by Anne Stevens
“Who is it?” he calls, rubbing at weary eyes.
“Walt Beasley,” comes the reply. The Under Sherriff continues talking into the closed door. “It is morning, Will, and I fear I have slept the whole night away. The others are rousing now, but all still seem addled with sleep.” Will Draper curses, and opens the door. Cromwell, Agnes, Carnet and Sir Roderick are milling about, bleary eyed.
“Was it some drug?” Tom Cromwell says, as he tries to shake his head clear. “How came we all to sleep so soundly in our beds?”
“It must have been the wine,” Jean Carnet says. “I thought it tasted a little odd, but French wine does not travel well, and I thought it simply tainted.”
“Damn, but we have been duped again,” Will says. “Where is Sir Peregrine Martell?” They look, one to another, then make their way to the lower tower room. There is no answer to Wills insistent knocking, and he stoops to look through the slight crack of light by the bolt.
“What is it?” Sir Walter asks. Will Draper draws his knife, and slides the thin blade into the gap, beneath the bolt. Then he wiggles it back and forth, against the iron fastening. The bolt is thus worked open, a fraction at a time, and the King’s Examiner throws open the door. Light from the main hall seeps into the darkness, and the King’s examiner curses under his breath.
Sir Peregrine Martell is sitting up in a chair, which is at the foot of his undisturbed bed. His mouth hangs open, his eyes are fixed, and his shirt front is masked in blood. Will gestures for them all to stay back, and approaches the rigid body. There is a knife wound, like a slash, across his chest, and two more, close together, but, this time, through the heart. He raises his fingers to the dead face, and closes the man’s cold, staring eyes.
“Dear Christ!” The Under Sherriff cannot believe what has happened. The man he promised to keep alive, is dead - murdered under his very nose. “Two murders in the same tower. What the Hell is happening, Will?”
“Close this room, and make sure it stays closed,” Will Draper tells Sir Walter. “I must see if the snow is passable, and get to St. Albans, as soon as I can.”
“Yes, of course,” Cromwell says, pushing himself to be by Will’s side. “I will help you saddle up your Moll, and you must take my warmest fur lined cloak, and a thick woollen hat.”
“That will help,“ Will says. “I have seen strong, hearty men frozen in Irish blizzards, and it is not a pleasant thing, Master Tom.”
The two men leave the others behind in the main house, and trudge through the melting snow to the attached stable block. The Welsh cob, Moll, smells her master’s approach, and gives him a welcoming whinny. She accepts a solid pat from her master, and stands still whilst the two men saddle her up.
“I will be there and back before nightfall,” Will says.
“Then you know where Peregrine Martell keeps his secrets?” Cromwell asks, urgently.
“The man is dead, sir,” Will says, curtly.
“Of course, but we must know what he held over Henry.”
“Must we?” The King’s Examiner shakes his head. “I can see how Pound died. It was obvious from their faces that he and Martell knew one another. Martell even hinted to Pound that he should keep silent, and would receive a reward. Martell placed him in the tower room, so that he could go to him at any time, and make sure Pound stayed silent.”
“How did he manage it?” Cromwell asks, but he already has some idea.
“Simple. He drugged Pound’s brandy flask. You will recall that it was on the floor, by the bed. The man was drugged, and unconscious when Peregrine Martell knocked. Then he pretended to be worried for his guest, broke open the door, rushed to the bed, and stabbed Pound in the chest. As I followed, he cried out that murder had been done. It had, right under my nose. I wondered at how warm the body still was, and could not fathom how the killer climbed to the window. For a while, it was all I could think had happened. Then I realised. The knife in the chest. Martell could not take it, for fear of being searched … so left it, still sticking in his victim.”
“A clever ruse.”
“Almost a perfect murder.” Will wonders if Martell might have escaped detection, had Sir Walter been investigating. “One of the most daring acts I have ever witnessed. Had I been quicker behind him, I would have seen, and he would have hanged for his actions.
“The murderous swine. Then he is no loss to us.” Thomas Cromwell says.
“Perhaps not, but another mystery now presents itself,” Will tells his friend. “Martell murdered only Richard Pound, to keep him silent. That means he probably did not know the rest of us. So, why has he ended up dead, also in a locked room?”
“Some outsider?” Thomas Cromwell will soon have Henry’s secret in his hands, and seems to not much care about Martell’s demise.
“Look at the base of the tower for me, sir.” Will climbs into the saddle. “See if there be any disturbance of the snow. See if you can espy footprints, and in which direction they go. If none are there to be seen, keep everyone here at Broome Hall for, without footprints, we have a second killer to find!”
10 A Gaoler’s Lot
The snow fall turns out to have been quite local, and after a half hour riding, with snow almost up to Moll’s flanks, it begins to thin out, and by the time Will Draper is half way to St. Albans the ground is firm, but free of snow. He does not gallop Moll, for fear of making her lame on the solid ground, but covers the distance at a steady trot.
It is almost noon when he clatters into the main town square, which is a rough rectangle of thatched houses, and shops. Here and there, he sees a more prosperous, brick built house, but most are made from the more usual timber frames, wattle and daub. To one side is a larger, stone fronted building, which Will suspects is the prosperous little town’s Town Hall.
It is here that he would find the Sherriff, some other town official, or dignitary, to whom he might make a report, but he has another course of action in mind. He is the King’s Examiner, and can make up the law as he goes along.
To his right, a cacophony of noise tells him the town’s blacksmith is working at his anvil. He turns Moll towards the sound, and trots over to the forge, where he can see the red glow of the man’s furnace.
“Good day to you, Master Blacksmith,“ he calls. “Where might a man find a good lawyer in St. Albans? The huge man, pauses, his lump hammer raised above his head. he raises his charcoal blackened face to stare at the stranger, sees the sword and pistol hanging at the pommel, and senses that he is not a man to trifle with.
“The Assizes Judge lives out of town, and there is no good lawyer to be had, only one thieving lawyer in this parish. You will want Nicholas Swindon, I dare say. He lives two doors down from here in the red brick house. He has a shingle hanging outside, which declares him to be nought but a thieving man of the law.”
“Then he is no friend of yours, sir?” Will asks, smiling at the hatred in the smith’s voice. The man draws himself up to his full height, and Will sees that he is a hand over six feet, and his upper body ripples with knotted muscles. The giant smiles, then spits into the flames before answering.
“I would break the man’s back, except that they would not find a rope that could take my neck, sir. Instead, I cross sides to where he walks, so that he must step into the shit in the gutter, where he belongs.”
“Strong words, my friend,” Will has seldom before felt such raw hatred in a man’s voice, or seen such controlled anger in the steel blue eyes. “How did he come to wrong you so badly?”
“He has had me fined thrice, by the magistrates. Once for not attending church on Sunday … a shilling … and for knowing a woman who is not my wife … an angel, twice.”
“He sounds like a most strange sort of a fellow,” Will Draper replies, picking out the door he wants. “I expect he, and Sir Peregrine Martell, are often in one another’s company?”
“That is true enough,” the blacksmith says, coming over to Moll. He pats her flank, and runs an expert hand over her.
“Welsh cob is she? A fine girl, in her prime years, sir. As was the sweet woman who is not my own wife. Swindon was away, drinking with Martell, more often than not, and left his poor, lonely woman unattended. Any normal man would have taken a quarterstaff to my back, or tried to break my thick skull, but he went to law, and had me fined two angels for pleasuring the poor woman.”
“Then he is also a coward, as well as a snivelling little cuckold,” Will says. “I will have strong words with him, and your help might save me from having to run him through.”
“Then you are from the Sherriff?” The blacksmith is wary, as a visit from the Sherriff’s bailiff usually means a tax demand is coming, or some other trouble to blight your life. Officials exist to meddle, and cost you money in the minds of most of the common people.
“Not I, good fellow,” Will replies. “I am the King’s Special Examiner, and answer only to His Majesty.”
“God bless him.” The smith seems to draw himself up even taller. “The king is loved in these parts. Though his tax collectors are not.”
“Then pray, assist me.” Will gestures to the lawyer’s red brick house.
“I’m your man, sir,” the smith declares, and strides down to the lawyer’s home. He beats his big fist on the wooden front door, and bellows like a bull. “Come forth, Master Lawyer, for there is a real gentlemen come to call on you, and it does not bode well.”
Even as Will dismounts, The giant of a man, puts his foot to the door, and kicks it open. From inside, there is a frightened shout, and a sudden, confined explosion. Will feels the heavy pistol ball whistle a few inches past his ear, and thanks God he still draws breath. Then, he curses, and draws his blade. Before he can act, the smith puts up a big hand, and pushes him back a few steps.
“Stay, sir,” he says. “This is my pleasure!”
The blacksmith knows how long it takes to re-charge a pistol and he disappears inside the house. There is a terrified wail, and he re-emerges a moment later, with a rat-like man hanging from one hand, and a smoking pistol in the other.
“Behold, here is the vermin, sir!” the smith says, and dashes the man to the ground. Will Draper puts the point of his sword to the terrified man’s throat, and presses just hard enough to get the villain’s complete attention.
“You would attempt to murder the King’s Examiner, sir?” he declares in as loud a voice as he can muster. He wants plenty of witnesses, just in case. The man blinks back tears, and shakes his head from side to side. The world has fallen in on him, and he cannot understand why.
“No, sir. I sought only to defend my property from that rogue, Sam Troughton.”
“What… a loaded pistol against an unarmed man, you sly felon?” Will lowers his voice, as people are now coming out of the surrounding houses, to watch incredulously. “Is that not attempted murder, Master Swindon? I am on the king’s business, you dog, and will have your complete attention.”
“Of course, sir,” Nicholas Swindon says. “I am at your service. Pray, lower your weapon. It is not needed. This talk of murder is incredible. I meant you no harm.”
“I want the document that Sir Peregrine Martell left with you, yesterday,” Will demands.
“I am not sure what you…”
“Break his arm, Master Troughton, I beg you.”
“No!” Swindon’s bravery drains away at the very thought of violence. “There is a package. It is sealed, and I know not what it contains. On my honour. I was but to keep it safe, until unwelcome visitors had gone from the hall.”
“Bring it. If the seals are intact, you shall live.” Will knows the truth of what he says. If the man has opened the document, he must die for his curiosity. The lawyer runs back into the house, and a pretty, dark haired woman, in her early thirties appears in the doorway, and begs them enter.
“Can we not conduct this terrible affair within, sir?” she asks. “The neighbours have enough to talk about as it is.”
“Thank you, madam. Have I the honour of addressing Mistress Swindon?”
“For my sins. I would as soon be Mistress Meg Troughton, but Nicholas will not accept that I do not love him. He is a cheat, and a coward, and I would leave him if I could.”
“A sorry mess, Mistress Meg,” Will says. “Ah, here is the fellow now.” He takes the package, examines the two seals, and slips it into his cloak. “It appears that you can live, Master Swindon, though your name is now on my list.”
“Your list?” Swindon is shaking in fear. “What list is this, sir?”
“My official list, sir. Once on it, there is the devil of a job removing a name,” Will explains. “Though you will be in good company, as Sir Thomas More, and the late Duke of Buckingham graced it too.”
“Dear God, I am ruined.” Nicholas Swindon knows that the information will be all about St. Albans, within a few hours. “No one will deal with me, if I am on some sort of king’s list.”
“Martell is dead,” Will says, brutally. The lawyer’s face brightens, as a dead accomplice makes for a poor witness, and cannot refute what you say about him. He sees that he may yet escape with his skin intact.
“I had nothing to do with his conniving, sir,” the lawyer says, placing a hand over his heart. “I was but a drawer up of deeds, and a writer of business letters. It was a sorry day when Peregrine Martell came here, and I met him.”
“You helped him … how?”
“Moving his affairs here, from Chester, sir. Then there were deeds to be altered. He had many holdings, mostly in the name of someone called Peter Martin.”
“About Chester?”
“Yes, sir. Several thousand pounds, some bawdy houses, an inn, and a corn mill.”
“A man of some substance.”
“Yes, sir. He paid me well enough for my help.”
“For which you willingly twisted the truth, and falsified documents,” Will says, taking a guess.
“Alas, yes. I owed him money, from when we played cards, and could not pay.”
“You are a low dog, Master Swindon.”
“I am, sir, if you so wish. How can I come out of this with some reputation?” The lawyer senses a deal in the offing, and is willing to snatch at anything that might save his neck.
“Leave St. Albans. Seek work in London, or York, and I will not put your name down,” Will says, making it up as he goes.
“What of the misunderstanding over my pistol shot.”
“We will call it an accident.”
“As it was, sir… I swear.”
“Your good lady wife will stay behind, and sell your holdings for you. Then she will pay half to you, and keep the rest for herself.”
“That … and I beg your pardon for saying so … is quite preposterous, sir!”
“Is it? You do not love one another, and you seek only to hurt her,” Will tells him. “She will make a new life for herself, whether it be alone, or with Sam Troughton. Well?”
“They can never marry.”
“I doubt that will worry either of them,” Will replies. “A few years hence, and no one will remember. Now, this offer is on the table for one more minute… after which…”
“I accept, sir. “The lawyer lowers his eyes to the floor. “I will leave.”
“Good fellow. Should you renege on the agreement, after I leave, I will send a man called Richard Cromwell to deal with you. I see you know the name, sir?”
“Cromwell’s name is a power in the land, sir,” Swindon says, “and I will keep my part of this bargain. I swear, on my life.”
“Very well, for my friends do not ask questions, they simply solve problems. Now tell me, where is the gaol?”
“St. Albans gaol, sir?” Sam Troughton is amazed at the day’s events, and cannot do enough to help. “It lies close to the abbey, sir, but it is a most pestilential place.”
“Does the abbey still survive?” Will Draper is unsure about the progress of Cromwell’s dissolving of the Roman Catholic hierarchy within the realm.
“It does, and still tr
ies to hold sway over the town,” Sam explains. “There is talk of Thomas Cromwell knocking their walls down, and throwing out all who love the pope more than the king.”
“It is more than talk, Sam,” Will Draper tells the huge blacksmith. “If the time comes, make sure you support the king, with all your heart.”
“I will sir.” He looks across to Mistress Swindon, and smiles at her. “Let me come with you, sir. I am known, unlike you, and the gaoler is a cousin of mine.”
“Then come along, fellow,” Will says, “for I must find myself a murderer.”
“This is the most wonderful thing ever to happen in St. Albans,” Sam says. “Except when my ma’s cockerel laid an egg!”
In minutes Will is standing at the gate to the town’s gaol, and Sam is rapping on it, to gain entry. After a moment, another huge fellow, not unlike Sam, but a few years his senior appears, and demands to know Will’s business with him.
“I am Colonel Will Draper, the King’s Special Examiner, and I will have business with you sir.”
“What business can such a gentleman have with me?” the taciturn gaoler asks, suspiciously.
“Hush now, Jonah,” Sam says, sharply. “This fine gentleman has rid us of the rogue, Nicholas Swindon, and let his wife, Meg go free. It is as like that she will come to me instead. The Colonel can work miracles!”
“Can he turn things into silver?” Jonah replies, in a surly fashion. “Swindon was no friend of mine, but his going will not benefit me at all. Though, I grant you, Meg is a fine maker of pies, and will only add to our family‘s standing.”
“Here fellow,” Will tosses a golden angel to the man, and strides inside the gaol. The stench is worse than an untended pig sty, and the rushes on the floor have not been changed for two weeks. “I would talk about your inmates.”
“Which one?” Jonah asks.
“Have you any murderers?”
“I had three, up to the day before yesterday, when Judge Appleton sat, and gave sentence of death for their sins. We hanged them off the back of a cart, as out gallows is in disrepair. I have a couple of thieves, and a forger. He was caught crimping shillings, and will lose his hands for it.”