The Wrecking Storm

by Ward, Michael

  ‘I’m not looking for transport today. Just some of your unrivalled knowledge of the river.’

  Jonah let out a mirthless laugh and leant over to spit in the water. ‘Fine words but they won’t pay my bread. While I’m sitting here blabbing to you, I’m losing fares. Now why should I do that?’

  ‘Because I will reward you well enough if you find the information I seek. Shall I continue, or look for someone else?’ This was the courtship that Dibdin demanded. Tom had to curb his impatience, because Jonah always delivered.

  ‘Alright, don’t get all flustered. Tell us what you need, but make it quick,’ Jonah retorted. So he explained about the missing man with red hair, omitting one crucial detail – that he was a Jesuit priest.

  ‘Can you use your contacts on the river to find out if he’s been seen? But do it quietly Jonah. There are probably bad people looking for this fellow.’

  ‘I’m touched by your concern,’ Jonah mocked. ‘See what I can do.’ And with that he pushed away from the wharf and, with a couple of powerful strokes surged back to the middle of the Thames.

  By mid-afternoon, Tom had completed his stocktaking with a dozen sacks of pepper put aside for sale the following morning. He was arranging for a sample to be delivered to the Royal Exchange when his father burst through the warehouse entrance.

  ‘Round up everyone. I think we will soon have company.’

  ‘I thought you were attending Strafford’s execution on Tower Hill’, noticing his father was out of breath.

  ‘I was. Extraordinary scenes. More people than I’ve ever seen gathered together. I was not an admirer of Strafford but the man showed courage and composure in his final moments, surrounded by such a press of enemies. I left as early as possible to get ahead of the crowds. They’re pouring down Thames Street as I speak and the mood is ugly. Strafford’s death has given the King’s enemies the victory they need and their blood is up. The Apprentice Boys are spoiling for a fight, and heading in our direction.’

  Tom sprinted across the yard to the ginnel. He could hear shouting and breaking glass and as he entered, the noise became louder. He emerged onto Thames Street to see a dozen burly lads turning over a cart full of hay, laughing and cheering while the driver protested in vain. The boys kicked the hay across the street to be trampled by the passing crowd. Several others picked up stones and threw them at nearby shops, sending their owners scurrying for cover. They were seeking targets and heading in his direction. He darted back into the tunnel and up to the warehouse. His father stood in the doorway with Isaac and Sam.

  ‘Where’s Andrew?’ he shouted.

  ‘He’s locking Meg in the stable,’ Sam replied. ‘He’ll be with us in a moment.’

  Tom appraised the assembled team. His father had his sword and, although advancing in years, could still give a good account of himself. Isaac was clutching an old rusted halberd. He did not lack courage but his movement was limited by a crippling shoulder injury sustained on the loading wharf many years ago, which still caused him constant pain. Sam came from farming stock, not short of brute strength but neither blessed with fighting instinct. The groom Andrew Lamkin, now walking towards them, was only a lad. How would he react to a mob at their door? It would not be wise to test their strength in a hand-to-hand fight. They needed to bluff this out.

  There was a commotion at the ginnel entrance and a group of Apprentice Boys tumbled into the yard, laughing and cuffing each other. They turned and, seeing the warehouse, became more wary, moving around the edges of the yard like a pack of feral dogs, sniffing new territory. More followed and soon a dozen faced Tom and the others.

  Ralph spoke quietly. ‘Spread out slowly and face them up. But don’t say anything, and keep your hands where they can see them.’ His voice was calm and his speech measured. He took a step forward and broke the brooding silence.

  ‘Good day, lads. Prime weather for a stroll in the City? ’

  His words were met by a rumble of sneering laughter and curses. A group at the back started talking among themselves, passing a bottle around, each taking a swig. Some were carrying stones and makeshift clubs.

  ‘Whatcha got in there, then?’ one of them shouted, pointing at the warehouse. ‘Fine wine and booty from your travels, eh?’ This stirred the gang, and they stepped forward, pointing their fingers at Ralph and shouting insults. ‘Gonna share some of that with us, are you, old man?’ another shouted which sparked more jeers and cheering.

  Tom could see they were working themselves up to launch a charge. His father motioned to him to come closer and whispered in his ear. ‘Walk steadily to the warehouse and bring back whatever you can find to defend ourselves. Be as quick as you can.’

  Ralph then stepped forward to distract them. ‘Ah yes, jewels and silks from the Orient. That’s what many of you expect, isn’t it? If only it were so. There is very little here to interest you. Only sacks of herbs. And not a bottle of wine in sight!’

  This seemed to confuse the gang who started to argue among themselves. He seized the advantage. ‘Look, lads. I’m willing to take one of you inside and show you what I say is true, if the rest of you remain out here.’

  That was his first mistake. The crowd started shouting again: ‘it’s a trap. Do you think we’re stupid?’ The mood changed again as they pushed forward. A bottle sailed through the air and smashed at his feet, just as Tom reappeared, wearing his sword and carrying a bailing hook and a handful of makeshift clubs – Sir Ralph’s second mistake.

  At the sight of the weapons, the Apprentice Boys howled in anger, cursing and pointing at Tom. ‘Steady, lads!’ Ralph shouted, as the makeshift weapons were distributed. ‘Spread out in a line but don’t get isolated.’

  The gang was now within ten feet, goading and mocking the small force defending the warehouse. More faces appeared at the entrance of the ginnel. A burly youth broke ranks and walked towards Isaac. ‘Look at you, stupid old crookback. You gonna stop me, huh? Come on, try it. I’ll put you down,’ he sneered. He leant forward, lowering his defence, to spit at Isaac, who didn’t need a second invitation to reverse his halberd and ram its pole end into the boy’s stomach. The apprentice doubled up and fell to the ground, puking and moaning. At the sight of this, the new arrivals shouted and pushed forward to join the mob that now numbered over 20. Individually, they started darting forward, probing the line for a weakness. Avoiding the swords of Tom and his father, they soon found one.

  Andrew, armed with a wooden staff, looked terrified as two men approached him. One stepped forward, inviting a blow. He swiped at the man but fear made his movement stiff and hesitant. The second pounced and grabbed the stave, then the two of them started pulling him towards them.

  Isaac yelled at Andrew to let go, but he was frozen by fear. Within seconds two more joined in and he was jerked off his feet. The men dropped the stave and fell on Andrew, kicking and punching. Sam stepped in to help him and the defences were broken.

  ‘Dear God,’ Tom thought, as Andrew and Sam disappeared under a pile of bodies. ‘They have us now.’ He moved forward with his sword fully extended, shouting at the baying crowd at the top of his voice. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his father doing the same, but soon they would be surrounded, and then what? He winced as a stone hit his leg. The threat of Isaac’s halberd had cleared the crowd from Andrew, who was now lying motionless on the floor. Sam was back on his feet, blood running from a head wound.

  The Apprentice Boys backed off and then, scenting blood, pushed forward again, shouting and screaming. ‘We can’t take much more of this,’ Tom realised, now fearful for their lives. He surveyed the sea of faces, contorted with rage, and then heard a distant whistle. Twice.

  A pain shot though his head, a flash of light and he found himself prone on the floor, dazed, his father’s voice shouting: ‘Tom! Are you alright?’

  He raised his head from the ground and leaning on his elbow, saw a stone by his feet, smeared with blood. He watched the mob, steeling himself to be overwhelme
d, but then his confusion was complete. They were stepping back, returning to the entrance of the ginnel.

  He shook his head, which hurt like the devil, and pulled himself to his feet. Yes, the gang was retreating. He couldn’t understand. They were at their mercy.

  He staggered towards his father who was staring at the entrance to the tunnel. Tom followed his gaze and saw a familiar face. ‘Is that Peter?’

  Ralph nodded and held his arm. ‘No, don’t greet your brother. Don’t move.’

  He watched as the disgruntled Apprentice Boys filed out of the yard, past his brother Peter, and back to Thames Street. Peter continued to watch and gave a slight nod before disappearing into the ginnel with the last of the gang. The yard which, minutes earlier, had been brimming with violence and fear was once again calm and empty.

  ‘Did I hear a whistle?’ Tom asked Ralph.

  ‘Yes. Peter calling off his dogs. Just in time,’ he added, looking towards Andrew, now sitting up holding his side. ‘But that hunting pack must not discover he knows us. If they did, he’d be finished.

  Chapter 4

  Wapping Stairs

  The Thames had reached low tide, exposing a narrow shoreline at Wapping Stairs. Tom was crouching on shingle between two posts covered in dripping weed, which were supporting the floor of the wharf above their heads. The body of a man was lying in front of him, face down. Only the feet were visible from the wharf above, but that had been enough for Jonah Dibdin,

  The dead man’s hair was matted with sand but there was no mistaking its bright red colour, and the contrast with his grey, turgid flesh. Jonah shuffled into place alongside him. ‘Is this who you were looking for?’,

  ‘I think so, Jonah. How did you find him?’

  ‘You said your man was hunted by the wrong sort, so it was short odds he’d end up in the river. If they dropped him near Billingsgate, with the tides and currents this time of year, he’d likely turn up around Wapping bend. So I’ve been keeping an eye out around here.’

  There was a shout from above. He peered out from beneath the wharf to see the face of Robert Petty looking down at them. ‘I fear we have found your missing person, Robert.’ Petty said nothing but disappeared from view. Tom ducked back to rejoin Jonah.

  ‘They always make the same mistake,’ the boatman continued, ‘loading the body with too much weight. If you want someone to disappear in the spring tides, drop them further down stream, nice and light, and they’ll be feeding the fishes past Tilbury the next day.‘

  The dead man’s thin cloak was still tied around his neck. Jonah carefully untangled the folds of cloth and examined the its pocket, which was torn away. ‘There you go. This pocket was filled with weight, enough to sink him where he was dropped. After being dragged along the bottom for a few tides, the weight rips the pocket open, the rocks are lost and the body rises nearer to the surface, just as the tide’s on its way out, and is left stranded here.

  ‘Well, thank you for letting me know so quickly Jonah.’

  ‘Had to. Spotted him first light. Another half hour and he’d be gone. So I sent word to you right away.’

  ‘What? The tides would be in that quickly?’

  Jonah gave him a pitying look. ‘Not the tides. The snatchers. They get a good price from the medical men for a fresh piece of flesh, even soused in water.’

  He heard footsteps crunching on the shingle and Robert Petty appeared at his shoulder. Together, they turned the body over. It was stiff and marble cold to the touch, the skin swollen and slick. The man’s pale sightless eyes stared at the wharf above them, through strands of knotted red hair. Petty sighed and, out of Jonah’s view, quickly crossed himself.

  ‘I never met Cavendish,’ he explained, ‘but from his description, that’s him.’

  They examined the body and soon discovered a neat, pale hole punched in the victim’s chest between the ribcage. Jonah gave a low whistle. ‘Don’t need to look any further. That’s no nonsense, there. No nonsense at all. Single strike, in and up. Whoever did that, they don’t know their tides but they can handle a blade, no doubting it.’

  Petty nodded and climbed out from under the wharf followed by the others. ‘Can you get rid of your man, Tallant?’ he said quietly before moving away from the wharf to look across the river.

  He turned to Dibdin. ‘Thank you for finding him, Jonah. This is for your trouble’ and he handed him a shilling .

  Dibdin pocketed the coin and turned to go. ‘Always a pleasure to do business. Let me know if you lose any more gentlemen.’ and he loped off towards his boat, his powerful rowing shoulders dwarfing the rest of his body.

  Tom joined Petty by the water’s edge. ‘Is it the same as the first death?’

  ‘Exactly. Single stab wound to the chest. We’ll examine him in more detail but your man’s right. Francis Cavendish wasn’t simply killed. He was executed, deliberately and expertly, not during a scuffle in a back alley. Then he was taken out on the water and dumped.’

  Robert Petty’s dark brown eyes rarely betrayed emotion. But at that moment Tom could see something. Was it anger? No, much more than that. The investigator was struggling to contain within him a deep fury.

  ‘I’m sorry Robert. It is appalling that someone should be killed for their religious beliefs.’

  ‘But was it that?’ Petty replied. ‘Catholics are murdered across Europe every day usually by one of two ways. Caught by the mob and slaughtered where they stand, or tracked down by the authorities and sentenced to death. This was neither. There was nothing judicial about it, but neither was it casual or random.’

  Petty looked again at the river, now busy with boats of all sizes. ‘They regard us as vermin. So why go to so much trouble, simply to kill another rat?’

  Chapter 5

  The Bolt and Tunn Inn, Alsatia

  Will Jackson turned off Fleet Street into a narrow alley leading to the river. He was entering Whitefriars, now also know as Alsatia, a safe haven for London’s criminals and a place to be avoided whenever possible.

  It was formerly the site of a Carmelite monastery. The priory had long gone but the law of Church, not State, had remained from Fleet Street to the Thames. Hundreds fleeing justice moved in and violently repelled any attempt by the authorities to close their haven. As a result, in Alsatia there was no longer any law.

  Will walked quickly down the alley and was relieved to see the distinctive sign of the Bolt and Tunn Inn – a barrel pierced by a crossbow arrow. He paused at the entrance, checking the path back to Fleet Street to his left, then down the way he had been heading to the river. All was clear, so he ducked through the low doorway and disappeared from view.

  The tavern was quiet, with only a handful of regulars at rough tables near the serving counter. The smell of stale ale and tobacco hung thick in the air. A familiar anxiety descended as Will approached the landlord, a thick set man with tattoos covering his face, neck and forearms. Once again, he had been drawn to the lair of the beast by the voracious knot of hunger gnawing at his stomach. He had to continue, but would be a fool not to be afraid. One word out of place could seal his fate.

  ‘Is he in?’

  The landlord turned and considered William with a stony expression. ‘What’s your business?’ he wheezed, his voice deep and breathy, caused by the broken nose flat on his face.

  ‘I have information he will value.’

  The landlord grunted and disappeared into a room behind the serving area. Will could hear low voices, then the landlord returned and beckoned him to enter. He took a deep breath as he walked into a darkened room and, through swirling tobacco smoke, saw the silhouette of a large man sitting with his back against the only window. The door closed behind him and Will remained silent. Not his place to start a conversation with Jack Dancer.

  The large man removed his pipe from his mouth and released a prolonged, hacking cough, spitting noisily on the floor. ‘So, little Will. Why have you disturbed my contemplations on this fine May morning? It must be something
important.’

  Will swallowed hard. His every instinct told him to turn and run, not stopping until he reached the other side of London. But it was too late for that. He had disturbed the beast and was now the centre of his fearful attention.

  ‘Begging your pardon Jack…’ Will cursed his timidity as he saw a sneer growing on Dancer’s face. He must press on, deliver his prize. ‘But I’ve found another for you. More papist scum.’

  Dancer studied Will with his ice blue eyes, then took a draught from the tankard in front of him. ‘Have you now? And who might that be, little Will?’

  ‘A priest. In hiding, I’m told. North of Moorfields.’ There. It was out. His treasured intelligence, all in a rush. Not how he had intended to play his hand. Once again he berated his fear of this man.

  Dancer did not move, his expression blank. Will’s heart sank. The silence was crushing him. Any thought of reward was fading by the empty second. Now he’d settle for escape. Finally the large man stood and approached him. Will flinched as Dancer put his burly arm around his shoulder and guided him towards the window. ‘Well that’s good news, my boy. Very good news. That makes me happy. But I am a little concerned about one thing - you said ‘I’m told’.’ Dancer stopped and spun him around. The smile had vanished. ‘You wouldn’t be feeding me any old wives’ tales now, would you?’

  Will winced as Dancer’s iron grip tightened on his thin shoulder. He instinctively felt for the missing little finger on his left hand. Its loss was the price for wasting Dancer’s time once before. ‘No, no, Jack. I’ve got this from three different people, and two of them are people in his parish. This isn’t tavern talk, I swear!’

  Dancer relaxed his grip and turned with Will to the window once again. ‘Good. That’s what I like to hear. You see? You ’re learning, aren’t you, Will? A priest, you say?’