The Midwife and the Assassin

by Sam Thomas

  At the sound of the ax, there emerged from the assembled crowd such a groan as I had never heard before, and hoped that I might never hear again. I closed my eyes to pray, not for Charles’s soul—for he had already been judged—but for England. I did not know where such a bloody stroke would lead us, but the Bible said that blood cries out from the ground for vengeance. How loud must the cries of a king’s blood be, and how would the Lord answer such cries?

  Even as the King’s head settled into the executioner’s basket, we heard men shouting and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. With no more warning than that, horsemen flooded the yard, driving the crowd before them. Martha, Katherine, and I linked arms and fled as quickly as we could. By the time we reached Charing Cross, the crowd had begun to thin, and it became a somber procession back along the Strand into the city proper. Martha and I accompanied Katherine to her door, where we embraced and murmured our farewells. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to climb into my bed, pull the coverlet over me, and sleep for weeks.

  As soon as Martha and I crossed the street, however, a voice called out to us.

  “Martha, Aunt Bridget!” Will hurried towards us. I could tell from his expression that he brought terrible news.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You must come with me. Whoever killed Daniel Chidley has killed again. Colonel Reynolds and Mr. Marlowe are with the body. They sent me to find you.”

  Even before Martha or I could respond, a woman called out from across the street.

  “Martha Hawkins, there you are!” She hurried toward us. “Lucy Sheldon has begun her travail. She sent me to find you.”

  Martha’s eyes darted between Will and me.

  “Go,” I told her. She started to protest, but I would not have it. “You see to the living, I’ll look to the dead. Go upstairs, get your birthing stool and valise, and go to your mother. She comes first. If you need help, send for Mrs. Chidley.”

  Martha nodded and went inside.

  I turned to Will. “Take me to the body.”

  Chapter 17

  Will and I made our way south from the Cheap toward the river, and it was not long before I became thoroughly lost. As much as the Cheap now felt like home, the rest of London remained so strange and unfamiliar it might have been another city entirely.

  “Who has been killed?” I asked.

  “A man named Enoch Harrison,” Will said. “Few people know his name, but he was among the most important men in the Kingdom.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He owns a gunpowder-works near Greenwich. He was the chief supplier for both the New Model Army and Cromwell’s navy.” We turned onto a broad lane and stopped before a stately home. “Here we are.”

  Will led me up a set of stone stairs to the door, and we entered without knocking. We passed through an entry hall into what must have been Enoch Harrison’s office. I stopped and looked at the office door—someone had broken in with such force that the frame had splintered.

  Enoch Harrison’s body lay facedown upon an ornately carved desk at the far end of the room. Tom Reynolds and Mr. Marlowe stood on either side, staring forlornly at the corpse. The office itself was large and well appointed, its shelves full of books, but also pistols and muskets in various states of disassembly; there was even a small brass cannon sitting in one corner.

  “Good,” Marlowe said when we entered. “Come around here and see what we’ve found.”

  I circled behind the desk and looked down at the corpse. It was immediately clear why Mr. Marlowe had connected Enoch Harrison’s murder to Daniel Chidley’s. A single wound, less than an inch wide, ruined the back of an otherwise spotless silk doublet. The hole was on his left side, just below the shoulder blade, precisely over his heart. His papers sat in neat piles around his body. As in Daniel’s case, Harrison had hardly bled at all, and he’d died without a struggle. I pulled back Harrison’s collar to peer at his neck. Unlike Daniel, there were no bruises, but the killer had stabbed him in the back, so choking might not have been necessary. My hand brushed the skin—it was cold and waxen.

  “Do we know how long he has been dead?” I asked.

  “His servant was the last person to see him alive,” Marlowe said. “He left Mr. Harrison alone last night and went to bed. He thought nothing of it when Mr. Harrison did not rise for breakfast, but when he discovered the locked door he began to worry. He summoned the neighbors and they broke in.”

  “And nobody saw or heard anything?”

  “His servant is older than Methuselah,” Marlowe said, frustration dripping from every word. “The murderer could have used a cannon without disturbing the old man’s sleep. Harrison’s daughter was here, but she went to bed even before the servant, and didn’t hear a sound.”

  “He died so quickly, he probably didn’t make a sound,” Tom added.

  I nodded in agreement. “If he didn’t live long enough to knock the papers from his desk, he could hardly be expected to cry out for help.” I joined Tom and Mr. Marlowe in gazing at Mr. Harrison’s body. “Why would someone kill both Daniel Chidley and Enoch Harrison?” I asked. “What did they have in common?”

  “That is one question,” Marlowe replied, his voice tight. “But not the most urgent.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “The Army is preparing an expedition against Ireland,” Tom said. “This week Mr. Harrison was to deliver a large shipment of gunpowder.” Tom’s voice trailed off, and he looked to Marlowe.

  “The powder is missing,” Marlowe said at last. “This morning, two men came to Mr. Harrison’s warehouse with carts, horses, and a sealed letter from Mr. Harrison demanding the powder. The men took it and disappeared.”

  I thought for a moment, putting together the puzzle.

  “The murderer forced Mr. Harrison to write and seal the letter, so his comrades could steal the powder,” I said. “And then he killed Mr. Harrison to prevent him from sounding the alarm.”

  Tom nodded. “That is the most likely explanation.”

  “How much powder is missing?” I asked.

  “We don’t know precisely,” Tom replied. “But the thieves filled four carts. Perhaps five. The watchman at the warehouse was not sure.”

  Marlowe looked as if he were suffering from a fever, and I understood why. He was the man tasked with securing Parliamentary rule, and someone had stolen five carts of gunpowder out from beneath him. Oliver Cromwell’s chief spy had failed spectacularly.

  “How did the killer know about the powder?” I asked.

  Marlowe shrugged. “There are spies everywhere. How the killer found out does not matter.” He spoke barely above a whisper. “The only thing that matters is recovering it.”

  A knock came from the door and two women entered, a maidservant and a young woman who was great with child.

  “Mrs. Hodgson,” Tom said, “this is Mr. Harrison’s daughter, Margaret.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, Margaret Harrison would have been a pretty young woman, but the grief at her father’s murder had left her hollow, and her red-rimmed eyes gave way to sunken cheeks and quivering lips.

  “Can I take his body now?” Margaret’s voice cracked when she spoke, and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I can’t bear the thought of leaving him here any longer.”

  Marlowe glanced at me, and I shrugged. Martha would have liked to see the body, but I did not know how long she would be occupied with her travail.

  “Aye, you can have him,” Marlowe said. “We will continue our discussion elsewhere.”

  When the four of us returned to the entry hall, we found a small group of men waiting—Mr. Harrison’s burial party, I assumed. We nodded our condolences and found our way to Mr. Harrison’s parlor. It was no less beautifully furnished than the office had been. Luxurious wall-coverings kept out the winter chill and finely woven mats covered the floors. Cromwell rewarded his powder merchants quite handsomely.

  “So who would want to kill both Daniel Ch
idley and Enoch Harrison?” I asked again.

  “That is the problem,” Tom replied. “Since we don’t know why Daniel Chidley was killed, Enoch Harrison’s murder doesn’t do much to simplify matters.”

  “It is possible that Royalists wanted the powder for a rising,” Marlowe said. “And they killed Mr. Harrison in order to get their hands on it.”

  “And you think they killed Daniel because he learned of their plans?” I asked.

  “It is possible.” Marlowe shrugged. “Of course, what is true of the Royalists also could be said of the Levellers. If John Lilburne and the agitators in the army intended a rising of their own, they would want the powder no less than the King’s men.”

  “What if the murders aren’t so closely connected?” Will asked. “If the assassin works for pay, he might have been hired by the Levellers to kill Mr. Chidley for being a spy, and then by the Royalists to kill Mr. Harrison in order to obtain the gunpowder.”

  Marlowe looked as if he wanted to bite Will for making such a suggestion. The situation was already too difficult and dangerous without adding new complications.

  “Perhaps we should ask how the murderer knew about the shipment of gunpowder,” Tom said, hoping to deflect Marlowe’s displeasure. “If we can learn that, everything else will fall into place.”

  When Marlowe did not reply, I spoke up: “We should pursue the assassin from two directions. Martha and I will search for connections to Daniel Chidley. And since Harrison worked so closely with the government, you should look from there.”

  Marlowe considered the suggestion and nodded. “Mrs. Hodgson, you will carry on as you have been. Find whatever connects the murders. Colonel Reynolds will find out how the murderer learned of the gunpowder’s location.” Marlowe inclined his head toward the door. It seemed we were dismissed.

  As we made our way out, Marlowe called after us. “One moment, Will. I must write to the Council about these matters. I will need you to deliver the letter immediately.”

  Will nodded, bid me farewell, and returned to Mr. Marlowe’s side.

  Tom and I stepped into the winter wind and began the long walk to the Horned Bull and beyond it, to my house in the Cheap.

  “Mr. Marlowe trusts Will,” I said.

  “And for good reason,” Tom replied. “He has proven himself as reliable as any man in Mr. Marlowe’s service.”

  “Is it curious that I am pleased by this?” I asked. “Mr. Marlowe is a cruel man, but I’ve rarely seen Will so happy.”

  “You love your nephew. It would be strange if you felt any other way.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Things are so out of order. The King is dead, his son is fled, and who knows if he will return? Last autumn, my greatest concern was which of my Pontrilas neighbors to visit. Now I am no longer a gentlewoman, but a spy, and I’m joined in this by Martha and Will. Some mornings I am unsure whether the sun will rise in the east or west.”

  Tom nodded sympathetically. “And I take it that you realize how dangerous this matter has become thanks to the murder of Enoch Harrison.”

  “Aye,” I said. “When only Daniel Chidley was murdered, it was a minor affair, perhaps a squabble among Levellers, or a fight between husband and wife.”

  Tom nodded. “And now…”

  “Now with so much gunpowder on the loose, there is the threat of yet another rebellion.”

  “A rebellion, or an entirely new war,” Tom said. “We cannot know how the people will react to the King’s execution. If Prince Charles were to cross the Channel tomorrow, who is to say that the people would not flock to him? And if he were to discover a ready supply of gunpowder when he arrived? We could be staring at the start of another civil war. It would be…” Tom’s voice trailed off. The consequences would be dire indeed.

  “So you do not think it was the Levellers?” I asked.

  “I have not seen such violence in them. They will write their pamphlets and petition Parliament, but they are not rebels in that particular way. At least not yet.”

  We reached the Horned Bull, and stood outside.

  “I don’t know if you have food for supper in your rooms,” Tom said. “But I cannot stomach the thought of another meal here. If you know where to look, there are far better places to eat, even at this hour. Would you join me?”

  In truth, Martha and I had laid up plenty of bread, cheese, and pickled herring, but I welcomed the prospect of dining with Tom. I took his arm. “I would love to.”

  Tom guided me to an inn so brightly lit that despite the winter’s cold I felt a measure of cheer. The warmth inside was all I’d hoped for, and within minutes Tom and I were enjoying a delightful meal of meats and cheeses washed down with rich red wine. We talked of our pasts, carefully avoiding any mention of the sorrows that had brought us together, but each of us knew that the other had suffered and this drew us even closer. When we ordered a second bottle of wine, I realized how the night would end if I so wished it. I thought about how many years it had been since Luke died, for that was the last time I’d felt true affection for a man. But Luke and I had been in the flower of our youth, knowing nothing of life’s cruelties. Now I was older and wiser, and I knew all too well that the Lord made no promises except that death would come for all men. I could be dead in days: stabbed through the heart by an assassin, trampled by a hackney, killed by a falling roof tile. And so might Tom.

  It was the thought of Tom’s death that disturbed me most. I had spent the years since Luke died wondering if his was the only love I would find; indeed, I had resigned myself to it. But here was a man who saw me not as Midwife Hodgson, or Widow Hodgson, or Lady Hodgson, or even as a spy, but as all these things. He saw me and knew me, and I knew that he loved me.

  “Bridget,” Tom said as he refilled my glass. “I will stay the night here, and I hope you will stay with me.”

  I took his hand and nodded. “I will.”

  * * *

  The next morning I awoke in a man’s arms for the first time in what seemed like ten thousand lives. Gray light made its reluctant way through the windows as if it were chary of disturbing us, and I thanked the Lord for its courtesy. Tom and I each knew the other was awake, but we lay in silence for a time, unwilling to break the spell that we had cast upon ourselves. I cannot say how long our contentment lasted before a rumbling sound from Tom’s stomach brought us both to laughter.

  “You inspire more appetites than one, my lady,” Tom said.

  I nearly wept at the words my lady, and the love I’d felt for him the night before came rushing back. Words failed me, so I squeezed his hand, and we lapsed back into silence until his stomach roared once again. Tom laughed and rolled out of bed. “Let us find breakfast.”

  Tom pulled on his trousers and helped me into my clothes as lovingly as he had helped me out of them the night before. I kissed his fingers when he finished.

  “Bridget,” he said. “My love.”

  My heart thrilled at the words, and I fought down the urge to break into song. “Tom.”

  “We should marry,” he said.

  I stared at him, slack jawed, unable to speak.

  “Well, then,” he said at last. “I … suppose…”

  “Marry?” I asked.

  “Well, yes,” he said. “Marry.”

  I found myself awash in emotions—love, fear, excitement, trepidation—and utterly without words to express any of them. “Tom … I … I don’t know.”

  Tom laughed, and to my relief it was warm and genuine. “I know. You are a twice-widowed gentlewoman-spy, playing a poor midwife at the behest of a man you despise, who also happens to be my master. You do not know where—or even who!—you will be in a month’s time. You do not know what kind of husband I would be or, after all these years, what kind of wife you would be. You have been your own mistress for nearly a decade, and you have no desire to become any man’s woman. Yet here I am, talking of marriage.”

  I stared at Tom, wishing some kind of answer would come to me. I finally set
tled for, “Yes, that sums it up.”

  Tom laughed again. “And I will not have your answer today, for it is not an easy question. But know this, Bridget Hodgson: I love who you are, and I would never seek to change that.”

  Without warning, the most extraordinary mix of laughter and tears burst forth, washing away whatever words I might have been able to summon in response. I fell against him, still laughing and crying, and he wrapped me in his arms until I regained myself.

  I looked up and found that Tom had been crying as well. I leaned forward to kiss him. “I will consider it,” I said. “I love you.”

  Tom and I left the inn together and bid each other farewell once we were outside. I returned to the Cheap, my head still wobbling from all that had happened in the hours since I’d left Enoch Harrison’s house. As I approached Watling Street I prepared myself to be interrogated by Mrs. Evelyn and Martha in case either of them realized that I’d been out all night. Indeed, Mrs. Evelyn stood in her doorway, with one eye on her shop and the other on the street.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hodgson,” she called out when she saw me. “What drew you abroad last night? Were you at a travail?”

  I knew better than to lie to such an inquisitive woman. If I said I’d been at a birth, she would overwhelm me with questions I could not hope to answer: Where was the birth? Who was the mother? Which gossips attended? How did they comport themselves? How is the child? I did not resent her prying, for it was the work of gossips to mind their neighbors and ensure good order. But that did not mean I wanted my night with Tom Reynolds to become the talk of the Cheap.

  “Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid,” I said. “I was with my nephew until late, and I did not wish to walk home at night, not by myself. It was so cold, and the city is not as safe as it once was.”

  Mrs. Evelyn accepted my explanation—what reason did she have to doubt it?—but I knew that any future early morning walks home would not pass unnoticed or uncommented upon.