by Sam Thomas
Martha and I followed Will into the Tower. Once we were settled, we told him of our day’s adventures. When we’d finished, Will shook his head in wonder.
“My God, if you’d arrived in Westminster just a few minutes later … Parliament destroyed, Cromwell likely killed, the Leveller women slaughtered in the street. It would have been like nothing England has ever seen.”
“Aye,” I said. “It was a damnably close thing.”
Some hours later, as the sun disappeared behind the Tower wall, there came a knock at the door and Tom entered.
“I don’t think you need to knock.” Will laughed. “It will likely be your office soon enough.”
Tom smiled thinly. “An old habit.” He looked to me and his smile broadened. He took a few hesitant steps in my direction before remembering that we were not alone. After such a harrowing day, I too wished to feel his arms around me, but knew it was neither the time nor the place.
“Thank God all of you are safe,” Tom said. “I still cannot fathom how close you—and all England—came to disaster.”
“What did you learn?” Will asked. “Did he confess?”
Tom nodded. “Given he was caught with flint and steel in hand, he could hardly claim innocence. He says he killed Daniel Chidley, Enoch Harrison, and Mr. Marlowe. His only regret is sending Abraham Walker to kill Margaret Harrison. I should have done that myself, he said.”
“Remarkable,” I said. “Did he tell you who his comrades were?”
“He gave us a few names, but says that they fled to France this morning. He was the one chosen to stay behind, light the powder, and die a martyr’s death. They drew lots.”
“And his wife?” Martha asked. “What of her?”
Tom sighed heavily. “He says she knew nothing of the plot, and we’ve no proof to the contrary. I will send some men for her in the morning, but unless she volunteers for the hangman’s dance nothing will come of it.”
“Such is the nature of the law,” I said.
“I am sorry to do this,” Tom said. “But Will and I must return to business. Once we have chased down all of Owen’s accomplices—at least those still in England—the four of us will dine together. I should like to hear just how you discovered the plot when Mr. Marlowe and all his spies could not.”
I told Tom that I understood, and a few minutes later Martha and I were walking back to the Cheap.
“Jane Owen knew about her husband’s plan,” Martha said. “She told us that herself.”
“Aye, she did,” I replied. “But I do not see what good would come out of exposing her. She would hang for the crime of keeping her husband’s secrets, and her child would be an orphan. And a newborn deprived of his mother would likely die within weeks. I have no interest in sending one of my mothers to the gallows and then burying her child, simply because she married a Royalist.”
Martha nodded. “I suppose you are right.”
Dinner that night was exceedingly strange, as Elizabeth had returned from the march on Parliament buzzing like a bee in springtime. I knew she wanted to tell us about all she had seen, but because she’d gone without my permission she could not say a word. I, of course, could not tell her that I knew of her disobedience or of how close she had come to death at Charles Owen’s hands.
As I prepared for bed I reached into my apron and discovered the red silk cord we had found in Owen’s pocket. I had meant to give it to Tom, but by the time we’d arrived at the Tower, it had slipped from my mind. I told myself that in light of Owen’s confession it did not matter, but something about it troubled me.
I lay in bed for hours, unable to sleep. I knew we had missed something vital, but could not figure out what it was. Martha knocked softly on my door, and I bid her enter.
“You cannot sleep?” I asked.
“No,” she said. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of my bed. “There is one question that bothers me still: How did Charles Owen get into Mr. Marlowe’s apartment?”
“What do you mean?”
“We discounted Owen’s guilt because Marlowe would never have let him get so close. We thought the murderer had to be someone that he trusted, or at least someone he did not see as a danger. Were we wrong about that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But there is something else that puzzles me as well.” I reached to the table next to my bed and picked up the silk cord. “Why did Charles Owen have two cords?”
“Two cords?”
“We found one in the chest at his house, and a second in his pocket when we caught him. Why did he need them both?”
I knew the answer as soon as I asked the question.
“Jane Owen,” Martha and I said together.
“Marlowe would not have been afraid of a woman, especially one who was with child,” I said. “And if she was a part of the plot she would have needed a cord of her own.”
“She is the one,” Martha said. “She killed them all.”
* * *
As Martha and I hurried toward the Owens’ home, I asked myself what I intended to do. I had said that I did not wish to see Jane hang for merely knowing of her husband’s treason, but what of the murders she had done? What of the hundreds who would have died if Charles Owen had managed to kindle a fire? I neither wanted her to go free, nor to see her son made an orphan.
We found the Owens’ house dark and stood outside gazing up at the windows. The guttering light of our lantern threw mad shadows on the street.
“Should we send for help?” Martha asked. “If she killed Mr. Marlowe—and the others as well—it would be wise.”
“Aye, it would. But I want to see this through to the end. And we will be on our guard in a way that the others were not, for we know how dangerous she is.” I stepped forward to try the door handle. To my surprise the door opened at my touch. It had been neither latched nor locked.
Martha and I exchanged a glance. Only a madwoman would leave her door unlocked at night.
We slipped into the Owens’ parlor and peered into the darkness. The silence was suffocating. “Something is wrong,” I said.
Martha crossed to the hearth and poked at the ashes. “Nobody bothered to bank the fire,” she whispered. “They just let it burn itself out.” We continued into the kitchen and found the same thing—no signs of trouble except for the dead, cold hearth.
We climbed the stairs as quietly as we could, but each creak sounded as loud as a dying man’s scream. The door to Jane’s chamber was open. It was here that we finally saw signs of what had happened. Jane’s clothes chests lay open, their contents left in disarray. The layette that Jane’s gossips had brought for little Charles was missing, and there was no sign of the swaddling clothes I had given her. Jane had fled.
“What now?” Martha asked. In the darkness her voice seemed unnaturally loud.
“Let us look in the back room,” I said.
We ventured down the hall. I was not surprised to find that the cyphered papers had disappeared, as had the pile of coins we’d left sitting on the bed. The only thing that remained was the red silk ribbon, which Jane had carefully laid upon the bed, as if bidding us farewell.
“I suppose she didn’t want to be caught with that on her person,” I said.
“We should send word to the Tower,” Martha replied.
“Yes,” I said. “But I do not think Jane Owen will be found easily. I imagine she joined her comrades in fleeing to the Continent.”
“On the day she gave birth?”
“What choice did she have? If she tarried, she risked hanging alongside her husband, making her son an orphan before he’d spoken his first words. Which of us would have done anything different?”
Martha nodded. “Let us go home. We can send a letter to the Tower from there.”
When we turned the corner from the Owens’ house I noticed a dim glow from inside the Crown. I put my hand on Martha’s arm and pointed.
“You don’t think it’s Jane, do you?”
“I don’t know who e
lse it could be,” I said. I pushed on the tavern door and—like the Owens’—it opened to my touch. The room was lit by a single lantern and the dying coals in the hearth. A nearly empty bottle of wine sat on the table next to the lantern.
“Lady Hodgson!” Lorenzo Bacca’s voice frightened me so badly I had to swallow a scream.
“Jesus,” Martha hissed. “Are you mad?”
“I am sorry—I did not mean to startle you.” Bacca stepped out from behind the bar. “I went for another bottle of wine. Will the two of you join me? I’ll get more glasses.”
“Where is Mrs. Owen?” I asked, ignoring the offer.
“You are too late for that,” Bacca replied. “She left not ten minutes after you raced off after her husband.”
“Where did she go?”
Bacca shrugged. “France? The Netherlands? Ireland? Scotland? Perhaps even America. If her goal is to avoid hanging for treason, anywhere that is not England would suit her needs. She has money enough to go wherever she pleases and buy some secrecy along the way.”
“How do you know all this?” Martha asked.
“I have eyes and ears, don’t I? In the last week half the Royalist agents in London fled to France, so I knew something was afoot. Then Jane Owen’s gossips told the neighborhood about her husband’s intrusion into her delivery room, and the even stranger conversation you two had with her. It was not hard to figure out the rest.” Bacca paused for a moment. “There is one other thing I should show you.”
“What is it?” I asked. “If you mean the silk knot, we already found it.”
Bacca knitted his brow in confusion. “No, it is not that. Far from it, in fact. Follow me.” He picked up the lantern and led us through the kitchen to a small closet. He opened the door to reveal a man’s body, curled up on the floor, his hands bound behind him. He was clearly dead, and had been for some hours.
“Jane did this?” I asked.
“Lord, no,” Bacca replied. “I did. Jane hired him to kill all three of us. Me for bringing you into her chamber, and you two for foiling their plot to blow up Parliament. He made the mistake of coming for me first.”
“How do you know all this?” I felt myself growing dizzy, and I wished I’d accepted the glass of wine he’d offered earlier.
Bacca laughed. “I asked him. He knew he had seen his last sunrise, so he had no reason to lie. Paid assassins are not known for their loyalty when things go wrong.”
“And then you killed him?” I asked.
“If I hadn’t, he would have killed me,” Bacca said. “And the two of you as well.”
“Are we still in danger?” I asked. “Are there others?”
“I do not think so,” Bacca said. “Before I killed him, I made him write to one of Mrs. Owen’s friends in France saying he’d killed the three of us. Unless she returns to London and stumbles across us at the market, Mrs. Owen will think we are all dead.” Bacca closed the door, and we returned to the dining room.
“But with all this confusion and danger,” Bacca continued, “I think it would be prudent for me to find a new profession. I fear I have become too old and too tenderhearted for the life of a spy.”
“What will you do?” Martha asked.
Bacca looked around the room and a smile played across his lips. “It appears that the Crown is in need of a new owner. Perhaps I will take up the work of a tavern-keeper.”
I laughed. “So London agrees with you?”
“More so than the hanging that awaits me in Italy,” Bacca said. “After so many years I’ve even grown used to the winters. Yes, I think I will stay.
“But what of you?” he asked. “With the plot ended and Mr. Marlowe dead, you are free to return to the country, are you not?”
“I suppose I am.” It was true, of course, and I was surprised that the thought had never occurred to me. But was my home in Pontrilas truly my home? Or was the Cheap my home? “Come to think of it, I will accept that glass of wine.”
Chapter 28
The next morning I sent a boy with a letter to Tom saying that Martha and I would be visiting. After breakfast we made our way through the city to the Tower. Will was waiting at the gate.
“You’ll find Colonel Reynolds in a black humor,” he warned us as we made our way to the heart of the castle.
“Let me guess why,” I said. “Jane Owen has disappeared, and you have no idea where she went.”
Will stopped and stared at me. “How did you know?”
“It’s even worse than you think,” I said. “I’ll tell you and Tom together.”
“If you have worse news than that, I’m not sure I want to be there,” Will said. When we reached Mr. Marlowe’s office (it was hard not to think of it that way), Will knocked twice and we entered. Tom sat behind the desk, leafing through a sheaf of papers, frustration etched into his brow.
But the smile that crossed his face when he saw that I’d come warmed my heart. Tom rounded the desk and embraced me.
“I fear I do not have much time to talk,” he said. “Jane Owen has disappeared from her home, and we must find her.”
“You won’t,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Tom asked. “How do you know?”
“She’s fled England,” I said. “But that is not all.”
Tom stared at me for a moment and realized the seriousness of my news. “Tell me.”
“Charles Owen lied about the murders. He didn’t commit them, not all of them anyway. Jane killed Mr. Marlowe.”
“That can’t be right,” Will said. “She is a woman and was with child.”
“That’s how she got into Mr. Marlowe’s apartment,” Martha said. “He never would have opened the door for a man, especially Charles Owen. But a young woman who was with child? He never would have seen the danger, not until the knife was already between his ribs.”
“What about Daniel Chidley and Enoch Harrison?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Only the Owens can say for sure. But once again, where Daniel Chidley and Enoch Harrison might have suspected a man, Jane could get close enough to do whatever she pleased.”
Tom sighed. “I will ask Owen, but if he’s lied this long, I doubt he’ll suddenly decide to tell the truth.” Tom paused for a moment. “Are you sure it was her? Do you have any proof?”
“There are these.” I removed the two silk knots from my apron. “We found one in a locked chest at the Owens’. Charles Owen had the other when he was taken by the watch.”
Tom took the cord. “They are the same as the one that Abraham Walker carried.”
“Aye,” I said. “I should have realized it as soon as we found the second one in Owen’s pocket, but I too was blinded by Jane’s sex.”
“And the fact that she fled can only be a sign of guilt,” Martha said. “A mother who flees on the day she gives birth must be very frightened of something.”
Tom nodded. “So I allowed a murderess with a newborn in her arms to escape from my grasp? That will inspire confidence in the Council, I should think.”
We stood in silence for a moment.
Tom looked up at me. “Oh, we did make one discovery of note, and it makes your case for Jane Owen’s guilt all the stronger. She was Abraham Walker’s sister. Charles Owen and Abraham Walker were brothers through Jane.”
Such news was unexpected, but after the events of the last two days I could hardly say I was surprised. “A family of spies,” I said.
“Aye,” Tom said. “It is also how they were able to escape Mr. Marlowe’s investigations. I can’t tell you how many men Mr. Marlowe had hidden in among the Royalists, but he never knew of this plot.”
“He would have had to marry into it,” Martha said. “And as a result they came within a few minutes of destroying all of Westminster.”
“That also explains Jane’s farewell gift to me,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Tom asked.
“Before she fled, Jane Owen paid a man to murder me and Martha. She wanted revenge, i
t seems.”
Tom looked to Will. “Gather a squad of men.” He turned back to me. “Who is he? We will take him today and keep you safe.”
“Tom, it is fine,” I said. “Lorenzo Bacca ensured my safety. The assassin will not trouble us. And with Cromwell’s spies on her trail, Jane Owen is in no position to pursue revenge. I am safe enough.”
“I do not like it,” Tom said.
“I would be disappointed if you did,” I replied. “But you must not worry.”
Tom sighed heavily. “Very well. But right now, Will and I must return to business. Will the two of you join us for dinner tomorrow? We can meet at the Horned Bull and walk to a victualing house that is more agreeable.”
“Very well,” I said. “Tomorrow it is.” I crossed the room, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and slipped out with Martha close behind.
* * *
When the next afternoon came, so too did a boy with a letter. It was short, simply asking Martha and me to meet Tom and Will at the Tower rather than the Horned Bull.
“It seems dinner will have to wait,” Martha said. “I wonder why.”
“Perhaps he captured Jane Owen,” I replied. “It could be anything.” But the truth was that from the moment the letter arrived, I felt a growing sense of unease. I told myself I was imagining the worst when I should hope for the best, but such pleasant thoughts failed to cheer me. By the time we departed for the Tower, I was utterly convinced the happiness that had seemed within our grasp was slipping away before my eyes.
My suspicion became a certainty when we arrived at the Tower gate and saw Will’s ashen face.
“Will, what is it?” Martha and I asked at the same time.
“Colonel Reynolds will tell you.” He could barely choke back his tears, and I began to weep, though I did not know why.
“Will, you must tell me,” Martha said.
Will shook his head. “Come with me.”
We followed Will to the White Tower and into Tom’s office. He sat at the desk, slumped down in his chair, staring vacantly out the window. He glanced at us when we entered and rose to his feet.