by Sam Thomas
Both men shook their heads in wonder.
“What brought Colonel Reynolds back so quickly?” Martha asked when we’d finished our story.
“After Colonel Reynolds and I gathered men to arrest Walker,” Will said, “we sought out the churchwarden to tell us which house was his. But when we came to Walker’s street, we found it already in a tumult.”
“What happened?” Martha asked.
“Mr. Walker had already roused some of the trained bands himself. He told them that he’d discovered a nest of traitors and needed their help to root them out.”
“So the men downstairs weren’t his comrades?” Martha asked. “We were in no danger of being murdered?”
Will looked around the ruined chamber. Walker’s body still lay in a pool of blood. “Not no danger, but the trained bands were no threat. You were safe enough once Walker was dead.”
Tom crossed the room and continued the story. “When we heard that Walker had summoned the trained bands, we realized where he must have gone. Only Margaret Harrison knew his secret, so he could hardly let her live. We came back as quickly as we could, only to find that you’d taken care of the matter yourself.”
“And the servants downstairs?” Martha asked. “We heard pistol shots.”
“Both dead,” Will replied. “Walker shot them.”
“Poor souls,” I said. “That’s four people he killed.”
“In a sense you were fortunate,” Tom said. “If Walker hadn’t shot them, he would have had pistols at the ready when he came through the door.”
“He didn’t think Margaret would put up much of a fight,” I said.
“Colonel Reynolds,” Marlowe said, “take Will to Abraham Walker’s home and search it thoroughly. Pull up the floors if you must. Bring me whatever you find. We must unearth the gunpowder and put this matter to rest.”
Tom and Will nodded and looked apologetically in our direction. They bid us farewell and were gone.
A few minutes later two of the coroner’s men came for Walker’s body. They rolled him onto a sheet and prepared to wrap him.
“One moment,” I said. I knelt at Walker’s side and looked through his pockets. I discovered a red silken cord tied into an intricate knot and held it up for Martha to see.
“That must be the knot he showed Margaret,” she said.
“Aye. It would be impossible to duplicate, and thus it is a perfect sign of allegiance to the King. It is how his spies know each other.” I nodded to the coroner’s men, and they took Walker’s body from the room.
“I’ll take that to the Tower.” Mr. Marlowe extended his hand for the silk cord. “It will prove useful when we arrest his comrades.”
I could think of no reason to keep the knot for myself, so I handed it over. Marlowe pocketed it and followed Walker’s body, leaving Martha and me alone with the wreckage and blood that were the last visible fruit of our night’s work. We straightened the room as best we could, but balked at scrubbing the bloody floorboards. It had been too long a night.
We descended the stairs to find similar bloodstains by the front door. I said a prayer of thanks that it was the servants’ blood rather than ours and then begged forgiveness for my selfishness. Martha and I stepped into the morning light and made our way north through the city. We had much to discuss, but neither of us knew where to begin.
“That’s it then,” Martha said. “Abraham Walker killed Daniel Chidley and Mr. Harrison, and now he’s dead.”
“So it appears,” I said. “Mr. Marlowe might want the gunpowder to thwart the rising, but that’s his concern, not ours. Our business is done.”
“What will happen to Margaret?” Martha asked.
“It is no crime to be a fool,” I said. “She’ll inherit her father’s estate and the gunpowder works, I suppose. It will take time, but I think she will recover. There are worse fates than being a wealthy singlewoman, even one with a bastard.”
We fell silent, putting more time and space between us and the bloody chaos of Enoch Harrison’s house.
“What of you and Tom Reynolds?” Martha asked. “He seemed more than usually pleased at your survival.”
I laughed. “I’m surprised it took you so long to notice. Most days I felt as if I were the town crier, shouting my affairs to all the Cheap.”
“And?”
I took a breath, hardly daring to reply.
Martha stopped and turned to face me. Somehow she knew. “Oh, Lord,” she said. “You’re not…”
“We are betrothed.”
Martha threw her head back and burst out laughing. “You are, aren’t you! I thought so; I just couldn’t believe it.” Martha continued to laugh, making any response on my part entirely unnecessary. “How did this happen?” she asked when we started walking again. “I never thought it would.”
“Nor did I,” I admitted. “At first he reminded me of Luke, but it’s not that at all. He knows me as a gentlewoman, a midwife, even a poor widow, and he loves all of these parts. He does not want me to be his; he wants me to be mine. He knows why I haven’t remarried, and asked me to marry him all the same. He is kind, thoughtful, and loyal. And until I met him I did not know how much I missed the affection Luke and I had for each other.”
“And with this betrothal have the two of you…” Martha finished her sentence by raising an eyebrow.
I had no intention of answering, but the blood that rushed to my face replied on my behalf.
Martha laughed again. “Oh, that is excellent indeed.”
“If we are betrothed, there is no sin,” I said. Of course, Tom and I had not been betrothed when we lay together, but I had no intention of telling Martha that.
“I am not accusing you of anything,” Martha said. “As I said, I find it quite excellent.”
We turned onto Watling Street and with our neighbors all about us Martha fell mercifully silent. We climbed the stairs to our rooms and collapsed into bed.
When sleep came, I dreamed of Abraham Walker bursting into Margaret Harrison’s chamber, cudgel in hand. I watched in horror as he struck down Katherine, just as he had the night before. But in my dream he turned on Margaret, killing her, and then Martha as well. He raised the club—now stained with three women’s blood—and started toward me. I woke with a cry just before he delivered the blow that would have dashed out my brains.
I sat up and looked at Martha. She slept on, untroubled by my cry and apparently secure in her own dreams. I felt sure that if I tried to sleep my dream would return, so I climbed out of bed and dressed. With a full day before me, I resolved to visit Katherine Chidley and see how she fared.
Chapter 21
Katherine awoke as soon as I opened the chamber door. She seemed more bandages than flesh, as both her arm and head had been thoroughly wrapped in linen strips. From the lines on her face, it seemed as if she’d aged twenty years in a single night.
“There you are.” Her voice barely reached above a whisper. “I hoped you would visit.”
“How are you?”
“Sore,” she said with a thin smile.
“Your arm is well set?”
“The bonesetter did his best,” Katherine replied, shrugging her good shoulder. “He said it was a bad break and there was only so much he could do to straighten it. Time will tell.”
“How much of last night do you remember?” Blows to the head sometimes robbed people of their memories, and I wondered how much Katherine might have lost.
“That’s why I hoped you’d visit.” Katherine’s laugh, weak though it was, gave me hope that she might soon recover. “My maidservant only could tell me what the litter-bearers told her, so I am sure of nothing at all. I remember going to Mr. Harrison’s, but nothing after that. They said that Abraham Walker murdered Daniel, and now he is dead. Is that true?”
“It is,” I said. “You, Martha, and I were at Margaret Harrison’s travail when he came to kill her. He attacked the three of us. We were very lucky to survive.”
Katherine
thought for a time, assembling the fragments of her memory. “Margaret knew that Abraham had killed her father,” she said. “Abraham had to kill her in order to protect himself.”
“Aye,” I said. “He had already killed Daniel and Mr. Harrison. He did not balk at committing a third murder.”
“You think the Royalists killed Daniel over a few cartloads of gunpowder?” Tears ran down Katherine’s cheeks. “Over that?”
“If Mr. Marlowe discovered the plot, he’d have hanged all involved, including Abraham Walker,” I said. “And of what import is a murder when you hope to start a war that will kill thousands?”
“Poor Daniel,” Katherine sighed.
I paused for a moment before asking my next question, for it would bring into the open all (or nearly all) the secrets we’d kept from each other. “You knew of Daniel’s work for Mr. Marlowe, but he did not tell you about the scheme he discovered?”
Katherine shook her head and sighed deeply. “He never said a word. Why would he keep such a secret?”
“To protect you,” I said. “He recognized the danger he was in, and he wanted to keep you safe.”
Katherine smiled sadly. “So the last thing he did was save my life. That’s Daniel.”
“Katherine,” I said, “can you forgive me? I lied to you about my work for Marlowe, and I betrayed your confidence. That is not what a good gossip does, and I am sorry.”
“I was furious at first,” she said. “But I have seen for myself how Mr. Marlowe presses men into his service. When a man as powerful and ruthless as he is demands your labor, you do not deny him. How did he compel you?”
“He had Will in the Tower,” I said. “He told me that if I did not spy on you, Will would die there and I would be ruined.”
“Aye,” Katherine said. “That is how he pressed Daniel, by threatening our son.”
“I never feigned my friendship,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “You are not so skilled a liar as to do that.” She smiled as best she could, but I could see that she was becoming weary. “What will you do now?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It is Mr. Marlowe’s choice, isn’t it? Perhaps he will release me from his service.”
“I doubt that,” Katherine replied. “That would be an extraordinary kindness, and nobody has ever accused him of that particular virtue.”
“No, I suppose not.”
I sat with Katherine a bit longer, holding her hand as she drifted to sleep, and then I went home.
* * *
I slept through that day and the next night, awaking to a city ablaze with the news of what had happened at Enoch Harrison’s house: three killings, a woman in labor, the trained bands racing through the streets in search of rebels … even London rarely saw such a strange series of events. The first newsbooks were slight indeed, as authors and printers had just one day (and only a few facts) with which to work. As usual, the scribblers refused to let ignorance keep them from writing their books. The result was a very strange mix of stories: Some called Walker a Royalist spy and said he was killed by the trained bands; others said he was in Parliament’s employ and had been killed by the Royalists; a few ignored the politics entirely, claiming that Walker was killed by housebreakers, and by his bravery he’d saved Margaret Harrison’s life. One or two claimed that a midwife had done the killing, but to my relief did not mention my name or Martha’s. I knew that these pamphlets would be followed by longer and more fanciful accounts, for the story had everything that a city reader would want: illicit love, betrayal, murder, and the threat of a rebellion.
Martha and I had just finished our dinner when we heard someone climbing the steps to our rooms, and the thumping of Will’s cane announced his presence well before he arrived. Martha opened the door and embraced him.
“How are you?” he asked. “Have you heard the news?”
“We’ve seen all manner of books,” I replied. “But we know better than to credit most of them.”
Will laughed. “That’s probably for the best, but there’s newer news than that. Mr. Marlowe sent me for you. He wants to tell you of his success. He is insufferable.”
“His success?” Martha asked. I could hear the anger in her voice. “We handed him his murderer wrapped in woolen and ready for burial. He did no more work than the coroner’s men! Less, in fact.”
“Ah, he’s already forgotten that,” Will replied. “It is something else, but he wants to tell you himself, so get your cloaks.”
I could not hide my peevishness as I wrapped myself against the cold and followed Will down to the street. The sun was already low in the sky, and it seemed likely we’d have to walk home in the dark.
“Surely you have some idea what has happened,” I insisted. “Has he found the gunpowder?”
“Or has someone found it for him?” Martha asked. She sounded no less crabbed than I felt.
“I promise, I don’t know,” Will replied. “He sent me and Colonel Reynolds off on a wild-goose chase, and he says that while we were gone he finished the entire business.”
“How can he be sure?” I asked.
Will shrugged. “He is sure enough to send a letter to Cromwell telling him as much. He would not do such a thing unless he were confident.”
We trudged east, heads bowed against the swirling wind that seemed to find its way beneath our cloaks no matter how tightly we secured them. When we reached the Tower, Will pulled down his scarf so the guard could recognize him, and within a minute we were standing outside Marlowe’s office. Will knocked on the door, and Marlowe bellowed for us to enter.
We found him leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk. A triumphant smile crossed his face when he saw us. Tom stood behind him, his pleasure at our arrival tempered by his obvious annoyance at Mr. Marlowe. I longed to take him in my arms and talk of our future together, but I did not think that Mr. Marlowe would approve.
“Mrs. Hodgson!” Marlowe cried out as he stood. An empty bottle of sack sat on his desk. “I am so glad you have come. Have a glass of wine. Colonel Reynolds refuses, but you three will join me. It is my will and my command.”
I nodded my assent. I had no desire to antagonize Mr. Marlowe, and in truth I craved a warming glass of wine.
“Boy!” Marlowe shouted. The door opened and a youth of perhaps twelve years peered in. “Bring another bottle and more glasses. We will celebrate my triumph.”
The boy returned moments later, and once he’d filled our glasses Marlowe began to march back and forth before us, as if he were the king of all men.
“While these two,” Marlowe said, gesturing at Tom and Will, “were off God knows where finding nothing at all, and you women were safe at home, I was preventing an assassination, a Royalist uprising, and perhaps even another civil war.”
I glanced at Tom, wondering what he made of Marlowe’s boasts. He refused to meet my eyes, but I could see the anger rising within him.
“We found one of Abraham Walker’s accomplices in London,” Marlowe continued. “And a fisherman in Rye who helped him send letters abroad. Both are taken.”
“Did you find the gunpowder?” Martha asked.
Marlowe ignored her. “Walker’s London accomplice was going to set the entire scheme in motion. He was to kill Cromwell as a signal to the rest of his rebellious mob. Once General Cromwell was dead, the Royalists here in England would begin a rising while those in France launched an invasion of their own.”
“What about the gunpowder?” I asked.
“Shipped to France,” Marlowe said with apparent satisfaction.
“We don’t know that,” Tom said quietly. “All we have is one man’s confession. And after all he suffered, he’d have confessed to crucifying Christ himself.”
“Oh, stop it.” Marlowe sounded like a petulant child. “The plot is foiled, and the gunpowder is safely out of England. That is all that matters.”
I could see that Tom wanted to continue the argument, but he swallowed his words. My guess
was that he’d questioned Marlowe on this point many times before, and knew that once more would make no difference.
“Would you like to see him?” Marlowe asked brightly.
“See who?” I asked.
“The assassin who was going to kill General Cromwell,” Marlowe said. “He’s here in the Tower, and here he’ll remain until we execute him.” He reminded me of the rooster who took credit for the rising of the sun.
For a moment I wondered if Lorenzo Bacca might be the man awaiting execution. Stranger things had happened.
“Come on, I’ll show you.” Without waiting for a reply, Marlowe marched out the door. I shrugged at Martha and we followed, with will and Tom close behind. We descended a set of stairs and passed through several guarded doors before we reached our destination.
“Keep in mind that he’s not the same man he was when we captured him,” Marlowe said. “He used to be much stronger.” Marlowe produced a key and after a few twists and turns pushed open the door.
The scene inside was both horrible and unsurprising. Two barred windows offered what little light the prisoner was allowed. The floor was covered in filthy rushes, and the walls were slimy, green, and dripping with moisture. The smell of fear, sweat, and excrement was overpowering. In the fading light I could make out a single figure, lying in a pile of straw.
“You!” Marlowe snapped. He strode across the room and prodded the prisoner with his boot. “Stand up.”
When the figure did not move, Marlowe kicked him squarely in the small of his back. “I said get up.”
“He can no longer stand,” Tom said. “Even without the chains.”
“Quite right,” Marlowe said. He looked at Martha and me, smiling. “He was very frightening just a few hours ago. If I were going to send a man to kill General Cromwell, I’d have chosen him as well. It is amazing what the rack will do to even the sturdiest man’s frame.” Marlowe dragged the prisoner to his feet and pulled him toward us. “Ordinarily, we would not have moved so quickly. I showed him the rack, and told him what it would do to his body, but he still protested his innocence.”