The lever released a little cap, which had until then covered a pan full of powder. As the cap flicked up, I saw the powder, but the act of moving the gun meant that much of the powder was released. Quickly, I snapped the cap back, hoping I hadn’t lost too much.
Hoping? What was the point? I couldn’t kill Michol, no matter what. I thrust the gun into my belt with a sense of utter failure and incompetence. What good was I? I leaned against the door, shaking my head, in the middle of enumerating all my faults, when I gave a short scream.
A hand was on my shoulder, and a knife was at my throat.
If there is one thing that I have learned over many years of hardship and ill-fortune, it is that a squeal rarely helps a man, but it can make me feel better for a moment or two.
‘You like good steel?’ A man with a slight accent.
I recognized that voice. I would have cursed aloud, were it not for the fear that my Adam’s apple might be horribly damaged. ‘Ah! Master Ramon!’
‘What do you do here? This is not where I expected to find you.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘The message. I was at your house all day today, awaiting your return. But when you did not appear, I decided to have a good look about London, in case you had decided to make the escape, yes?’
‘What made you come here, though?’
‘As I say, a message. I was told you would be here.’
‘Who told you that?’ I asked, really rather cross to have been betrayed.
Yes, I was cross rather than afraid. Oh, I suppose there was a little trepidation, but when all is said and done, when you’ve had a knife at your throat as often as I have, the thrill tends to diminish. And, of course, I had been standing there for an age thinking of killing someone, waiting in the cold and the rain with a damn silly weapon that was more complicated than an alchemist’s astrolabe. All I could think of at that moment was that someone had betrayed me, and it made me angry.
‘Shut up!’ he hissed. He moved around to face me, pushing me back against the wall.
That was when I grew more scared. He was leaning forward, his eyes glittering unhealthily, and I could smell the garlic and sour wine on his breath from his lunch. In his eyes, there was a truly startling lack of compassion or fellow feeling. I really did get the impression that he would cut my throat in an instant.
‘I have been asking about town, to find out where Luys might have gone. Did you know that he was seen with a man dressed in a blue doublet, dark-blue cloak and a red, broad-brimmed, high-crowned hat with a white feather in it, and …’ he paused. ‘Why are you wearing all this?’
‘Someone stole my doublet,’ I said sarcastically.
‘Anyway, the man with him was dressed as you were when I first met you. And you and he walked to a tavern called the Boar—’
‘It was the Bear. I told you.’
‘Where you both drank with a club of friends of yours, and he was last seen walking with you and your friends down towards the river. What do you have to say to that?’
‘You’re quite right,’ I said. There was little point in lying, after all. ‘And we crossed the river with my friends and made our way to the Cardinal’s Hat. I told you all this. Luys wanted to go to a bawdy house. He was desperate for a doxy. You kept him on too tight a leash, and he was mad for a night free.’
‘You left him there?’
There was something in his tone now, and I felt sure that he had an inkling of my movements afterwards. Rather than run the risk of being caught in a lie, I decided that the truth would be safer. ‘No. I told you: we returned to the Bear. Then he expressed a desire to follow when I was going to meet an acquaintance, and he kept with me to the wharves, but there I lost him. I was struck on the head, and when I came to, he was not at my side.’
It was close enough to the truth, while not being the whole truth.
He was staring at me with eyes bulging, like a schoolmaster who thinks he’s just caught out the secret pilferer of his stores of brandy, only to hear a cast-iron alibi. His face registered his disbelief, but there was still the glimmer of misgiving that his original suspicion had been wide of the mark. He was not keen to give me the benefit of the doubt, but there was enough uncertainty for him to hold off his blow for now. The blade of his knife did not noticeably move, but I felt as though the pressure was slightly less severe. At least, I felt I could breathe a little more easily. The wall was soggy behind me, and I could feel the sodden shirt clinging to my back. All in all, I felt miserable. The look of contempt in his eyes didn’t make me feel any better.
‘You are worthless scum,’ he said at last. It seemed to have taken him a while to work his way up to that as an insult, and he was quiet for a while afterwards.
In fact, he said nothing more, because as he was silent, there was a sudden eruption of noise. The Mermaid’s door had opened, and a small party was leaving, with many a clap of the back and declaration of everlasting friendship. And in the midst of all the noise, I saw that Agnis had come out and was sidling along the wall behind the party. She made her way clear of them, stared at me fixedly and then jerked her head back towards the group of men.
Michol was in the middle of them.
I dare say not too many men have been thrown into a situation like this, in which they are expected to run across a street and slaughter a man. Even fewer have been expected to do so in a broad thoroughfare, with many men smiling and laughing all around the intended victim. I very much doubt that more than one man – me – has been expected to do so while standing in a darkened doorway with a knife at his throat.
She turned her gaze back to me, and this time appeared to notice that I was not alone. Her eyes narrowed, I saw, and as they did, the Spaniard spotted that he did not command my full attention. He threw a glance over his shoulder at the collection of men in the roadway and snarled, ‘Always in this benighted country, there is someone else in the way!’
‘It’s not my fault!’ I protested.
‘I came all the way here expecting a good life, a long position in the employ of King Philip, and only had the one task to perform – to bring the physician to him – but no, you took him to drinking dens and lost him. He will be robbed, his body lying in the river, and my own good fortune is ruined. The physician to the Queen is lost, and all because of you, you gangrel, wastrel, pogy tatterdemalion!’
‘Pogy? I’m not drunk!’ I declared.
‘You are hardly worth a knife,’ he said. Suddenly, the blade was withdrawn and he stabbed towards me.
I had no choice. Raising my arms, I squealed and ducked. The knife slashed into the air above me, and he grunted as his forearm struck mine. There was a click, and as I glanced down, a sudden flash and eruption blinded me. It was a loud hissing and fizzing, and the smell of rotten eggs filled the air.
Ramon stumbled back, staring at his breast. ‘You have killed me!’ he spat as his knife clattered on the ground. He took a pace backwards and suddenly fell to his rump, staring at his breast. ‘Murderer!’ He patted wildly at his belly, which was smouldering where burning powder had lodged in the material of his clothes.
‘Murderer?’ That, I felt, was unreasonable. The man had been about to remove my head, after all. ‘What do you mean, “murderer”? You were going to kill me!’
‘Murder!’ he shouted, and the party of friends over the road, who had seen the powder go off, I assume, and now heard cries of ‘Murder!’, began to make their way towards me. Beyond them, I could see Agnis, who stood shaking her head with fury, and as the men approached more closely, I saw the hulking shape of Mal. He saw me, too, and began to return to his parting-of-the-seas movements with his hands, pushing Michol’s friends aside like so much driftwood. ‘Wait!’ he bellowed.
Well, I wasn’t going to do that, obviously. I took to my heels.
As I have said, it is essential, while running from people, to be unconcerned about exactly where you are going. If you begin to think of such unimportant matters, you are like
ly to be confounded from the start by thoughts of which road to take, whether there would be a wherry, and other considerations which, at that moment, do not matter quite so much as putting shoe leather on the cobbles and hurrying away as swiftly as you may. Not that there were any cobbles here. The road was mostly mud and horse droppings, with a kennel that was too shallow in its incline to do much more than store faecal matter waiting for the next storm.
I ran, thinking only of putting as much distance between me and Mal as I could, in as short a time as possible. As I went, there was a kind of churring noise in my ear, and as I turned, Ramon’s damn knife nearly took my nose off. I had time to give a startled, irritable ‘Hey!’ before noticing Mal’s rapid advance, and concentrated on my feet once more.
In my time I have run on many occasions. As a child, we would have regular races between the boys, so that our fathers could have something to gamble on. Other families would no doubt have horse races to give them their little thrills, but for us, it was the children. As I grew older, I learned to run from our neighbour with the orchard, whom I believe I may have mentioned already. Then there were the beadles and other officers of the law, and occasionally men who had been parted permanently from their purses. There were many men from whom I have fled at different times in my life, and it must be said that I am in some ways a fair judge of those chasing me.
There are some, you see, who are slower and reluctant. These are the officers of the law, generally, especially the late-night watchmen, who are older and do the job more as a way of keeping themselves in ale than from any wish to protect another man’s goods. The youngsters are easily the worst, because they are fleeter of foot and far less cautious about the risks of injury. The young always think they must live for ever, and until they grow a little older and wiser, they remain convinced that they will remain immune from injury or harm. They can be misled, though. They don’t have the experience of the older men, and if you slide into an alley and double back quickly, all too often they will be left confused.
But the middle-aged men, those who are a little slower, but determined and intelligent, these are the bane of any thief’s life. He might be a man who has been made constable and sees his duty as clear, or he may be a man like Mal, with only one thought in his bull-like head, but who has stamina and patience.
Mal was not the sort of man I would have expected to set a strong pace. In my experience, most men of his size are slower, lumbering fellows who have no imagination or conviction. Mal, irritatingly, was an exception. Not only was he able to hold just one thought in his head – that of pulling mine from my shoulders – but he had the strength and speed to do so. Now, when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw that he was only inching closer, but he was gaining. That was not good.
I was near the wharves here east of the bridge. The roadway grew slippery, and it reeked. Here was where fish were gutted, I remembered, and almost slid on something that was probably best not looked at. Mal was getting closer, but he too slipped and for a moment I thought he would end up on his chin, cropping at cobbles, but no, the bastard recovered somehow and was after me again.
There was an alley, and I threw myself into it. The place was narrow and grew narrower the farther in I went, with a building on the left that projected out over the alley. I was looking for an escape, some kind of doorway or entrance to a yard, into which I could slip and slam the gate behind me, but there was nothing. The people of this alleyway had no thoughts for others. They only sought to protect themselves, without caring for the dangers of men like me who could be chased to death for want of a simple escape. It is uncaring behaviour of this kind that makes a city such an impersonal place.
On my left there was a door, and I hurled myself at it, almost gibbering with fear, but it was locked and barred. Looking back down the alley, I could see that my pursuer was maintaining his steady pace. He bellowed at me, ‘Stop, Blackjack! Wait there!’ but I was not going to fall for that. I turned and ran.
And stopped. Something had slammed into my forehead, knocking me back like a ball bouncing from a wall. My legs were no longer my own, and I fell back to land in a puddle which I had time to hope was water, before the slow onset of slumber overwhelmed me, like a steady injection of quicksilver that entered my legs and rose gradually, inch by inch, overcoming my groin, stomach, up to my neck. I had enough time to note Mal’s face above me, just as before, when I had dangled over the cesspit, before the heavy, liquid metal ran up into my head and I knew no more.
I have had cause to mention my experiences of waking after being struck on the head in other chronicles of my adventures. On occasion, such as at the wharf where Jeffry died, it was unpleasant. On other occasions like this, it was more agreeable. But always, with the sensation of comfort, there appears the nagging doubt: who brought me here, and what do they intend to do to me?
The second anxiety was still more apposite, bearing in mind the vision that was imprinted on my doubly aching head: that of Mal’s snarling face.
I was lying on a good tester bed, in a chamber that was well decorated with carved panelling all about. There was a stool on the right with what looked like my clothing borrowed from Agnis neatly folded. Beside it was a cupboard, with a pouch and leather wallet on top. Next to that was a flask. There was a window, with blue, green and yellow diamond panes of glass. On the sill were a number of pots of sweet-smelling herbs, no doubt to keep the odours of the street at bay.
My head, I need hardly say, was pounding like a tree with a woodpecker trapped inside – a fast, agonizing sensation that seemed to emanate from just behind my left eye. When I lifted a hand to my brow, I discovered that I could, in fact, increase the pain. I let my hand fall with a sharp yelp.
Agnis was there.
At first I didn’t believe my eyes. That must have been a bad knock to the head, I thought, and I blinked several times to try to clear the image, but no matter what I did, she remained there.
There is an etiquette to waking from a bad knock. First, I clenched my fists. Both there. Then I wriggled my toes. Nothing seemed out of place there. Perhaps Mal hadn’t had his knife with him?
‘You were asleep a long time,’ she said.
‘I don’t know what happened …’
‘It looks like you ran into a wall or something.’
I recalled the low beams supporting the jetty of the building. I must have run straight into it. Tentatively, I put a hand to my brow and touched it. It had come up with a lump that felt really quite impressive. ‘Where am I?’
‘In a safe house. It belongs to a friend. You are safe here.’
I noted that she hadn’t told me anything. ‘How did I get here?’
She gave me a serious look. ‘I brought you.’
I frowned. She was strong enough, I suppose, but there was the other matter. ‘Where is Mal?’
‘Who?’
‘Mal? Big man, head like a rock, hands like millstones. Tends to go about with a breadknife and remove bits of people. The man you hit with a broken cookpot.’ I had a thought, and was about to feel for my cods, when I reflected that if he’d removed anything there, I would have known it. ‘He was there. When I passed out, he was looking down at me.’
‘He wasn’t there when we found you,’ she said.
‘We? What happened? The gun went off and—’
‘And you missed him. You should have been more careful, got a little closer.’
‘I had a knife at my throat! I didn’t wish to have my head parted from my neck!’
‘The Spaniard?’
‘Yes! He still believes I killed his fellow. I shot him. He was going to kill me.’
‘So you loosed the gun at him?’
‘Not on purpose,’ I admitted, downcast.
‘That was brave of you,’ she said softly.
‘Eh?’
‘You tried to fight him off so you could continue with the assassination. That was very courageous,’ she said, and stood. To my astonishment, she walked to me and kissed m
e softly. It was a delightful experience, although I confess that the effect was dissipated somewhat by the thundering pain at my brow. One headache is bad enough, but to suffer from two blows makes it a great deal worse.
‘But Mal wasn’t there?’
‘No. There were many others following after you when you ran, men from the Spaniard’s side, many from Michol’s group, so perhaps Mal heard them coming and bolted?’
‘Perhaps.’ It didn’t sound likely. I had seen Mal when he was in a bad mood. It didn’t strike me as likely that he would willingly forgo the chance of inflicting pain on me, given the chance. If he was in the sort of murderous temper I had seen before, back at the gambling den, he would be likely to miss any approaching steps in the immediate pleasure of removing my fingers or head.
‘I will report to Blount and let him know that you are well enough, but also that you were enormously brave.’
‘Oh … good,’ I said weakly. At least Blount wouldn’t hear that I had failed abjectly. He would hear that I had been confounded by that Spaniard, and it wasn’t my fault I had missed his target. Perhaps I could even negotiate a reward for trying, and for suffering this head as a result? Knowing Blount as I did, it did not seem likely. But there was another consideration. ‘What happened to the Spaniard?’
‘I don’t know. I expect someone took his body away. Your bullet must have given him a mortal wound.’
So now I would be sought by the officers for the murder of this second fellow.
Agnis left me a little after that. She had her own errands, I have no doubt; for me, though, the opportunity of sitting in that room with a coverlet over me and my bruised head resting on a soft pillow was too good to miss. I had no idea where I was, although I hazarded a guess that I was not far from where I had run into the building. Agnis could not have carried me, and as for helping me – well, with the way my head hurt, I didn’t think I could have made more than a yard even with her assistance, so surely someone had helped her. I wondered who.
A Missed Murder Page 18