The Silent Murder (Master of Defence Book 4)

by Peter Tonkin

‘It was in the heel of his shoe,’ said Poley simply. ‘The heel was hollow – a device we used with some success in the matter of the traitors Babbington and Mary of Scots.’

  ‘But it would need to have been a finely made hiding-place to have survived a ducking in both the Fleet and the Thames...’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Ah. I see. So, you have a letter disfigured and defaced like the letter Lady Margaret sent to me, of which you understand enough to make you look to the south and your Spanish spy but the whole of which must still elude you. Surely Will Shakespeare could have helped you there and saved you lengthy rides out of your way to Elfinstone and Winchester.’

  ‘I considered it. I even considered winkling Codemaster Thomas Phellippes out of Essex House; but in the end it would have been unwise. For after they translated it for me, like as not I’d have had to kill them.’ Poley said it with calm, unshakable authority, and Tom didn’t doubt he meant it.

  ‘Perhaps I had better get to church, then, and make my own peace with God,’ said Tom.

  ‘No. They would have died for their associations, not their knowledge.’

  ‘So it is Southampton and Essex you fear, for these are the men Shakespeare and Phellippes associate with.’

  ‘You know it.’

  ‘What do they have to do with Spanish spies? His Grace of Essex is fierce against the Dons, as you well know; and His Grace of Southampton like his friend.’

  ‘And yet both consort with Spaniards when they feel the need. Remember Antonio Perez.’

  ‘Has he published his memoirs yet?’

  ‘He works and works.’

  ‘Like a worm through a good ship’s bottom?’

  ‘As you say. But the point is made. For Essex and Southampton both, there are Spaniards and Spaniards.’

  ‘But not for the Council? They have no such fine distinctions?’

  Poley said nothing.

  Tom continued. ‘But whether you must needs kill me later or not, you were impressed by my translation of Lady Margaret’s message. So I will do to pick out the meaning of yours. And preferably before you get to Portsmouth, in case...’

  Now it was Tom’s turn to fall silent, for it seemed that scales were falling from his eyes. ‘But wait!’ he breathed. ‘This is a new game indeed, and a deadly-dangerous one. You wish me to find the sense in a damaged report from your spy watching Lady Margaret at Elfinstone before you talk to a Spanish spy in Plymouth. I can see at a glance how His Grace of Essex might figure in your concerns for the Baron – his bastard son and Lady Margaret – the victim of his rapine and subject of his plotting; but where in Heaven’s name do Spanish spies fit into any of the affairs of Elfinstone or Castle Cotehel?’

  ‘Perhaps if you look at the message you could help me discover the same,’ said Poley.

  ‘Indeed,’ countered Tom. ‘But you’ll recall, no doubt, that a certain bricklayer helped me with the original. May I call upon him? Or will that lead to his untimely death?’

  Poley hesitated, then he said, ‘Call him. Let him see it.’ And he cast upon the table before Tom a wrinkled, ink-stained rag of paper, the thinnest paper Tom had ever seen – near transparent, in fact – covered with the smallest, neatest writing he had ever come across. Tom gave it one glance and rose, crossing to the door. He opened it and bellowed, ‘Ben!’

  Neither man was in the least surprised when Ben arrived within the instant.

  Tom made no mention of the lethal possibilities of the work as he gently spread the paper on the table. Indeed, his mind was far removed from Ben, focused fiercely on the matter literally in hand. The paper, carefully dried and preserved as though Hilliard himself had painted upon it, was nevertheless as fragile as an autumn leaf. It even had a voice of its own, which neither its writer nor its prime object had. It gave a whispery crackling as Tom unfolded it, as though it would breathe its message secretly into his very ear.

  At last it lay unfolded so that he and Ben could pore over it. They weighted the corners with the pommels of their daggers and – aptly enough – with the grip of Poley’s pistol. Only then did Poley join them and look down upon the message that had remained wilfully dumb to him. It said:

  ... ...er Hogg I hv... ... ...o rp’t. Principal...ongst them is t... ... ...I rep’ted the... ...tery of its arriv’l... ... ...erious disappearance. Not... ... ...from M. L’s private chamber. I have qu... ...e legit... ...ess to such a place but none of them ha... ...ledge. You can see the danger of anyone without legitimate access getting to such a pl... ... ...ly if we are... ...some device of Essx’s or S’mton’s which is the sam... … ...This particularly......... – her certainty that she is being overw... ... ...sing danger she fears to herself and the B.

  ... ... ...er stems from a secret source we do not yet su... ... ...ting to a friend, requesting aid. Bu... ...hell before he can be summoned. She relies up... ... ...don or soon after and is ord... ... ...amonds and I accompany the party unt... ... ...ched thence with messages. She fears the journey but cannot do more than... ... ...ted swiftly. Her insist... ...ted Q, my opinion of whom you know, especially after his letters to Fra... ... ...ain. ...She fears C... ... ...tain she will lie beyond all hope... ...down there in the ha... ...es and as a playt... ... ...est devices. This may be a fant... ...act that she has never yet been th... ... ...s, Q,D’fth, St J, even Gy and Ry have much to do wi... ... ...rs womanish. There is grave dang... ...n Cornwall, to M... ...ut perhaps also to the St... ...There is something unho... ... ... ...ious protector – can fathom and forestall it before it begins to claim our lives.

  ‘The paper was folded and folded and placed within the hollow heel,’ said Tom. ‘Then, in the river, the heel began to leak, so that the water soaked into the paper. But the damage came from only one quarter. Where it became wet, the folded paper became blank, or the writing became indistinguishable. Where it remained dry – or nearly so – we have a word or two; but because the paper was folded half a dozen times, there are puddles of blankness that cannot be distinguished in the body of the whole.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Ben. ‘So that when we lay it flat there are circles of nothingness at the outer limits and through the heart of the thing. Well enough. It is no more complex a puzzle than the message we worked on a’ Tuesday.’

  ‘I’m relieved you think so, Apprentice Jolson,’ said Poley ill-naturedly. And he paid for his bad temper at once.

  ‘ “... er Hogg”,’ said Tom with deceptive gentleness. ‘Who is Master Hogg?’

  ‘It is how Mann knew me. He never saw my face and it was not fitting that he knew my true...’ He tailed off as he saw the pair of them looking at him. Much in their gaze made mute comment on the trust between a spy and spy-master who did not dare reveal his true name.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Tom. ‘Let’s leave that. What’s next? “I hv... ... ...o rp’t.” This, I would guess, says, “I have something to report”...’

  ‘Some worries or concerns,’ suggested Ben. ‘For see, in the next bit there is a principal amongst them.’

  ‘Indeed, Ben. Well observed. “Principal...ongst them is t... .... ..I rep’ted the... ...tery of its arriv’l... ... ...erious disappearance.” He reports something that arrived and disappeared mysteriously.’

  ‘That can only be My Lady’s portrait that James Hammond told us of.’

  ‘That Ugo Stell has reclaimed by the by,’ said Poley. ‘He is back and about your business.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tom. And then again, ‘Good, Ben. Well reasoned. For see, “Not... ... ...from M L’s private chamber.” That is where it went from – from My Lady’s private chamber.

  ‘ “I have qu... ...e legit... ...ess to such a place but none of them ha... ...ledge.You can see the danger of anyone without legitimate access getting to such a pl...” He has questioned everyone who might have legitimate access, but they know nothing. Consider the danger of such access by someone with no legitimate right...’

  ‘Particularly,’ added Ben, frowning, ‘particularly if t
his were some device of Essex’s. See where it says “... ly if we are... ...some device of Essx’s”?’

  ‘Good,’ said Tom yet again. ‘And this is particularly important given her certainty that she is being watched: “...sing danger she fears to herself and the B... ... ...er stems from a secret source we do not yet su...” What is this? Increasing danger? That seems likely. An increasing danger that she fears to herself and the Baron. And from a secret source that you and he do not yet suspect. This is a very disturbing picture, Poley. A much more desperate danger than the one I had thought from the first letter. Was Mann given to wild speculation? Did he see monsters in shadows and bears in bushes?’

  ‘No,’ said Poley dully. ‘The opposite: he was the most perfect spy of the time...’

  ‘Then we have better cause to worry,’ said Tom grimly, ‘than did Caesar on the Ides of March.’

  ‘But then,’ said Ben, ‘I believe that you have entered the picture, Tom. For see she is writing: “...ting to a friend, requesting aid.” ’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ allowed Tom. ‘But there’s a fear. Look: “...hell before he can be summoned.” That “hell” – it must mean Cotehel. She fears she will be in Cotehel before I can be summoned. A lively fear indeed; and one likely to prove true unless we cut free of this coil and ride.’

  ‘In good time,’ warned Poley; ‘when your work here is finished.’

  ‘Well,’ allowed Tom, his discontentment sudden and severe. Then he read the next few phrases. ‘ “She relies up... ... ...don or soon after”. She relies upon what? Figuring it back from what happened as we now know, she must have relied upon me catching up with her at the place from whence she despatched the messages – to wit, Croydon, or soon after. A faint hope as matters chanced. But what next?’ After the bitter question, he sat back a little, chewing his cheek.

  Ben took over, giving no indication whatsoever that he sensed his master’s bitter frustration and self-castigation. ‘What have we here? – “and is ord... ... ...amonds and I accompany the party unt... ... ...ched thence with messages.” And she is ordering that Mann and who? The Hammonds? Accompany the party until they are despatched thence with messages. That fits in with what you said, Master, and with what happened, does it not?’

  ‘It does,’ allowed Tom. ‘But see. The plan was to take both the brothers James and John Hammond. James made no mention of going – or of expecting to go but being held back. I wonder why?’

  ‘‘Tis all one,’ said Poley dismissively. ‘There are more things hidden here than are dreamed of in philosophy.’

  ‘Well,’ persisted Ben in the face of Tom’s brooding silence: ‘ “She fears the journey” that is plain – “but cannot do more than... ... ...ted swiftly.” What? Insist that it is completed swiftly? We know she demanded that, too.’

  ‘Aye, but,’ added Tom, stirring himself, ‘there was a price to pay. “Her insist...” insistence, we must prick it out – upset...angered...discomfited Quin: “... ted Q, my opinion of whom you know...” No good opinion, then?’ He swung round on Poley who shrugged. ‘Especially after his letters abroad to France and Spain,’ persisted Tom. ‘You think Quin, like Essex, sees Spaniards and Spaniards?’

  ‘I do not like the Cornish,’ Poley said. ‘They are too like the Irish for my taste.’

  ‘Papists, you mean? With a leaning towards Catholic France and Spain?’

  ‘Philip of Spain has dreamed of putting an armada in Galway Bay and an army in Killarney since the defeat of the Great Armada seven years since,’ said Poley. ‘Why should he not dream of putting a navy in Mount Bay and an army in Portleven? ‘Tis nearer to Spain and Spanish Flanders by far. And a good straight march to London.’

  ‘But only if the Cornish are of an Irish mind in the matter,’ said Tom, ‘and content to let the Spanish come ashore. Is that what you suspect?’

  ‘That’s what I think the Spaniards may suspect,’ said Poley. ‘And that might amount to the same thing, might it not?’

  ‘Hence the importance of your spy in the Plymouth Clink?’

  ‘She fears Cotehel, as you fear the Cornish,’ said Ben, continuing his work in the silence that answered Tom’s question. ‘See? “She fears C...” And she is certain, as I think, here: “c... tain she will lie beyond all hope... ...down there...” ’

  ‘In the hands of her enemies,’ translated Tom gloomily: “in the ha... ...es...” And, what? As a plaything to their darkest devices: “and as a playt... ... ...est devices.” God help her.’

  ‘But look,’ said Ben bracingly. ‘Mann believes that “This may be a fant... ...act that she has never yet been th...": This may be a mere fantasy based on the fact that she has never yet been there.’

  ‘But the others: “...s, Q,D’fth, St J, even Gy and Ry have much to do wi...” – with the place. And are her fears womanish? No. For “There is something unho...” – something unholy about the place.

  ‘Let us hope the mysterious protector – “...ious protector”: to wit, myself – “ – can fathom and forestall it before it begins to claim our lives.” ’

  Tom looked up and met first Ben’s eyes and then Poley’s.

  ‘Aye,’ he said bitterly. ‘Too late for that.’ He shook his head with anger and frustration. ‘A world too late for that.’

  Seventeen: Buckfast

  No sooner was Poley satisfied that Tom and Ben had hit the meaning of his near-ruined letter right than he was gone, planning to be at the Plymouth Clink as soon as he could. He travelled with a small troop of horsemen that reminded Tom irresistibly of the troops that had followed the big guns up Hog Lane. It required all of Bess’s cunning to keep a decent pair of horses back for Tom and Ben, who would be leaving soon themselves. Gawdy and Dr Rowley elected to stay another night – recovering from shock at the very least, they said – and follow with what speed they could on the morrow; but, fired with a wild new urgency, Tom would not wait, and Ben perforce must follow his master.

  Bess gave Tom the best horses left in her stables, a note for the innkeeper of the Antelope beside the abbey in Sherborne, for she knew well enough that if Poley and his men had passed there, good horses would be in short supply indeed.

  Tom and Ben were gone at once, out into the rolling south country, pounding past Salisbury as the cathedral bells rang for evensong, and then past Shaftesbury at compline – though it was still illegal to call it by its Roman name – as the sun began to set in their eyes. Down the hill into the Stour valley they came, with evening gathering around them as they passed the Ship Inn in West Stour, already a popular resting place for sailors travelling between Plymouth and London. Darkness had descended by the time they trotted over the crossroads at Henstridge and it was too dark to see the sign of the new inn there; but the moon rose as they topped the rise at Oborne and its calm, silver radiance saw them safely down past the old castle and the new, where Sir Walter Raleigh and his Bess were at their housework, and into Sherborne at last.

  They supped at the Antelope – past which Poley and his men had thundered some hours earlier, pausing only to annex the best horses they could find – and slept till dawn, guaranteed the best of service and of horseflesh by Bess’s message.

  ‘Best keep Missus Law’s note and shew it anywheres along the Plymouth road,’ the innkeeper at the Antelope advised them. ‘It’ll serve ye better than a pass from Her Majesty herself, such as that lean courier flourished yestere’en.’

  And so they found, as they sped onwards through Easter Saturday, hurtling westwards and southwards at a steady fifteen of the Queen’s new statute miles in an hour, relentlessly closing the distance between themselves and Lady Margaret.

  They went through Yeovil with the early farmers coming in to the Easter market and used Bess’s near-magical note to change horses at Crewkerne and Chard. They ate in the saddle at Honiton, where Lady Margaret had been last night while they lay at the Antelope and Poley had passed like a storm-wind somewhere in between.

  Tom had hoped to catch her at Exete
r, but as they came down into the city, with the bells ringing for compline, it was after eight in the evening. Ben’s horse was exhausted, stumbling over the cobbles of the cathedral square and so they stopped at the Clarence, showed the innkeeper Bess’s letter and explained their business.

  ‘Lady Margaret rested here at midday,’ the innkeeper said. ‘She planned to be at Buck-fast tonight, from what she said. That’s six hours distant for her and the best part of three for yourselves, with fresh horses and hard riding. Bestir yourselves betimes tomorrow and say your Easter prayers in the saddle and you’ll catch her still at services in the abbey there before she leaves. I’ll hire you the best of my horses then, but I’ll not risk their legs in the dark – especially with riders as exhausted as your boy there on their backs.’

  Frustrating though it was, Tom had to admit the logic of the argument. Ben was asleep on his feet – too tired to eat, indeed and Tom was hardly in better shape. They climbed the stairs to the last vacant room in the place, which they were happy enough to share. They slept like the dead, awaking with the sun to discover that the landlord’s daughter was hammering on the door – and that during the night their bodies had turned to stone.

  ‘Dear God, Tom,’ cried Ben in genuine distress, ‘I cannot move. Is it the palsy? Is it the paralysis?’

  ‘Neither,’ said Tom. ‘It is twelve hours in the saddle on two days running. Here. As soon as I can get off the bed I’ll help you up.’

  In fact they had to call the innkeeper’s buxom daughter to help Tom before the pair of them pulled Ben on to his feet. The first peal of bells celebrating Easter dawn rang out as they did so – fortunately, for it spared the country virgin’s ears from the bricklayer’s unholy language.

  The ostlers, with scarce-controlled hilarity, lifted Ben into the saddle like a French knight at Agincourt; then, with no more than a crust in their hands, they were off again. Allowing their wise, well-travelled horses their heads, they clattered through the gates before the cathedral watchmen could ask why they were heading away from church on the holiest of days. Away along the road south and west past the scattered hovels that comprised the villages of Hardcombe and Chudleigh, then on along the grassy track that was the Plymouth road, as it led them under the wild and rugged shoulder of Dartmoor itself.