while the drunk, being pointedly ignored, remains at the end of the table where he first plopped.

  The blonde serving wench appears with four full tankards, and smiles as she deposits one before each of the newcomers. Although the drunk smiles at his unexpected tankard, the scarred man rises immediately and removes it from his place, pointedly handing it back to the wench.

  The drunk is up in arms. “C’mon, Nick. Where’s the harm?”

  The scarred man, evidently Nicholas Skeres, addresses his drunken friend in guttural tones. “Quit it, Bob. Yer makin’ a nuisance of yerself. Now, sit there, and shut up a while!”

  The drunk replies with a dismissive wave, gets up, and walks over to the bar, where he quickly finds conversation to his liking. Noah takes a sip of ale, and continues to observe as unobtrusively as possible.

  The front door swings open, and in walks Jonathan with Graves in tow. Mistress Quickly asks where they’d care to sit, and whether they’ve come for supper or to relax over a pint. Jonathan seems uncomfortable as he responds with a smile, and asks who those three gentlemen are at the long table.

  Behind Jonathan and Graves, a short, swarthy Spaniard enters alone, and waits wearily for the innkeeper to get to him.

  Bob the drunk, who’s getting ever drunker at the tap, recognizes the Spaniard and says loudly: “Hey, Nick! Look who it is! Our old friend Tinoco.” He points to the Spaniard. “Looks like they’ll let anybody in ’ere nowadays.” Although his words seem jocular enough, they appear to mask a note of tension, perhaps even a threat.

  Skeres grabs the drunkard and mutters to him threateningly. “Now, don’t be botherin’ Tinoco, Bob. I gotta get some information from him — for Essex. Got it?” Bob nods woozily, and Skeres returns to his seat.

  The Spaniard pointedly ignores the drunk, but removes his hat and bows toward Skeres, who acknowledges with a nod. After a word with the man to his right, Skeres beckons the Spaniard to sit at the end of the table recently vacated by the drunk. “Won’t you sit down, sir, and tell us of your travels?”