by Sam Thomas
I climbed the stairs hoping Martha had not yet returned from Lucy Sheldon’s travail. The banked coals in the hearth told me she hadn’t. I said a prayer of thanks, for Martha would have been much harder to fool than Mrs. Evelyn. I would tell her the truth eventually, but I wanted it to be on my own terms rather than at the end of an interrogation.
Martha arrived shortly after I did, exhausted by the travail and weaving from side to side from the drinking she must have done after. “It was nothing out of the ordinary,” she said as she stripped off her skirts and fell into bed. “But it was her first child, and the gossips were very merry. They made me stay until the wine was finished.”
I nodded in sympathy. Midwives were counted among the best of gossips, but such an honor came with a whole host of obligations. Within moments Martha was snoring softly. My body demanded that I join her so I might recover the sleep I’d lost the night before, but instead I settled at our table and let my mind wander over the previous day’s events.
My first thoughts, of course, were about Tom, the night we’d spent together, and his suggestion that we marry. I’d spoken the truth when I said I loved him, but his description of my misgivings about marriage had been entirely correct. I’d been born Bridget Baskerville, spent a blissful year as Bridget Thurgood, and became Bridget Hodgson upon marrying Phineas. If I married Tom—if I became Bridget Reynolds—what would that mean? I believed Tom when he said that he would not try to change me, but marriages were uncertain endeavors; I knew full well what I had in my widowhood, and abandoning that certainty would be no easy thing. I buried my face in my hands and, overcome by fatigue and the future’s uncertainty, allowed myself to weep. When I stopped, I crawled into bed next to Martha, closed my eyes, and was asleep in moments.
I had only been asleep for an hour or so when shouting from the street dragged me to wakefulness. I went to the window to see what was the matter, but by the time I arrived the combatants had moved on. Thanks to the wine, Martha had slept through the tumult, and I was alone. I returned to bed, but sleep eluded me.
After a half hour or so, I gave up and went to the parlor. Thoughts of Tom pushed their way into my head, but I denied them; I did not want the tears to return. Instead, I surveyed the bloody landscape that Daniel Chidley’s killer had laid before us and considered Enoch Harrison’s place in it. I did not doubt that the same person had killed both men: The single knife wound was as distinctive as the Royal Seal. To my eye, it seemed likely that the murderer was a part of the Royalist faction, or at least had been hired by one of the King’s men. The theft of the gunpowder would not only hurt Parliament’s forces, but could supply a rising within England—a double victory for Prince Charles if he did indeed cross the Channel. If Daniel Chidley had somehow learned of the conspiracy, the King’s men would not have hesitated to kill him. What was one murder if your goal was to start a war?
But what of the Levellers? If Lilburne’s men in the army truly did intend to rise against Parliament’s tyranny, they would need the powder as well. And they would be no less likely to kill their enemies.
So, Royalist or Leveller? Or had I missed some other murderous faction? My mind returned to Mr. Marlowe—could he have reasons of his own for seeing both men dead?
I could find no answer for any of these questions and resolved to speak to Katherine Chidley. After all, she had helped to set Martha and me on this course. I wrote a note to Martha telling her I would be across the street, then set out in search of answers to our many questions.
Chapter 18
I found Katherine in her parlor. She rose and greeted me warmly, but it took her only a moment to realize that there was more to my visit than mere friendship.
“What brings you here?” Katherine asked. “You have news?”
“Aye,” I said. “Daniel’s murderer has killed again.”
“What?” A man’s voice from behind startled me nearly out of my shoes. I spun around to find Jeremiah Goodkey staring at me, his eyes wide in surprise.
“How so?” Katherine cried. “How is it possible?”
“And how do you know it’s the same man?” Goodkey seemed alarmed at the prospect. “Has he been captured?”
I stammered for a moment, trying to find a way not to tell Goodkey everything I’d learned, but I knew that I could not make such an announcement and then refuse to say anything more. With no other choice, I told them about Enoch Harrison: that he was a merchant murdered the day before by a single knife wound to the heart; that the murderer had killed so quickly that Harrison could not react. I finished my story without mentioning the gunpowder. If Goodkey was behind the murders, the less he knew about our investigation the better off we’d be.
“How did you learn about this murder?” Goodkey asked.
For a moment my heart ceased to beat, for I had no good answer. Why would someone summon me—a midwife from the Cheap—to Enoch Harrison’s murder?
“A friend’s husband,” I said at last. “A woman I delivered is married to a constable. He knew of Daniel’s murder and saw the similarity to Mr. Harrison’s. He summoned me.” I knew my story was as thin as year-old linen and would raise more questions than I could hope to answer. I held my breath as Goodkey considered my reply, and said a prayer of thanks when he declined to press me any further.
“It seems that Daniel’s death is part of a larger and more dangerous scheme than anyone thought,” Goodkey said at last. He paused for a moment. “Katherine, I am worried that if you continue mining this vein some ill might befall you. It would be safer if you left this matter to the magistrates.”
“What do you mean, Jeremiah Goodkey?” Katherine asked. The steel in her voice made it abundantly clear that not only did she know what he meant, but it vexed her to no end. In that moment I almost pitied him.
“You face a practiced and expert killer,” Goodkey said. He grimaced as if the act of speaking caused him physical pain. “If you pursue him too closely he could turn his attention to you. He killed Daniel and this Enoch Harrison. What chance would you have against him? You could be dead by morning.”
“Are you truly such a coward?” Katherine demanded. “My husband—your friend!—was murdered, and you would simply stand aside?”
“Katherine, please listen,” Goodkey said. “You must heed me. It is for your own safety. You have no idea what this man will do if you threaten him.”
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” Katherine spat. “And get out of my sight.”
“Katherine, you must hear me!”
“You came here to woo me, and now you betray me?” Katherine’s voice had risen to a shout that, I had no doubt, was audible to her neighbors. She did not care.
Goodkey stared at her in astonishment. “Woo you?”
“What, you thought I would not recognize the true nature of your friendship?” Katherine asked. “You think a widow does not know the difference between a friend in mourning and a suitor in search of a wealthy widow? Jeremiah Goodkey, you are as subtle as a carrion kite, circling a fresh corpse. And now you are just as welcome. Get out of my house.” Katherine punctuated these last words with slaps aimed at Goodkey’s head.
Faced with Katherine’s fury, and now her outright assault, Goodkey covered his head with his arms, scuttled to the door, and fled down the stairs. I did not know for sure, but I suspected that he left without his coat.
Katherine turned to me, her eyes still blazing. “Such a one! Can you believe such cowardice?” She took a breath and tried to recover herself. “You’ll stand with me, won’t you, Bridget? You will help me find out who killed my Daniel. You will help me have my revenge.”
“Of course I will,” I replied. Katherine was my gossip and needed my help. What else could I do?
“Good,” she replied, satisfaction evident in her voice. “So what does this new murder tell us?”
“There is more to Enoch Harrison’s murder than I told you,” I said. “He was no ordinary merchant, and this was no ordinary murder.”
&n
bsp; “What do you mean?”
“He owned a gunpowder mill, and he was Cromwell’s chief supplier,” I said. “And after killing Harrison, the murderer stole enough powder to blast the Tower of London to its foundations.”
Katherine thought for a moment. “But what does this have to do with Daniel’s death? He was a coat-maker.”
“And a spy for Oliver Cromwell,” I pointed out.
Katherine winced at this reminder. “You think Daniel was killed because he discovered the plot to steal the gunpowder?”
“It is possible,” I said. “The question is who did it.”
“The Royalists,” Katherine said. “It must have been. This Italian you mentioned, Bacca, he could be behind this.”
“Aye, he could be,” I said. “Or it might have been Jeremiah Goodkey.”
Katherine considered this for a moment. “You think he was here not to woo me, but to find out what we had learned about Daniel’s murder?” Katherine smiled wanly. “Am I so unhandsome? Truly Bridget, you do me wrong.”
“I am sure his wooing was genuine,” I said with a laugh. “But we must keep our eyes open to all possibilities. Cromwell has many enemies, and such a quantity of gunpowder would allow any one of them to do much mischief.”
“The Levellers have no such plans,” Katherine said. “If they did I would know it.”
That is why Mr. Marlowe sent me here, I thought.
“Perhaps,” I said. “But it would be dangerous to assume too much. And it was Goodkey who warned you to give up the hunt for Daniel’s murderer, not a Royalist.”
Katherine nodded. “Very well. We will keep watch on both parties. What shall we do now?”
“Let us talk about this at my tenement,” I replied. “Martha should be a part of our discussion.”
As we crossed the street, I realized that if Katherine and I were going to continue our search for the murderer, I would have to tell her some of the truth about my past. We reached my parlor, and I looked in on Martha. She was snoring softly, so I closed the door before joining Katherine at the table. I took Katherine’s hands before I began to speak. “I must tell you something. And you must hear me to the end.”
Katherine looked confused but nodded. I had earned her forbearance.
“Years ago, in a different lifetime really, it fell to me to discover another murderer.”
Katherine started to respond but stopped herself. She nodded for me to continue.
“My friend was falsely accused of murdering her husband and sentenced to die. She asked for my help. I discovered the truth and saw justice done. At that time, I believed the law was good and justice was its ultimate goal.
“But in the years that followed,” I continued, “I saw the innocent suffer and the guilty go free. I saw cruel men prosper, and it dawned on me that they did so not despite the law but because of the law. I realized the law was a tool like any other, a knife that could be used by a barber-surgeon to lance a boil or by a murderer to cut a throat.”
“I have been preaching this for years,” Katherine said.
“But unlike you, I became a part of the evil that I beheld,” I said. “I used the law to my own ends, and I did so with the same pitiless heart that I condemned in others. I saw men hanged without the benefit of a trial, and used the law to murder a man who was evil but innocent.”
Katherine stared at me, struck dumb for the first time since I’d known her.
“I became what I abhorred,” I said. “But I will not do it again. If we find the man who killed Daniel, I will not be a part of your revenge. You will have to trust in the law.”
“You are an unusual woman, even for a midwife,” Katherine said at last.
“And you only know the half of it.” Martha stood in the doorway. I knew from the look on her face that she’d heard everything. “But she should keep the rest of the story to herself, for your good and ours.”
“If that is true, I’ll not ask you to speak another word,” Katherine said. “Even good gossips should have their secrets.”
I nodded my thanks.
“As for the fate of Daniel’s murderer,” Katherine said. “You’ll get no argument from me. If we find him, we will hand him over to the Justices.”
“That is easy to say,” I replied. “But what song will you sing if we discover the murderer is beyond the law’s reach? Whoever killed Daniel may have powerful protectors.”
Katherine considered the question for a time. “You are asking if I will resort to murder to avenge Daniel’s death.”
I nodded.
“I will not. The Levellers’ goal is to remedy the law, not to destroy it. If everyone ignored the law when it did not suit them, we would have no law at all. I know it sounds cold, but Daniel would understand.” She paused for a moment. “If I cannot reach Daniel’s murderer through the law, I will simply redouble my efforts to reform it. And if that fails, I will rely on the Lord to provide justice in His own time.”
“Then it is agreed,” I said. “We will help.”
Martha sat down with us, and I told them both of all that had happened: Enoch Harrison’s murder, the theft of the gunpowder, and—for Martha’s benefit—Jeremiah Goodkey’s clumsy effort to convince Katherine to give up her search for Daniel’s murderer.
“Where does this leave us?” Martha asked. “How far have we come?”
“Not far, I’m afraid,” I said. “Mr. Harrison might have been killed by the Royalists—whether Charles Owen, Lorenzo Bacca, or some man we do not even suspect. Or he might have been killed by one of the Levellers, perhaps Jeremiah Goodkey. The only faction we can look past is Cromwell’s, for they had no reason to kill their own gunpowder merchant.”
“Can you be so sure about Cromwell’s people?” Katherine asked. “What if Mr. Harrison was part of some other plot, and died for reasons we cannot begin to guess? What if the murders are not as closely connected as they seem?”
“You mean that there is one murderer but two motives?” Martha asked.
“It is possible,” Katherine replied. “In these days anything is possible.”
We sat in melancholy silence as we tried to find a path forward in our search for Daniel’s killer. I could not see what good a new round of questioning would do us. Neither Charles Owen nor Jeremiah Goodkey would suddenly confess to Daniel’s murder simply because we asked a second time. We would have to be more creative than that.
The sound of uneven footsteps rushing up the stairs announced Will’s arrival even before he appeared at our door, and his hurried pace made clear he’d brought urgent news. He burst into the room without knocking.
“Aunt Bridget! Martha! You must hurry.” He looked in surprise at Katherine. “Oh, Mrs. Chidley. Three midwives? That is convenient indeed.”
“What is it?” Martha asked.
“Margaret Harrison has gone into labor,” he said. “She is feverish and nonsensical, but she has confessed to her father’s murder.”
The three of us stared at Will, slack-jawed and full of wonder. How was this possible?
“Mr. Marlowe sent me for you,” Will said. “He wants you to deliver her.”
Blood drained from Will’s face as soon as the words passed his lips. He looked at Katherine, fully aware of his monumental blunder. “What I mean is—” he started to say.
Katherine turned to me, fury evident on her face. “Jonathan Marlowe sent for you?” she asked. “How is it that you know Mr. Marlowe? And why would he send for you?”
As I struggled for an answer, Katherine’s anger boiled over. “You are one of Cromwell’s spies!” she cried. “You were sent here by that tyrant to spy on me and mine!”
“And how do you know that Mr. Marlowe’s Christian name is Jonathan?” Martha asked softly. “When we told you of Daniel’s work for Cromwell, you professed surprise. You pretended that you had no idea who Mr. Marlowe was.”
In an instant, Martha’s question robbed Katherine of her righteous fury. If she knew Marlowe’s name, she must have known
that Daniel was in his service.
“It seems we both have some explaining to do,” Katherine said at last.
“Yes, that is fine, but not now,” Will insisted. “Right now you must attend Margaret Harrison. A physician is with her, and he is quite concerned.”
“Very well.” Katherine turned to me. “Do you have your valise and stool?”
I recognized the true meaning of her question. By offering to let me take the lead in delivering Margaret Harrison, she proffered an olive branch. “I do,” I said, and bowed my head in thanks.
The four of us hurried down the stairs and into the fading afternoon light.
“Where are we going?” I asked. We were following the same route to Margaret Harrison’s travail that we had taken to her father’s corpse.
“To Mr. Harrison’s,” Will replied. “That is where she lives.”
It took a moment, but I realized what Will had just told us. “A few minutes ago you called her Margaret Harrison,” I said. “And she lives with her father?”
“Aye,” Will said. “What of it?”
“Margaret is pregnant with a bastard?” Katherine said.
“Well, yes,” Will replied. He was clearly confused by our interest in the child’s legitimacy.
“Is she betrothed?” Martha asked. “How has the father not been made to marry her?” It was a strange thing for the daughter of a wealthy merchant to find herself bearing a bastard.
“I have no idea,” Will replied. To his mind, the question was irrelevant.
I did not know what it meant, but between Margaret’s unlikely pregnancy and her strange confession, it was clear that more was going on in the Harrison household than we had realized. The only question was whether such strange doings would lead us to Enoch Harrison’s murderer.
We hurried up the steps to the Harrisons’ front door and entered. Will led us up another set of stairs to a bedchamber where we found quite a crowd: Margaret Harrison, a maidservant, Mr. Marlowe, a man I took to be a physician, and Tom Reynolds. The moment I saw Tom, my stomach tilted to one side and then the other, as if I were on a storm-tossed ship. I counted it a blessing I did not cast up my dinner.