by Sam Thomas
“Nobody would,” Katherine replied. “And nobody would be more surprised than me if women were allowed to vote. But I spoke the Lord’s truth, and now everyone in the tavern is discussing the matter. Sometimes making trouble is all you can do. And sometimes making trouble is enough.” She peered through the tavern window. “Things have calmed a bit. I should go back in.” Katherine bid us farewell and ducked back through the door.
I shook my head. “I think I’ve heard enough for tonight,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
As Martha and I neared Cheapside Street, a handful of the City Watch passed us, headed toward the Nag’s Head. I wondered if the arguments at the tavern had over-boiled their pot and turned to violence.
“Will you tell Mr. Marlowe about the unrest Katherine caused?” Martha asked.
“I was wondering the same thing,” I said. “I don’t want to cause trouble for her, but what happens if we lie and Mr. Marlowe finds out?” I considered the question as we passed St. Mary-le-Bow and turned south on Bread Street, nearly home. How familiar the Cheap had become! Just a few months before it had seemed a maze without end, and now I could navigate its streets even in the dark. The confusion of the streets gave me my answer.
“Are you sure of what you heard at the Nag’s Head?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I know that Katherine spoke, but with so many in the tavern, and so much noise, I could hardly hear a thing. Indeed, with so much shouting, I cannot say for sure who started the tumult.”
“Aye,” Martha said. “With so many voices raised in anger, it could have been anyone.”
That night I wrote a confused letter to Mr. Marlowe, describing the arguments we heard and noting the disagreement between Daniel Chidley and Jeremiah Goodkey. I mentioned that Katherine stood to speak, but said there’d been so much shouting I could not hear her words. When I finished the letter, I joined Martha in our bed. She was still awake.
“What do you make of it all?” she asked.
“Of the trial of the King?” I asked. “Or of giving every Englishman the right to vote, no matter their worth? Or of Katherine’s mad plan to let women vote as well?”
“All of it.”
I considered the question for a time before answering. “I do not know. I am not blind to the injustices that plague England, but I cannot countenance turning the world entirely upside down in the hope that anarchy is superior to tyranny.” I thought for a moment more. “But in the end it does not matter what you or I think, for matters of state do not lie in our hands. We are sailors on a storm-tossed ship, not the captains. We must do our duty as best we can, but in the end we are at the mercy of others.”
“And you are content as a common sailor?” Martha asked.
“We have done our part,” I replied. “In York we saved Esther Wallington from an unjust execution and saw murderers hanged for their crimes. And do not forget the fate that awaited Grace Ramsden if we had not been here to help. A ship cannot survive a storm without her sailors. We must do our best and hope that our captains can guide our craft to a safe harbor.”
But the next morning it became clear that our safe harbor would prove elusive. Martha and I had just finished cleaning our rooms when one of Katherine Chidley’s maidservants pounded up the stairs and burst through the door.
“Mrs. Hodgson, please help,” she cried out. “Mrs. Chidley needs you. Her husband has been murdered!”
* * *
Martha and I hurled ourselves down the stairs and across the street to the Chidleys’ shop. The room was filled with cloth waiting to be cut and sewn into coats for the New Model Army, but on this day no work was being done. We found Katherine by herself, gazing at Daniel’s lifeless body. Despite the hours we’d spent together, Katherine had never said much about Daniel or their marriage, but the pure anguish on her face made clear that his death had hollowed her to the marrow.
Daniel’s body lay propped against the wall, his eyes staring at the front door, as if he were awaiting a visitor—or watching his murderer leave. His coat was unbuttoned, revealing a linen shirt, unmarked except for a small hole and the circle of blood that had seeped into the fabric. A thin crimson line ran downward from the hole. He must have died quickly to have bled so little.
I went to Katherine and put my arm around her shoulders. She said nothing, but she leaned into me, accepting the support I offered. Martha crossed the room and knelt next to Daniel’s body. We had examined bodies under such circumstances before, and Martha had proved most acute in her observations. If Daniel’s murderer had left behind any sign of his identity, Martha would find it. She lifted his coat and carefully pulled back his shirt so she could see the wound in his chest. She then examined his hands and fingernails, looking for skin or blood. Finally, she lifted his chin, so she could see his neck. She thought for a moment, nodded, and stood.
At that moment the door flew open and the constable burst into the shop. He was followed by a small army of beadles and, finally, the Chidleys’ maidservant. When the constable saw Daniel’s body the blood ran from his face, and I worried he might faint. He looked around the room in a panic, as if the murderer might be lying in wait. When his eyes settled on Katherine, they narrowed, and he strode across the room.
“You’ve done it, haven’t you, you harridan,” he hissed at Katherine. “You’ve finally gotten that rebellion you’ve wanted for so long. Wasn’t taking the King enough? You had to overthrow your own husband?”
I was about to intervene, but I did not get the chance, for Martha was having none of his nonsense, either.
“You cannot be serious,” she cried, stepping between Katherine and the constable.
The constable started to speak, but Martha was not yet done.
“Take Mrs. Chidley to her chamber,” she said to the maidservant. “She does not need to hear any of this.”
To her credit, the girl did not even glance in the constable’s direction, but came straight to her mistress. Katherine nodded absently and accompanied her servant up the stairs.
Martha turned back to the constable.
“How was Mr. Chidley killed?” she demanded.
“He was stabbed,” the constable replied scornfully. “The worst of fools can see that.”
“Correct on both counts,” Martha replied. “He was stabbed, and we now know that the worst of fools can see it. But how was he stabbed?”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “In the chest? With a knife?”
I could see Martha battling the urge to throttle the constable. “Look at Mr. Chidley, and imagine how it happened.”
“She stabbed him,” the constable replied. I admired Martha for not punching him in the throat.
“Yes, you said that already. But if that is true, how did she do it?” She took piece of kindling from beside the hearth and handed it to the constable. “Stab me as Mrs. Chidley stabbed Mr. Chidley.”
“I will do no such thing.” The constable was more offended by Martha’s impertinence than the dead body before him.
“Do what she says,” I said. “Or the Justice will hear of it.” It was an empty threat—what sway did I have over a Justice of the Peace?—but it worked well enough.
“But—”
“Mr. Chidley has been murdered, and the girl is trying to help. Do what she says.”
“Very well.” The constable turned to Martha and pretended to stab her in the chest.
Martha cried out and fell back, her arms flailing. After a moment she settled against the wall next to Daniel.
“There,” the constable said. “Just as I told you.”
“Why, then, is the shop in perfect order?” she asked. “Why has no cloth been knocked to the floor? Do you see blood anywhere except on his body?”
The constable looked around the room and shook his head.
“Then by your account, after Mr. Chidley was stabbed, he did not fight back, nor did he call for help. Rather he sat down and waited to die.”
“Mrs. Chi
dley held him down,” he replied weakly. I did not think he believed his own words.
“A woman as small as Mrs. Chidley held down her own husband while he died? All without getting a spot of blood on her, or alerting her maidservant?”
The constable looked as if he were coming down with a winter fever.
“Look at his neck,” Martha said.
The constable knelt next to Daniel’s body and lifted his chin as Martha had done. He stared at Daniel’s neck for a few moments before standing. “His neck is marked.”
“Aye, but how?”
“There are marks in the shape of fingers and a thumb,” the constable muttered. “Someone held him by the throat.”
“And that is why he died so quietly,” Martha said. “The murderer seized Mr. Chidley’s neck, stabbed him, and then held him against the wall while he died. He didn’t even pull out the blade until Mr. Chidley was dead. That’s why he bled so little.”
“At the moment he died, Daniel was looking into his killer’s eyes,” I said to myself.
“Now tell me, constable,” Martha continued, “do you think Mrs. Chidley is strong enough to have held Mr. Chidley by the throat, stabbed him in the chest, and kept her grip for all the time it took him die? And is she cold enough to stare into her own husband’s face, even as he breathed his last?”
For a time nobody spoke.
“Perhaps you should summon the coroner and a Justice of the Peace,” I murmured. “Let men above your rank concern themselves with this matter.”
Relief filled the constable’s eyes. He nodded to one of the beadles, who dashed off in search of help.
Within minutes more men had come to see Daniel’s body, and women had come to console Katherine. Martha and I went upstairs, but Katherine was so numbed with grief that she could not hear the words of comfort that we offered. We stayed with her until nightfall and beyond, directing her other gossips and ensuring the house stayed in order. Eventually Katherine slept, and only then did Martha and I return home.
“Light a candle,” I said to Martha as soon as the door closed behind us. “We must notify Mr. Marlowe of what has happened.”
Martha and I spent nearly an hour crafting our letter, including every detail we could recall, from the bruises on Daniel’s neck to the single wound in his chest, to the curious state of his shop. As soon as the sun rose, Martha and I delivered the letter to the Horned Bull only to find that neither Will nor Tom—how quickly I had started thinking of him as Tom—was there.
“You never know with those two,” the innkeeper’s wife chirped. “Sometimes they’re gone for days at a time. Never say where they went. But don’t think I don’t ask. What is your business with them?”
Martha and I exchanged a glance. Leaving our letter with this woman would be no different than having it shouted from every pulpit in London. In the end we settled for leaving a more cryptic note, telling Will and Tom that we had important news, and that they should come to the Cheap as soon as they could.
In the days that followed, the Cheap buzzed incessantly with news of two kinds. There was Daniel’s murder, of course, and the futile search for his killer. When people tired of that matter, they turned to Parliament’s plan to try King Charles for treason. Curiously enough, neither Will nor Tom responded to our note, or any of the others we sent in its wake. I even went so far as to send a letter to Mr. Marlowe at the Tower, but it, too, was ignored. With nothing else to do, Martha and I concerned ourselves with life rather than death. We had our own clients, and we also took upon ourselves the care of Katherine’s mothers while she grieved for Daniel.
On January twentieth, the very day the King’s trial was to begin, Martha was called to a travail, and I took advantage of my leisure to shop for a new dress. It would be wool rather than silk, of course, but I had determined to buy a more luxurious weave. As I returned home, Tom Reynolds fell into step beside me, but he gave no outward sign that he knew who I was.
“Follow me,” he murmured. He passed the Evelyns’ door and led me south on Bread Street toward Pissing Alley. We entered the Horned Bull, where he and Will were staying, and found a candlelit table at the back of the dining room.
“Where is Will?” I asked. “Why didn’t you send him?”
“He is still away on business for Mr. Marlowe.” A smile flitted across Tom’s lips. “And speaking with you is not the most onerous of my duties.”
I suddenly became aware of my heartbeat and hoped that the flickering light would not show the blood that had rushed to my face. “I have news,” I said. “Daniel Chidley has been murdered.”
“We know,” Tom said. “That is why I sought you out.”
“But there is much you do not know.” I told him everything that Martha and I had seen on that dreadful day.
“Yes,” Tom said. “Well done.”
I looked at him for a moment. There was something strange in his manner. “You knew all that,” I said. “You knew about the bruises, the single wound to his chest … all of it.”
Tom smiled and shrugged. “We have many eyes in the Cheap. And that, in fact, is why I am here.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Mr. Marlowe was unhappy to learn of Daniel Chidley’s murder.”
“Unhappy?” I asked. “Daniel was as turbulent a Leveller as you’d find in London. I should have thought that Mr. Marlowe would welcome his death.”
“If it had been any other Leveller, he might have,” Tom replied. “But Daniel Chidley was one of Mr. Marlowe’s spies.”
I stared at Tom, trying to make sense of this news.
“Why would Daniel do such a thing? He lived and breathed for the Leveller cause. And why would Mr. Marlowe ask me to spy on Daniel Chidley, if Daniel was already in his employ?”
Tom laughed. “When it comes to his spies, Mr. Marlowe is nothing if not thorough. He wanted to be sure he could trust Daniel.”
I remembered then that someone had spied on Martha and me on the night Daniel spoke at the Nag’s Head. It must have been Daniel himself. I shook my head in wonder at the webs Mr. Marlowe wove. “Why would Daniel have agreed to be Mr. Marlowe’s spy?”
“He didn’t have a choice,” Tom replied.
I thought for a moment and realized what must have happened. “Their son,” I said. “Mr. Marlowe threatened their son in the same way he threatened Will.”
“Aye,” Tom said. “Their boy is in the New Model Army, and he is no less vulnerable than Will was when he was in the Tower. A parent’s love is a powerful weapon.”
“What threat did Mr. Marlowe make?” I asked.
Tom shrugged. “I never asked. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, I suppose not. Mr. Marlowe is a hateful man.”
“He is effective, and in these times that is all that matters,” Tom said. “It is also true that when recruiting spies Mr. Marlowe favors bribes more than threats. You and Daniel were exceptions.”
“Did Katherine know that Daniel was a spy?”
“Not unless he told her. Nobody knew except Mr. Marlowe and me. At least that is what we thought.”
“You think someone discovered Daniel was Mr. Marlowe’s spy and killed him for it,” I said.
“It would be dangerous to assume otherwise. On the day he was killed, Daniel sent me a message saying he had urgent news. We were to meet that evening. He never showed.”
“That cannot be mere chance,” I said.
Tom shook his head. “Someone knew about Daniel’s work, and killed him for it.”
“The Levellers would not be pleased to learn of Daniel’s duplicity. Do you think he was killed for betraying their cause?”
“It is possible. It might also have been a Royalist who hated the democracy he preached. Daniel had no shortage of enemies.”
“If someone discovered Daniel was in Mr. Marlowe’s service, they might know I am as well,” I said. “Did Mr. Marlowe send you to warn me of the danger?”
“I wish that were so,” Tom said with a rue
ful smile. “But Mr. Marlowe is not so tenderhearted as that. He wants you to find Daniel Chidley’s killer.”
Chapter 12
I stared at Tom for a moment, struck dumb by Mr. Marlowe’s audacity. “Oliver Cromwell’s chief intelligencer wants me to find the man who killed his spy?” I asked. “Surely he can do such a thing himself.”
Tom laughed kindly at my outrage and took my hand. A shiver dashed up my spine and back down again.
“He can’t do it himself,” Tom said. “An intelligencer is only as good as his spies, and Mr. Marlowe counts you as one of his. This is why he brought you to London.”
I tried to follow Tom’s words, but I found myself unable to think of anything except the fact that he still held my hand. I pulled it away so I could recover myself.
“And he has nobody else?” I asked.
“Nobody better suited to the work. Not only do you live across the street from the Chidleys, but you have more experience in such matters than anyone else in his employ. He would be a fool not to put this task in your hands, and, hard as he is, Mr. Marlowe is no fool.”
I sat in silence considering the challenge before me. As much as I hated Marlowe and his methods, I could not forget Katherine Chidley’s grief. How could I call myself her gossip if I did not do this for her? I thought then of the ease with which the murderer had killed Daniel, and of how lucky I’d been to survive my last encounter with so dangerous a man.
“Whoever killed Daniel will not hesitate to kill again,” I said.
“Aye,” Tom said, his face serious. “And it appears that he is very good at killing. Daniel Chidley never had a chance.”
“But I cannot say no,” I said.
“No, you cannot,” he replied. “When it comes to Mr. Marlowe, there is only yes.”
“Very well,” I said. “Is there anything else he would have me do?”
“No, just the one murderer to catch,” he said.
I laughed despite myself.
“But I can offer you some help in this matter.” Tom reached into his bag and produced an envelope not unlike the one he’d given me in the Tower. “There are some people who seem more likely than others to have had a hand in Daniel Chidley’s death. I have a list here, and details of what we know about them. Where you start is your business, but you should be aware of these men.”