A Second Daniel

by Neal Roberts

  Tinoco nods, bows to Mistress Quickly as he passes her, and approaches Skeres’ table, leaning over it to speak a few words to him privately.

  Mistress Quickly leads Jonathan and Graves to Skeres’ table, and says apologetically, “These two gentlemen say they have some business with you, sir. Would you like me to seat them here with you?”

  Skeres scowls and squints, first at Jonathan and then Graves, evidently dissatisfied that he knows either of them.

  In good barrister’s form, Jonathan leads by offering Skeres a handshake. “Goodman Skeres, I presume?”

  Skeres regards Jonathan skeptically and declines the proffered hand. “Who’s askin’?”

  “I am Jonathan Hawking, sir. I represent the widow of Stephen Rodriguez, who was murdered some weeks ago near The Rose Theater. Perhaps you have heard of the crime?”

  “You a barrister?” asks Skeres with undisguised contempt.

  “I am, sir. This gentleman — ”

  “Where’s yer robes?”

  Jonathan smiles patiently. “We do not wear our robes at all times, Goodman Skeres. They can become ungainly, as you might imagine.”

  “Who’s this?” asks Skeres sharply, referring to Graves.

  “As I was just about to say, sir, this is my associate Goodman Graves.”

  “Graves.” Skeres scowls suspiciously, as though remembering the name. “You been askin’ after me today, Graves?”

  Graves clears his throat nervously. “I have, sir, but only to arrange a meeting between yourself and my master here.”

  While Skeres deliberately maintains an outward appearance of suspicion, Noah can see that he’s satisfied with Graves’ answer.

  “All right,” says Skeres. “Why don’t you two sit down a moment?” He holds up two fingers to Mistress Quickly, who draws a pint each for Jonathan and Graves and hands them to the wench.

  “So, what can I do for you two gentlemen? Or, more important, what can you do for me?” His face contorts into a mellower version of his ghastly smile.

  Jonathan blanches, but smiles in return. “I was wondering, sir, whether you might have heard anything about — ”

  “Still peddlin’ yer little red jewel, Tinoco?” comes the voice of Bob the drunk, who staggers over to the end of the table, opposite the Spaniard Tinoco. He’s quite obviously smashed now, slurring his words and wobbling on his feet.

  Although Tinoco remains seated, he looks alarmed.

  Skeres’ face reddens, and he tells the man to his right to “do somethin’ about Bob.” The man gets up and draws the drunk away from the table by the collar. They converse quietly. Skeres nods for Jonathan to resume, keeping one eye on Bob.

  “Anyway, Goodman Skeres, I was wondering if perhaps you know of anyone in town who is known to carry what the Italians call a ‘stiletto.’”

  Skeres, though preoccupied with his drunken companion, is startled and unsettled by the question, removing any doubt in Noah’s mind that Henry was right in expecting Skeres to have information that might lead to the murderer.

  “What?” says Skeres distractedly, then turns to the drunk. “Bob, so help me. Keep your bleedin’ mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for you.” The skin around his neck tightens, and his veins bulge.

  He turns back to Jonathan. “No, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I can’t help with what you’re askin’ about.” He turns to the drunk again, who is giving a hard time to the fellow sent to subdue him. “Bob, damn you! Shut up!”

  Instead, Bob leans around his subduer, and shouts at Tinoco. “What’s the matter, you dago bastard? Can’t find anybody to murder that smelly sodomite Perez fer yer jewel? Why don’t you do it? Then, you can keep it!”

  As the Boar’s Head is quickly growing more crowded and noisy, almost no one seems to be paying much attention to the drunk. Except Skeres, that is, who turns to the hearth and picks up a heavy old-style flagon. He rushes the drunk, knocking over a chair and shoving the would-be subduer out of the way. He grabs the drunk by the throat and smashes the flagon across his face with enormous force. Though the drunk is already stunned, Skeres lifts up the flagon again and repeats the blow with enough force to stave in someone’s head. Instead, the drunk’s head turns with the blow, blood spewing from his mouth and splattering over Jonathan’s face and doublet.

  Even through this assault, the drunk not only remains conscious, but remains standing, daubing stupidly at his mouth with his handkerchief. He tries to say something that sounds vaguely like “what did you do that for?” But the sounds that actually issue from his bloody mouth are not recognizable as words. He sets himself carefully down on the floor and promptly loses consciousness.

  Jonathan, stunned, is momentarily oblivious to the crimson fluid dripping from his face. Although Graves pats Jonathan’s shoulder for comfort, Graves himself is obviously unnerved.

  Noah is uncertain why Graves is so frightened. Although Skeres is obviously ruthless, he does not appear to be a madman. To the contrary, he calmed down almost immediately, and now appears lost in thought, albeit with no reassuring sign of regret. Skeres calmly whispers something to the man who tried in vain to subdue the drunk, and resumes his seat across from Jonathan.

  Jonathan draws out a handkerchief and absentmindedly wipes the drunk’s blood from his face. To Noah’s amazement, he attempts to resume the conversation. “As I was asking, sir — ”

  Skeres interrupts him. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid our interview has come to an end.”

  The two men who flanked Skeres earlier now stand beside Jonathan and Graves. The man beside Jonathan takes his arm, and the one beside Graves takes his. Skeres looks sadly at the table before him, and says: “Show these two gentlemen to the Thames.”

  Noah is aghast at the speed with which matters have spun out of control. Unless he’s mistaken, Skeres has just ordered the murders of Jonathan and Graves.

  As Noah glances at the front door to see if any more of Skeres’ henchmen might enter, he hears the threatening click of a snaphaunce pistol being cocked. In the second it takes him to turn back toward Skeres’ table, a Spaniard in a black mask has stepped behind Skeres and now calmly holds a long, cocked pistol to his head.

  At first, Noah expects that the Spaniard is the one the drunk called “Tinoco.” But no. Tinoco is sitting upright in his chair, smitten with fear. The gunman is none other than Andres Salazar, who has interpreted the rapidly deteriorating situation as his cue for action. Noah, who sent a note instructing the jesters to come to the Boar’s Head just in case, now takes some comfort from the knowledge that the others cannot be far off.

  “Don’t turn around,” the gunman commands Skeres in a husky voice with a decidedly lower-class London accent. “These men are my prisoners.”

  “Who are your prisoners?” asks Skeres with disgust.

  “The barrister and his man,” replies the gunman.

  “And who the devil are you?”

  “Well, that all depends. If you tell your two henchmen to unhand my prisoners and resume their seats beside you, keeping their hands visible at all times, then I am the attendant of an earl who doesn’t care much for yours.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’m the Grim Reaper. And your time is up.”

  Skeres sneers, although he dares not turn to the man behind him. “Are you goin’ to shoot us all?”

  “No. Just you. My men will cut your men’s throats.”

  Skeres’ two henchmen turn to see that two masked fair-haired men have quietly assumed places behind them, and now hold daggers to their necks. Another masked young fellow has taken up a position near the slumped-over drunkard, who has awakened, and whose eyes now dart about in terror.

  “Oh, so it’s four against four,” observes Skeres. Everyone in the room stands stock-still.

  All the fear and worry that have seethed for the past month in Noah’s mind over the safety of Marie, Jonathan, and himself now bubble over into outrage. Do these people think they’re acting with complete impunity, simply be
cause they attend upon the Earl of Essex?

  In a single deft motion, Noah draws his mask down to cover his face and tosses back his cowl. His fury has rendered him heedless of the danger posed by his sudden movement. He steps up to Skeres’ table, draws a loaded pistol from his doublet, and places it point-blank between his eyes. Noah is pleased to see that having his head flanked by two loaded pistols causes Skeres to flinch, at last.

  “You need odds?” says Noah in a decidedly upper-class accent. “Well, they’re against you, you coward. Now, do as my man says!” Noah glances around quickly at the terrified expressions of friend and foe alike. Evidently, his seriousness is clear to all. He is beginning to frighten himself.

  After a moment of unguarded terror, Skeres regains some of his composure, and chuckles quietly. His eyes lock onto Noah’s. “Are you the earl? Why’d you come? Don’t trust yer men to do as they’re told?”

  Noah shakes his head contemptuously. “I wanted to see for myself if you’re as stupid as you are repulsive.” To ensure that Skeres does not attempt to delay matters by continuing the conversation, Noah cocks his pistol, and sneers. “Well, are you?” He places his finger gently on the trigger, amazed at the realization that he’ll pull the trigger, if it comes to it.

  Skeres’ face contorts into a hideous grimace differing only slightly from his “smile,” and nods to his henchmen, who return to their seats beside him, keeping their hands above the table.

  Noah shouts. “Everyone stand still until my men are out of here!”

  The jesters grab Jonathan and Graves roughly under the arms and shove them out the front door ahead of them. Everyone but Noah, and Skeres and his men, runs helter-skelter out the front door immediately behind them.

  Last to withdraw, Noah keeps his cocked pistol pointed at Skeres’ head, and backs out the front door. He bursts out into the smokeless and cool night air, never so relieved to be out of any place in all his life. Jonathan, Graves, and their friends have already bolted from view.

  Noah sprints for several blocks, strips off his woolen cloak, and trots to the stable on nearby Old Jewry Street, where he, Jonathan, and Graves left their horses. The thought fleetingly passes through his mind that this was where, five hundred years earlier, William the Conqueror established a colony of Jews. He wonders if any of them experienced anything like this evening’s events.

  As there’s no sign of either Jonathan or Graves at the stables, Noah hopes they’ve been spirited away by the jesters to some discreet location. He earnestly hopes that they are not loudly celebrating their successful masquerade at a tavern somewhere nearby. Even if their youth were so to incline them, he is confident that the experienced Goodman Graves would do everything in his power to prevent it. Considering the resources available to the Earl of Essex, any such indiscretion would inevitably lead to discovery of their true identities, and imminent danger to their careers and lives. Even overcome with such worries, Noah forces himself to wait an interminable half hour before bidding the stableman to bring all three horses to him. He tips him well, but not so well as to make himself memorable.

  Noah’s own horse is mercifully sleepy. He mounts as gently as possible, and takes the reins of the other two horses, who appear docile enough to be led from horseback. With no hands free, he sincerely hopes to encounter no further excitement on the way to Gray’s Inn.

  Chapter 11

  WHEN NOAH ARRIVES at Gray’s about midnight, all seems quiet. He takes the horses around to the stable, where the boy awakens at his approach.

  “Sleeping on the job, Tom?” Noah asks, with a note of humor.

  The boy wipes his hands over his eyes and smiles, accepting the reins of Jonathan’s and Graves’ horses.

  “Sorry, sir, but I’ve had a bit o’ groomin’ to do past couple hours. Residents brought in three horses lathered up pretty good. Looked like they’d been rode hard. Got ’em all cleaned up and put away now, though.”

  As Noah enters the inn, the hallway is illuminated by several more lights than are customary at this hour. Still, the place is reasonably quiet, and he can detect nothing that might arouse the suspicion of outsiders. He finds Jonathan’s door unexpectedly closed, with no light shining under it. Before he can knock, a youthful voice behind him says, “He’s not there, sir.” He turns to see Arthur Arden standing in the dark at the top of the stairs.

  Noah squints up at him. “Tom the stableboy said you brought only three mounts back. I take it Jonathan has not returned yet?”

  “That’s right, sir. He’s with Goodman Graves.”

  “But how did the four of you … ?” Even in the dim light, Noah can discern that Arthur has put his finger to his lips.

  “Perhaps you should come up here with us, sir,” Arthur suggests quietly.

  Noah climbs the stairs and follows Arden into a large, brightly lit room. The scene that greets him is not at all what he expected. Arden’s three friends sit on the edges of beds and chairs, faces downcast, arms resting on their thighs, speaking morosely among themselves. Arden closes the door quietly.

  “What’s all this?” asks Noah. “I would have expected a bit of relief among you. Why all the long faces?” Suddenly alarmed, he asks: “Is Jonathan all right?”

  “Jonathan’s fine, sir. But, when we left the Boar’s Head, Goodman Graves wasn’t feeling well and asked to see a doctor. As he looked a bit pale and sweaty, Jonathan insisted we bring him over to Creechurch. Doctor Lopez was summoned from Mountjoy’s and examined him, and said he couldn’t find anything wrong, but told us to leave him there for the night, just in case he took a turn for the worse.”

  “And Jonathan remained with him?”

  “Yes, sir. Graves was pleading with him to go back to the inn, but he insisted on staying a while. Jon’s very fond of old Graves, sir.”

  “Does Lopez know what events led up to your going to see him?”

  “No, sir. When we first got there, Graves insisted we leave all our masks and weapons in our saddlebags, and that no one mention anything to the good doctor.”

  “And the four of you returned on three horses?”

  “Salazar was light enough to double up with me. Is there a problem, sir?”

  “Well, no, I suppose, except I brought Jonathan’s and Graves’ horses here. So, someone will have to fetch Graves from Creechurch when he’s released from the doctor’s.”

  “Oh, one of us will do that tomorrow. No worry there, sir.”

  Noah sits down in a quandary. “I’m not quite sure what to do. Graves seemed all right to you?”

  “We’re no doctors, sir. He seemed to have a commonplace bellyache. But … ”

  Noah arches an eyebrow. “But … ?”

  “Doctor Lopez wasn’t sure.”

  Noah slaps his thigh. “All right. That decides me. I’m going to Creechurch.”

  “But, sir, Jonathan will probably have returned here by the time you arrive.”

  “Just as well. If he’s already gone by the time I get there, I’ll see him in the morning. But I wish to see Graves for myself.” He rises. “Get some sleep, all of you. Meantime, however, let me warn you all to avoid being seen all together for a few weeks, and to avoid wearing any of the clothing you had on this evening. As ever, you need no reminding to speak of this to no one.”

  “Will you be spending the night at the inn, sir?” asks Arden hopefully.

  Noah suddenly regrets having told Marie he would see her that night. He shakes his head. “I shan’t be back tonight. But I will be in my room come morning.”

  Having failed to find Lopez at Mountjoy’s, Tinoco stops at midnight before the sparsely furnished cottage at the west end of Creechurch, standing far enough away to avoid being seen. He does not relish what he’s about to do, but, since the incident at the Boar’s Head earlier in the evening, his hand has been forced. Through the window, he spies Lopez alone.

  Lopez shivers and rises from his chair, stirring the fire, evidently to coax a little more heat. The embers snap at him in pro
test, glowing a deeper red. Startled, he mutters something like “slumbering nest of dragons.”

  Tinoco takes a deep breath, steps forward, and knocks quietly.

  “Emanuel Tinoco, my good friend,” says Lopez softly, opening the door. “Please come in. I’d no idea you were back from the Continent. What brings you here at this ungodly hour?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, Roderigo. Would another time be better?”

  “Oh, no, no. I’ve already been dragged all the way from Mountjoy’s Inn this evening to see a patient, and it will be some time before sleep returns, if it comes at all.”

  “Very well, but I will try not to keep you.”

  “Here, have some wine.”

  “Thank you very much,” says Tinoco, plopping onto a bench without removing his cloak. “I’m afraid I have no new intelligence from Spain, but I have something interesting to show you. First … permit me to ask you something.”

  Lopez arches an eyebrow.

  Tinoco smiles hesitantly. “You know, I don’t get involved in your end of the business, and would never ask what you do with the intelligence I bring. But — ”

  “That’s nothing I keep secret from you, Emanuel. You know I trust you. I share your information with Lord Essex.”

  “Only Lord Essex?”

  “Only him.” Lopez laughs quietly. “He would be quite upset if I were to do otherwise, as he pays me some small monies for it.”

  Tinoco holds up his palms in protest. “And I would never go around you. You know that.”

  “I do know it.”

  “But have you never given someone else such information first?”

  Lopez regards him askance. “Such as … ?”

  Tinoco shrugs. “Perhaps someone on the Privy Council?”

  “No,” replies Lopez, but then shakes his head equivocally. “Oh, I suppose I might have told one of the Cecils first on occasion, if the matter seemed of some urgency to the English court, and Lord Essex was nowhere to be found. I suppose I do feel a certain … ”