The Wrecking Storm

by Ward, Michael

  Seconds later they were in Thames Street, surrounded by traders selling their wares. A grey haired woman carrying a tray of pies was yelling at the top of her voice, trying to avoid a small herd of sheep pushing past her, their shepherd whistling and calling to his dog. The landlord of the Swan with Two Necks stood outside his tavern shouting to passers-by, drumming up lunchtime trade while clearing the thick mud from his doorstep; and, above it all, was the constant hammering from sweating coopers in the barrel works opposite, pale sunlight glinting off their knee-length aprons as they fixed iron hoops onto wooden casks.

  In the midst of this, Tom could see hundreds of people pushing and hugging each other, their cheering adding to the din trapped between the overhanging upper floors of the houses, shops and taverns.

  ‘What madness is this?’ Ralph Tallant shouted to his son, straining to be heard above the mayhem. ‘When I arrived less than an hour ago, all was calm! At least they look happy!’

  Sam grabbed the arm of a man who had stopped singing to swig beer from a tankard. ‘What’s happening, fellow? Why the celebrations?’

  The man gaped at Sam. ‘Haven’t you heard? Where have you been? We’ve got him. We’ve finally got the bastard!’ The man started singing and moving away. Sam pulled him back.

  ‘Who? Who have you got?’

  ‘Only Black Tom. Black Tom! Now we’ll have his head!’, the man shouted and ran into the crowd, swinging his now empty tankard

  Tom glanced at his father who looked stricken. Ralph slowly returned down the ginnel, followed by the others, and stopped by the warehouse entrance. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘He’s given up Strafford. There is no reason to it. I was completely mistaken.’

  ‘What are you saying, father?’

  ‘Unless this is another infernal rumour infesting this city, our friends here are cock-a-hoop because the King must have signed the Bill that condemns the Earl of Strafford to execution,’ he replied. He’s caved in to the Commons.’

  ‘But you said he gave his word to Strafford that he would be safe.’ Tom continued. ‘Strafford was his right hand man. The King had to save him…he gave his word! What message does this give to his enemies in Parliament?’

  Ralph sniffed the air. ‘Lord only knows, but this will only be the beginning. He may not know it, but Charles has just opened Pandora’s Box.

  ‘I feel a wrecking storm coming. And there’ll be no sailing around it.’

  Chapter 2

  Bolton Hall, the Tallant family home

  Tom rode up the driveway to Bolton Hall, and smiled at the sight of his family home.

  The Hall was part of an Augustine Monastery broken up in King Henry’s time. The chapel and dormitories were demolished, the stone taken by locals for building materials. But the abbot’s house, refectory and cloisters had been saved and much altered by successive owners, to provide a comfortable home for the Tallants for the last 20 years.

  It was a fine May morning and he could feel the heat of the sun starting to warm his back. He tethered his horse Meg at the stable wall and walked into the garden behind the house. A blackbird on a nearby meddler tree greeted his arrival with a tumbling waterfall of song, each refrain unique. He waved to Mark, the gardener, giving the lawn its first cut of the season with his scythe, then checked his saddlebag again. Yes, his precious cargo was still intact.

  Tom approached a table under the ancient oak. His mother Beatrix Tallant was deep in conversation with Elizabeth and neither noticed him. He clutched the saddlebag to his chest.

  ‘Good morrow to you both,’ he called, bending to kiss them each lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Ah, Tom!’ his mother replied. ‘Elizabeth and I are discussing herbs. She is proving most knowledgeable.’ His mother struggled slightly with the pronunciation of the last word, a rare reminder that English was her second language. Beatrix Tallant came from a distinguished Dutch merchant family and had moved to England following her marriage to Ralph.

  ‘Your mother has a wonderful collection of cooking herbs, but she wants to grow others that have healing powers,’ Elizabeth explained. ‘I have taken advice from Master Culpeper and we are deciding which to choose.’

  Nicholas Culpeper. Tom frowned at the mention of the man. Culpeper was a leading member of the Coleman Street radicals and, to his eyes, dangerous company. Drawn together by their mutual interest in herbal medicine and addiction to tobacco consumption, Elizabeth had known Nicholas before meeting Tom, a thought that made him vulnerable and jealous.

  She saw him frequently but insisted they were only good friends. Also, Culpeper had recently married, but Tom could not help himself. He regarded the herbalist as a rival for her affections, and decided to change the subject.

  ‘Mother, I have a gift for you, delivered this morning to the warehouse, here in my saddlebag.’ He reached inside and gently withdrew a small plant. It had a number of large leaves at its base with a single long stem topped by several clusters of dainty round flowers. Each had a delicate striping pattern coming from its centre.

  Beatrix let out a little shriek. ‘Oh my goodness. It’s a Primula Auricula…and look! Its flowers have stripes! Where did you get it?

  ‘A plantsman I know in the Royal Exchange is often sent new specimens from the Continent. I asked him to watch our for any auriculas.’ He picked up the plant and inspected its small rosette flowers carefully. ‘This little beauty arrived from Venice yesterday, so he sent it straight over.’

  He carefully handed the plant to his mother who examined it closely. ‘I had heard of this new variety but this is the first I have seen. I wonder if I will be able to grow more from it?’

  ‘If anyone can, it will be you,’ Elizabeth said. He smiled at her growing friendship with his mother. Their personalities were quite different but they had instinctively liked each other from their first meeting. They shared a love of nature, plants and flowers. When the Tallants bought the Hall, Beatrix inherited five acres of weeds and overgrown scrub, and proceeded to transform them into one of the finest private gardens in London. Elizabeth was now her keen student.

  Tom sat at the table and stretched his legs. It was turning into a glorious day and he was glad to be out of London. Bolton Hall was located in the countryside north of Clerkenwell and seemed a million miles from the turmoil and anger currently surging through the capital. The public execution of the Earl of Strafford would take place tomorrow and a febrile atmosphere was building on the streets.

  ‘My goodness, more visitors. What a busy morning.’ Beatrix exclaimed. He looked up to see the unmistakable form of Barty Hopkins bustling towards them. In his wake, he could make out Robert Petty.

  Tom met Sir Bartholomew Hopkins on his first day as a Member of Parliament and they soon became friends. Petty was an investigator for the Merchant Adventurers who he knew from a previous case, which had almost cost Petty his life, but thankfully he made a full recovery.

  Slightly breathless, Barty wiped his brow, nodded at Tom and then bowed to his mother. ‘Forgive this intrusion Lady Tallant. Wonderful to enjoy your glorious garden once more. And I think you know my companion Robert Petty?’

  ‘Tis a great pleasure to see you again, Ma’am,’ Petty replied and inclined his head towards Beatrix.

  ‘This morning we visited the Tallant warehouse, seeking your son on an urgent matter,’ Barty continued. ‘Apparently he had left for Bolton Hall, so we set off in hot pursuit!’

  ‘Well sit down Sir Bartholomew and take the weight off your feet,’ Beatrix interjected. ‘I’ll leave you to your business and make myself useful. First on the list is putting my new plant in a larger pot. Elizabeth, thank you so much for your invaluable advice on expanding my herb garden. Much food for thought. ’ And with that she walked towards the house clutching her precious Primula Auricula.

  ‘So, what news from the City?’ Tom asked. ‘Presumably in a fever over tomorrow’s execution?’

  Barty nodded vigorously. ‘I hear wild rumours at every street corner. Do
you know the latest? The French are planning to invade to save Strafford! Complete lunacy. And speaking of the French, the Queen Mother has been waylaid and jostled in her coach and now guards are posted at St James Palace. Thousands will flock to Tower Hill tomorrow, but not me.’

  ‘A wise decision, given you both declined to sign Strafford’s death warrant,’ Robert Petty commented. Barty and Tom had refused to support the Parliamentary Bill of Attainder that had sealed the Earl’s fate. As a result, their names were included on a list of dissenters posted throughout the city by the King’s enemies to stir up trouble.

  ‘The case against him was not sound,’ Tom replied. ‘To me, his guilt was not proven. The Bill was a desperate and dishonest device by the Puritan junto to rid them of Strafford because the mob demanded it. I could not sign it.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Barty added. ‘However, I doubt if a gang of Apprentice Boys on the rampage would recognise me if they fell over me. Anyway, we have something even more urgent to deal with. Robert and I are wrestling with a complete mystery and we need your advice urgently. It is a matter of the greatest secrecy,’ and, at that, he glanced at Elizabeth.

  ‘Anything you tell me can also be said to Elizabeth. Her powers of deduction might assist you.’

  Barty glanced at Petty who nodded. ‘Err…very well, if you say so. But what I am about to tell you cannot be repeated to anyone, as you will soon understand. Robert, perhaps you would like to explain?’

  He studied Petty. Those dark brown eyes the colour of weathered oak. That same inscrutable expression. He had come to trust Robert Petty but had also experienced the sharp end of Petty’s investigative powers. He would be a formidable enemy should you fall foul of him.

  ‘I have been investigating a case of murder on the waterfront, and now a second person has disappeared. I believe the two incidents may be connected,’ Petty explained, his eyes searching Tom’s face for any reaction. He had learned this was one of Petty’s interrogation techniques and so averted his gaze, instead admiring a clump of blue columbines flowering near his seat.

  ‘Two weeks ago, a dead man was fished out of the Thames. He had been stabbed in the chest. Through our contacts, we have identified him as Geoffrey Aston. Now a second person, Francis Cavendish, has gone missing.’ Petty paused. Barty looked uncomfortable, squeezing his hands together.

  ‘May I ask if you’re investigating this on behalf of the Merchant Adventurers,’ Tom enquired.

  Petty paused. ‘No, I am not. We are pursuing the matter in a personal capacity.’ There was another pause, leaving Petty’s words heavy in the air.

  ‘You must excuse me gentlemen,’ Elizabeth intervened. ‘It appears we may be here a little while, so I hope you will not object to me filling a pipe?’ And before anyone could reply, she pulled a small pouch of tobacco and clay pipe from her cloak pocket, which she proceeded to fill rapidly. She dipped again into her cloak, withdrawing a piece of polished glass. Barty was staring at her while Petty raised a quizzical eyebrow as she held the small glass encased in a ring of brass up to the sun breaking through the cloud, and gently tilted it back and forwards.

  A white spot of light appeared in the bowl of the pipe and, seconds later, as Elizabeth drew on the stem, a spiral of smoke began to rise from the tobacco. ‘Well, goodness me,’ Barty exclaimed and she sat back and drew on the pipe, with a look of contentment. Petty studied her closely then shook his head slightly and smiled. This was one of her party pieces that Tom had seen many times, but he still enjoyed the reaction of those who witnessed it. ‘So, where were we gentlemen?’ Tom continued. ‘You want our help with a matter you are both pursuing in a personal capacity? And, as you say, the circumstances require complete confidentiality?’ Barty nodded vigorously.

  He reflected on the relationship between his two friends. On the face of it, there was little to draw them together – a Member of Parliament and an investigator. Except both were Catholics and that forged a secret and unshakable bond between them. London was currently gripped with hysteria about alleged papist plots and sedition, a dangerous time to be a practicing Catholic or provide them with assistance.

  Tom had previously shared this knowledge with Elizabeth. Both knew that, just by having this conversation, they were entering dangerous waters. ‘Was there anything special about this man Geoffrey Aston, that I need to know?’

  Bertie sighed. ‘He was a Jesuit priest, as is Francis Cavendish.’

  Tom took a sharp intake of breath and glanced at Elizabeth, whose face was impassive. Even though the garden was empty, he lowered his voice. ‘You’ve lost two Jesuit priests! I didn’t realise that many were still in England.’

  ‘There are more than you know,’ Petty replied. ‘Smuggled in from France to travel the country taking mass, which only a priest can do. They hide in a network of safe houses across London and outside.’

  ‘Which you help with,’ Tom interrupted. Silence, again. ‘Gentlemen, if you want my...our assistance, we need to know exactly what we are getting into. And why you have come to me.’

  ‘The last known hiding place for Cavendish was near Billingsgate,’ Barty explained.

  ‘Close to my warehouse,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Exactly,’ Petty added, ‘in an old building used as a temporary hide for those requiring access to the river, presumably for a quick escape.’

  ‘So you’re hoping Tom will make discreet enquiries to establish if anyone was seen on the night in question?’ Elizabeth interjected. Barty opened his mouth to reply but she continued. ‘For that to be a meaningful request, there must have been something distinctive or unusual in the physical appearance of this priest Cavendish, as I assume he was not wearing his cassock and hat?’

  A smile played around Robert Petty’s mouth. ‘Quite so, Miss Seymour. At the time he disappeared the priest was dressed in an unremarkable fashion. However, he has flame red hair.’

  ‘The fact it was not dyed an equally unremarkable colour suggests he left his previous hiding place in a hurry?’ Petty and Barty said nothing.

  ‘Just checking,’ she added and, giving Tom a meaningful look, proceeded to re-fill her pipe.

  ‘So, let’s be clear,’ Tom continued. ‘This ‘favour’ you seek will require me to ask questions in my neighbourhood that will prove I know Francis Cavendish, or at least his appearance, at a time when it will be crawling with the anti-papists hot on his trail?’

  Barty wriggled on his chair, wringing his hands. ‘Oh dear. When you put it like that…’ and he shot Elizabeth a glance. ‘Forgive me Tom. What you say is true but we are desperate to find Cavendish before the authorities do. However, if it is asking too much, I understand.’

  Tom studied the pair and felt his resolve weakening, but not because of Barty’s pleading expression. It was Robert Petty’s steady gaze, and the knowledge that he had previously risked his life to help Tom. Nevertheless, he would be sticking his hand into a hornet’s nest. He exhaled slowly and considered. Yes, there was one possible way forward.

  ‘As it happens gentlemen, I do know someone who might be able to help. It will just be a matter of trying to persuade him.’

  Chapter 3

  The Tallant warehouse

  Tom stood at the back of the warehouse and surveyed the River Thames. A warm breeze ruffled the surface of the water, sparkling in the morning sun. Seagulls arced across an azure blue sky, their familiar cawing cry competing with frequent shouts of ‘oars’ and ‘sculls’. The boatmen were out, selling their services to travellers along and across London’s busy waterway.

  To his left, downriver, stood the forbidding presence of the Tower of London. Could the Earl of Strafford see or hear any of this from his cell? What despair must he feel, knowing this wonderful day would soon be taken from him by the axe?

  He returned to a stock check he was conducting with Sam. Ships returning from the Bay of Biscay had reported storms, delaying the large spice shipments from the East. As a result, the price of pepper had risen at the Royal Exchan
ge, a good opportunity for the Tallants to sell a portion of their reserves.

  But the river was never far from his mind. Once again he went to scan the water, shielding his eyes from its bright reflection. He was looking for a particular boat but Jonah Dibdin was nowhere to be seen. He was renowned as one of the most skilled yet mean-spirited boatmen on the Thames. His lack of social graces was tolerated because he was the fastest, or so he said, and seeing him at work it was hard to disagree. Tom would hire him whenever possible and, knowing this, Dibdin would frequently pass by the landing stage at the Tallant warehouse. But not today.

  Isaac stepped out of the warehouse and joined Tom on the wharf. ‘A fair day, Master Thomas. Are you looking for someone?’

  ‘Jonah Dibdin. He seems to have disappeared just when I need him.’

  The warehouse manager pointed to London Bridge, which straddled the Thames to their right. ‘Well, there’s your answer, master.’

  The bridge and the houses lining its length were bathed in the morning sun. In several places gaps appeared where buildings had previously collapsed or been destroyed by fire, revealing people, horses and carts moving in a busy, two-way flow. However, today, almost all the traffic was coming from the south bank, moving slowly.

  ‘Of course,’ Tom exclaimed. ‘They’re going to Tower Hill for Strafford’s execution. Jonah will be busy shipping people across.’

  ‘Aye, you won’t see him all day, except when the axeman’s doing his work. Most boatmen will take a break then, but not Dibdin. He can row all day and will be looking for more fares. He’ll be back.’

  And so it proved. Early in the afternoon, Tom heard a familiar call at the rear of the warehouse. He waved to Dibdin on the water who, in one fluid movement, changed course and darted towards him.

  ‘Oh it’s you,’ Dibdin said, reaching out for the side of the wharf. ‘Where do you want to go?’ This was Jonah’s usual greeting and Tom had learned to ignore the disappointed tone.