The Midwife and the Assassin

by Sam Thomas

“Katherine says you have joined in the hunt for Daniel’s murderer,” he said.

  “She asked us to help,” I said. “And she thought you might have some information that could help us in our search.”

  “What have you discovered so far?” he asked.

  “Nothing of obvious importance,” I said. “Except that Daniel had more enemies than any man ought to.”

  “Because he was both with the Levellers and spying for Cromwell,” Walker said.

  “Katherine told you that?”

  “Aye. She also said that you suspect Jeremiah Goodkey.”

  I nodded. “There are also some in the King’s faction who might have killed him: a tavern-keeper named Owen, and an Italian called Bacca.”

  Walker looked surprised at this. “I count Charles Owen as a friend,” Walker said. “And I’ll tell you now that you are wasting your time with him.”

  “Why is that?” Martha asked.

  “He loves the King more than is good for him, and he has an improvident tongue. But he is no murderer.”

  “How can you know that?” Martha clearly trusted Walker less than Katherine did. “People have secrets. People change.”

  “He is a man of talk, not action. He always has been. He never took up arms for the King, even when His Majesty was riding high. He would never take such a step now that the King is down. If you are going to discover Daniel’s murderer, you will have to look past such a coward as Charles Owen.”

  “By this you mean Bacca or Jeremiah Goodkey.”

  “I do not know this Bacca, but Goodkey is another matter. He is a creature entirely unlike Charles Owen. During the war he was willing to spill blood for his beliefs, and if rumors are to be believed he did so by the gallon. I don’t think he would hesitate to kill again if he thought it was necessary.”

  “We’ve seen his temper,” Martha said.

  “There is that as well. Goodkey is cunning enough to plan Daniel’s murder and choleric enough to kill him on the spur of the moment. I don’t know that he is guilty, but it would not surprise me in the least.”

  “Are there others you suspect?” I asked.

  Walker shrugged. “A few, but none as much as our friend Goodkey.”

  “Who else?” I sensed that Walker knew more than he was saying.

  “Some in Cromwell’s camp, I suppose. Cromwell’s spymaster is a man named Marlowe. His hands are already so bloody from killing that adding Daniel to his tally would not trouble his conscience.”

  I caught my breath. If Walker knew about Marlowe, could he know that Martha and I were in his service?

  “Why would this Marlowe kill his own spy?” Martha asked.

  “Spy-craft is a dangerous business,” Walker said. “It is an easy thing to cross the wrong man and find yourself dead. If Marlowe thought that Daniel had betrayed him, Daniel’s life would not be worth a cup of day-old ale.”

  “And if Marlowe did kill Mr. Chidley?” Martha asked. “What would we do then?”

  “Do?” Walker laughed. “I would challenge you to find a Justice of the Peace willing to arrest Oliver Cromwell’s chief intelligencer. If Marlowe or any other of Cromwell’s men killed Daniel, there is nothing we can do. Look first at Goodkey, for he at least is vulnerable.”

  “I do not like it,” I said. “If one of Cromwell’s men is guilty…”

  Walker interrupted. “There is no profit in stretching for fruit that is beyond your reach, and you cannot reach a man like Marlowe. Pick the fruit that is within your grasp. Jeremiah Goodkey is that fruit.” Walker stood. “I should go. If you learn anything more—about Goodkey especially—tell me. I may be able to help.” Walker bid us farewell and he started down the stairs. Martha and I waited to speak until we saw him on the street below.

  “He seemed rather eager to guide us away from Charles Owen and toward Goodkey,” Martha said.

  “He knows them both,” I replied. “He was simply telling us what he thought.”

  “I do not trust him.”

  “He is Katherine’s friend,” I said. “And if she trusts him, so should we. We cannot make every man we meet into a suspect. Let us go to the Nag’s Head and talk to Jeremiah Goodkey. Perhaps he will clarify matters.”

  * * *

  As soon as Martha and I entered the Nag’s Head it was clear that we would have better luck talking to Goodkey than we’d had on our previous visit. I did not think the Levellers’ passions had burned themselves out, but someone at least had banked the coals. A handful of customers—mostly men today—were scattered about the room, talking in low voices. As usual, Jeremiah Goodkey stood behind the bar.

  When Martha and I sat, he came right over. He had more gray in his hair than I’d first realized, and the lines on his face would soon become wrinkles. The man was Katherine’s age, at least, but there was no question that he retained the strength of his youth, for his forearms each were as thick a Christmas log.

  “What will you have?” he asked. Without the overheating effects of politics, Goodkey seemed far more congenial than menacing.

  “Small beers,” I replied. In truth I would have preferred something stronger, but I also wanted to keep my wits about me. Goodkey returned with our drinks and set them on the table.

  “And a word,” I said.

  Goodkey looked at us in confusion but sat down. “What word?”

  “We are here about Daniel Chidley’s murder,” I said.

  As I’d hoped, this caught Goodkey off his guard. He looked surprised for a moment and then fearful.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “How long ago was Daniel murdered?” Martha asked.

  Goodkey thought for a moment. “Weeks,” he said. “A month soon enough.”

  “Aye,” Martha said. “And have the Justices found his murderer?”

  Goodkey snorted. “If they looked for Daniel’s murderer, it would only be to make him a constable.”

  “Exactly right,” I said. “Mrs. Chidley knows this, and set out to find his murderer herself.”

  “That sounds like Katherine,” Goodkey said with a smile. “And she’s enlisted you into her army? That sounds like her, too. So why are you here among Daniel’s friends?”

  “He wasn’t killed by a stranger,” I replied.

  “Who then?” Goodkey asked. “Daniel talked more than most, but this is London. If talking were reason enough for murder, we’d all be murderers or murdered.”

  “Daniel was a spy for Oliver Cromwell.”

  Goodkey burst out laughing. “That is madness. Daniel would bow to a bishop before he served that tyrant.”

  “That may be true,” Martha said. “But he was a spy all the same.”

  “Never.”

  “Katherine Chidley found letters he wrote to Cromwell’s spymaster,” I lied. “As well as letters the spymaster wrote in return.”

  Goodkey stared into my eyes, searching for some sign that my accusation was false. “It is true?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Well, that might indeed get him killed, even by a friend,” Goodkey said. “And you think his murderer might be one of my customers.”

  “That is one possibility,” Martha said.

  “What is the other?” Goodkey thought for a moment and realized the answer to his own question. “You think I killed Daniel.”

  “You had reason enough,” I replied. “And you’re strong enough to hold him with one hand and stab him with the other.”

  “But I had no idea he was a spy, did I? So I couldn’t have done it.” Goodkey’s denial seemed genuine enough, but I could not credit it entirely.

  “That’s the question,” Martha said. “If you knew he’d turned against the Levellers, you’d have killed him.”

  “But I didn’t know.” Goodkey insisted, and paused for a moment. “Of course, if I did kill him, I’d deny knowing of his betrayal. How can I convince you?”

  “Where were you on the morning he died?” I asked. “If you can answer that, we’ll readily believe
in your innocencey.”

  Goodkey shook his head. “I’ll tell you, but it won’t help: I was here, by myself. I live upstairs and spent the morning reading in my Bible. I was there when I heard of his death. I didn’t go out, and nobody came in.”

  “Do you carry a knife?” Martha asked.

  Goodkey blinked at the question and then glanced at his right hip. Quick as lightning, Martha leaned forward and snatched at Goodkey’s belt. She came away with a knife in her hand. Goodkey started to object but stopped himself. I watched Goodkey’s face as Martha examined the blade, but I could not read his expression.

  “You might have asked,” Goodkey complained. “What tavern-keeper doesn’t carry a knife? I use it every day.”

  With a flick of her wrist, Martha flipped the knife so the blade was in her hand and passed it back to Goodkey. He accepted it and looked at us warily.

  “It’s not the blade that killed Daniel,” she said. “It’s too wide and has a curve to it.”

  “Daniel was killed with a stiletto?” Goodkey asked. “Then you can forget about any tavern-keeper. We have no use for such a knife. We’re in the business of cutting, not stabbing.”

  “The fact that you aren’t carrying the knife doesn’t prove your innocencey,” Martha pointed out.

  “I did not kill Daniel,” Goodkey insisted. “He was my friend.”

  “Then who did?” I asked. “He was a vocal and opinionated man who betrayed his friends. He would have made enemies faster than his shop made coats.”

  Goodkey’s eyes darted about the room, and for a moment his unease reminded me of Charles Owen’s. “Well, it would be the King’s men, wouldn’t it? They hate him for opposing the King, for selling coats to the New Model Army, and for joining in with the Levellers.”

  “Who do you mean?” I asked. “You have someone in mind.”

  Goodkey’s eyes searched the room yet again, as if he feared that one of the King’s spies might have slipped in when he wasn’t paying attention. “There is a man,” he said at last. “An Italian. He is very dangerous.”

  Martha and I glanced at each other. He could only have one person in mind.

  “What is his name?” I asked.

  “It is only rumors,” he said. “I cannot be sure.”

  “Tell me,” I insisted.

  Goodkey leaned toward us, coming so close that our foreheads nearly touched. “They call him Bacca. Lorenzo Bacca. But if you trifle with him, you will regret it.” Goodkey rose to his feet and nearly ran for the safety of the bar.

  * * *

  “And we’re back to Lorenzo Bacca,” Martha said. We’d left the Nag’s Head and were making our way back to our side of the Cheap.

  “Aye,” I said. “Just before he died, Daniel told Colonel Reynolds he’d discovered a plot. Perhaps the Royalists intended a rising to rescue the King.”

  “That would be reason enough to see Daniel dead.”

  “More than enough,” I said. “And if Daniel had to die, why not send Bacca?”

  As we walked in silence for a few minutes puzzling over our next steps, I realized how we could use Goodkey’s suspicions about Bacca to our advantage. We paused outside Katherine’s shop and I explained my plan.

  Martha nodded. “That should work. Let us go inside.”

  Katherine looked up when we entered the shop. Half a dozen young women sat hunched over tables, cutting and sewing wool cloth into coats. Katherine gestured for us to wait and returned to inspecting one girl’s work. “Nicely done,” she said to the seamstress. “That is what we need.”

  After examining a few more coats, Katherine said, “Come, let us go upstairs.”

  As soon as we reached the parlor, Katherine turned to face us. “You’ve learned something, haven’t you?”

  “Nothing for sure,” I said.

  “Tell me.”

  “We spoke to Jeremiah Goodkey,” I said. “He denies killing Daniel, but he suggested one who might.”

  “Who is it?”

  “One of the King’s men,” Martha said. “An Italian named Bacca.”

  Katherine thought for a moment. “You think Daniel might have discovered a Royalist scheme to return Charles to the throne.”

  “Bacca frequents a tavern called the Crown. Do you know it?”

  “Aye,” Katherine said. “It is a den of vipers if ever one existed, full of Royalists to the very top. You think Bacca killed Daniel?”

  “It is possible,” Martha said. “There is also the owner of the Crown. He is a man named Charles Owen. It is said that he loves the King above all else.”

  Katherine shook her head. “I don’t know him, but if he loves the King he’d have every reason to hate Daniel. Have you learned anything else?”

  “All we have are suspicions,” I said.

  “That is not all,” Katherine said. “Now we have names. Bacca, Owen…” She paused. “And, though I hate the idea, there is Jeremiah Goodkey. With those three, we have a place to start, and that is no small thing. What shall we do now?”

  I thought for a moment. “You can hardly frequent the Crown,” I said. “So Martha and I should look to Bacca and Owen.”

  Katherine nodded. “And I’ll see to Jeremiah. If he killed Daniel, I’ll find out. He could not keep so deep a secret for long.”

  Martha and I bid Katherine farewell and returned to our tenement. Martha went out for our evening meal, and I wrote a letter to Elizabeth. I told her of the King’s trial, and the confusion it had brought to the city. After a moment’s consideration I added, You should remain patient, but it is possible that you might soon join us in London. I knew I was taking a risk in writing this, but I could not leave her without hope.

  “Now all I need is the name of Daniel’s murderer,” I said to myself.

  * * *

  In the days that followed, London tossed itself about like a fevered patient. Every conversation was about the King’s execution, and everyone spoke in hushed tones. But how else could it be, given the path England had chosen? With the death of Charles, England would have neither King nor Queen, and only the Lord knew what such events might portend. On the night of January twenty-ninth—just a handful of hours before the King would die—Katherine Chidley appeared at our door, her face a solemn mask.

  “These are weighty days,” she said. “And tomorrow is the weightiest of them all. In the morning I will go to the Banqueting House and witness the overturning of the old order. Will you two accompany me?”

  “You are going to the King’s execution?” I asked.

  “Aye,” she replied. “Where else is there to be on such a day?”

  I considered the question and realized that she was right. If Elizabeth someday asked where I was when King Charles was executed, did I want to reply, Asleep in my bed? No, these were shaking days, and I too would bear witness to them.

  The next morning, hours before dawn, Martha and I dressed in silence and accompanied Katherine to the Banqueting House. We walked some two miles, tracing the same route that Martha and I had taken when we entered the city. We passed through the Ludgate, over the stinking stream known—too grandly—as the River Fleet, and then onto the Strand. With every step more people joined our procession to Whitehall Palace. Although some in the crowd must have fought against the King, there was none of the jesting that all too often accompanied an execution. We all realized that in killing Charles, we were not merely killing a man. For the first time in England’s history, the cry of “The King is dead!” would not be followed by “Long live the King!” The King would be dead, and that would be all.

  It was still well dark when the three of us reached the Banqueting House and the scaffold came into view. At the House, King Street—how ironic the name!—became a sort of courtyard, and it was immediately clear why the army had chosen this spot for the execution. To the south lay a turreted gate flanked on one side by the Banqueting House and on the other by a high brick wall. The King would die in a blind alley. The flickering light of the torches illumi
nated a platform overseeing the entire yard. The army had placed cannons upon it, and pointed them into the crowd. Any attempt to free the King would result in slaughter on a grand scale. The scaffold was draped entirely in black, and even now—hours before the execution—it was surrounded by a troop of horsemen armed with pistols and swords, as well as a rank of pikemen. The army was taking no chances.

  In the hours that followed, the courtyard filled to overflowing and when the sun rose we could see that every vantage point overlooking the scaffold had been taken. Faces filled each window, and some brave souls had climbed out on the roofs of surrounding buildings. All had come to witness the death of their sovereign. The crowd waited in silence for what seemed an eternity. To my relief Katherine had come prepared with enough bread and cheese to keep the worst of our hunger at bay, but by noon we were ravenous.

  Sometime after that, the scaffold began to fill and we knew the final act had begun. The first to come into view were soldiers, who peered into the crowd to ensure that all was well. They were followed by men with books and inkhorns. I supposed they were there to record the King’s last words. Finally came the executioner and his assistant, both disguised not just with masks, but with false beards and wigs beneath their hats. The executioner inspected the blade of his ax and then the low block on which the King would lay his head. He nodded to one of the soldiers, who went into the Banqueting House. A few moments later, the King emerged. He wore a heavy black cloak, but none of the finery one would expect from a monarch. He looked out over the crowd and nodded to himself. I later learned that he wore an extra woolen shirt under his cloak so that he would not shiver in the cold; he was loath to have his subjects think he feared death.

  The King produced a piece of paper from beneath his cloak and began to read. He was so far away and surrounded by so many soldiers that we could not hope to hear him. Finally, he turned to his executioner and the two men exchanged a few words. The King removed his cloak, and then what few royal jewels he still wore. A man stepped forward and helped the King put on a cap to keep his hair from impeding the executioner’s fatal blow.

  At last, he knelt and placed his head on the block. The executioner bent forward and, as tenderly as any lover, tucked a stray lock of the King’s hair under the cap. He then stood with his ax at the ready and waited for the King’s sign. The King extended his hand and, in a blinding flash, the ax fell.