by D. K. Wilson
I looked at Lizzie as she sat hugging Raphael to her with obvious affection – a young woman, old beyond her years but not yet in her prime and still a prey to girlish passions. ‘I’m very grateful that you came back,’ I said.
She fussed with the child’s dress and did not meet my gaze. ‘Yes… well… I changed my mind. Some of us have a sense of responsibility. Don’t think I did it for you.’ She kissed Raphael’s forehead.
I crouched beside her. ‘Lizzie, I can’t make you stay. You can ride back to London with me today if you want to but I have two reasons for hoping that you won’t. The first is, despite all the unpleasantness here, you are safer at Hemmings than in Southwark. There’s a slow fuse of anger and resentment running through the City and heaven knows when it will reach the powder keg. The other reason is simply that you are now one of the few people I can trust. You have courage and a quick mind. You may not like me but I can see that you care about my mother and my son. I know that you won’t desert them until I’ve brought this wretched business to an end.’
‘You’re determined to carry on with it, then.’ Back came the old scowl.
‘I have to but it won’t be for much longer. That I promise you. Did Ned tell you about our meeting with Doggett?’
‘A bit.’
‘It went well. Thanks to him I now know who the assassin is and I have friends helping to track him down. As soon as we’ve done that everything should return to normal.’
Lizzie pouted. ‘And then you’ll have no more use for me.’
‘No! That’s not what I meant!’ I shouted and Raphael turned to me in alarm. I continued quietly. ‘When it’s over we can discuss what’s best – for all of us. Meanwhile, I’ve had another thought. Would it be a comfort to you if I could persuade Ned and Jed to stay for a few days?’
Her eyes lit up at the prospect. ‘It would be good to have someone to talk to. I’ve been so lonely.’
‘I’ll have a word with them, then. If this Incent fellow pokes his nose in here Ned will be more than a match for him. He can hardly accuse a deprived monk of Lutheranism.’ I stood up. I kissed my mother and walked to the door.
Lizzie followed, still with the child in her arms. As I reached for the latch, she looked at me with the suggestion of a smile. ‘I think you’re a fool… but I didn’t say I don’t like you.’
It was easily arranged. I suggested to Ned that perhaps he might make the acquaintance of these troublesome priests and their London contacts. Then, I was able to set off on my return journey well before dark.
Back in Goldsmith’s Row I found an excited Ben waiting for me in my parlour. I had scarcely removed my riding cloak when the exuberant young man blurted out his news.
‘We’ve found him.’
Chapter 21
I took Ben straight up to my chamber and ordered supper to be served there. As soon as we were settled at the table I said, ‘Tell me everything.’
‘Well, as I promised,’ the young man began, ‘I rounded up several friends and we set to work straight away on Monday afternoon.’
‘Did they all obtain leave from their masters?’ I asked. ‘I don’t want to be accused of seducing prentices away from their work.’
Ben winked. ‘I didn’t hear that question. There are ways to escape the drudgery of the workshop when something more interesting turns up. Anyway, we made a list of the more likely drinking places where vagabonds and caitiffs gather and split up to see what we could find out.’
At that moment one of the kitchen girls came in with our food. John Fink entered in her wake. With a disapproving sideways glance at Ben, he asked, rather pointedly, when I might have time to go through the day’s accounts.
‘Later,’ I said, waving him away. ‘Wait for me below.’
As soon as the door closed I asked eagerly, ‘What did you discover?’
Ben hungrily tore a chunk of manchet. ‘Well, the pickings seemed pretty small,’ he said. ‘We spent all day Tuesday and yesterday on the trail. Most people either didn’t know or didn’t want to tell what they did know about a dangerous foreign assassin lurking in or around London. It was only when we met up this morning to compare notes that we began to see a common thread. Three separate people had talked about an inn out at Walworth called the Red Lamb.’
My surprise must have shown but Ben was too busy carving himself a slice of salted pork to notice.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘I came round here to see whether you wanted us to check this Red Lamb Inn but you were away so we had to decide for ourselves. Of course everyone wanted to go and have a look at the place. No one was willing to be left out. We all set off straight away. So as not to appear suspicious we took a football with us and when we got to the place, we doffed our jerkins and began a kick about on the common ground. If anyone bothered to look, we were just a bunch of prentices practising for the next Christmas match. Just as well we did, too. This Red Lamb place is more like a prison than an inn; high walls all round and a burly fellow at the gate checking all who come and go.’
He drained his beaker and held it out for more ale. ‘We made sure we played close to the wall and soon the doorkeeper was taking an interest. A couple of his fellows came out to watch and, after a bit, we invited them to join us. By our lady, you’ve never seen such hard-boned thickpates. We took a deal of knocks from them, and Jimmy Tungle, the poulterer’s man, had a head blow that laid him out a good fifteen minutes.’ Ben laughed. ‘Your little army certainly suffered its fair share of battle wounds. But it paid off. We were soon bosom friends with the Red Lamb men and were invited in to slake our thirst.’
As Ben described the main room of the inn I recalled vividly its gloomy interior and the grim secrets lurking in its depths. ‘I hope you didn’t attract suspicion by asking a lot of questions,’ I said.
‘We were careful,’ he replied. ‘There’s something about that place. Whoever owns it keeps a score of men you wouldn’t want to argue with. All I wanted to do was find out if they’d heard of Il Ombra and then get away safely.’
Ben’s words alarmed me. ‘Did you ask about Il Ombra by name?’
‘I didn’t have to, fortunately. There was a rack of arquebuses in a corner and I showed some interest in them. One of the men – obviously an expert – took great pleasure in telling me about them – where they were made, how accurate they were… that sort of thing. Then I asked, all casual, if he’d heard about the new wheellocks that I’d been told were being used across the Channel. That set him off! He told me what wonderful machines they were – easy to carry, quick to fire. In fact, he said, there was one in that very house. “I’d love to see it,” I said. “Any chance?” He shook his head. “Ooh, no,” he said. “Belongs to an Italian gentleman what’s a ‘guest’ here. He never lets it out of his sight.”’
I felt a flash of excitement. ‘Do you mean Il Ombra has been staying at the Red Lamb all this time… that he’s still there?’ I gasped. This confirmed my suspicions that Doggett had lied to me about the assassin’s return to Italy.
‘There’s more,’ the young man said. ‘We were just about to leave when there was a bustle round the room and everyone jumped to their feet. A little man came down the stairs. Not much to look at but obviously their leader. He marched through the hall and called out, “Chicken broth for our Italian friend. He’s looking better this morning and I want him fully active by the end of the week. I may have work for him.” He bustled out and someone rushed out to the kitchen to do his bidding. “Your ‘guest’ unwell?” I asked the gun-enthusiast. “Laid up in bed these last three days,” he said. “He reckons good English food doesn’t agree with him – reeky foreigner!” So there you have it,’ Ben concluded. ‘That’s where your quarry is at the moment and unlikely to be moving on immediately.’
My young friend’s report had thrown my thoughts into confusion. To have located the assassin so soon was more than I dared hope for but there were other aspects of Ben’s story that refused to explain themselves.
&n
bsp; ‘You’re sure that Il Ombra has been bed-bound for three days past?’
‘That’s what we were told – and it would explain why there’s been no sign of him.’
‘Yes it would. It’s just that…’
‘What?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. Did you gain any idea of how long he’s been at the Red Lamb?’
‘No. Do you think it was the leader of that crew who ordered your friend’s execution?’
‘Yes. How came this murdering villain here? As a private mercenary or at Doggett’s invitation?’
‘Doggett?’
Too late I realised that the name had slipped out. I had wanted to keep from Ben the fact that I had some knowledge of the Red Lamb ménage. The less he and his friends knew about that dreadful place, the safer they would be. If Doggett ever suspected that they had been spying on him their lives would be worth little. Now it seemed that I would have to take him into my full confidence.
‘What I’m going to tell you, you must keep to yourself. It’s vitally important that your friends do not know. In fact, they must not be any further involved in this affair. Do I have your word on that?’
Ben regarded me with a wary frown but nodded. He listened intently while I related the story of my own visit to the Red Lamb. Then he sat back with a long exhalation of breath.
‘What a venomous double- and triple-dealing whoreson villain!’
‘Yes, and a very clever one.’
For a while we ate in silence. Eventually Ben posed the question we had both been wrestling with. ‘How exactly do you think the assassin is involved with this Doggett fellow?’
‘I’m not so sure. He may have been recruited overseas or he may have fallen in with Doggett here. It doesn’t really matter which. The point is that he is now completely in Doggett’s power because he needs protection, somewhere to hide, a refuge. You’ve seen the Red Lamb; there can be few places more secure.’
‘And I suppose in return for protection he has to work for Doggett.’
‘Aye, and what a valuable asset he must be. Doggett has connections in high places. He knows powerful people, rich people, people who will pay well to have their enemies removed.’
‘God’s blood! An assassination business!’ Ben ran greasy fingers through his fair hair.
‘I doubt it’s a new business for Doggett. Think of all the unexplained deaths that happen every year. You recall the drowning of the Earl of Stamford’s son? What a convenient tragedy that was for the young man’s cousin when he inherited the estate.’
‘Yes, and there was that case of Tennet, the Essex clothier who lost a fortune gambling. He was a ruined man until his wife had her throat cut on the way to market and he was free to marry the Walmsley heiress. You don’t suppose Doggett…’
I shrugged. ‘Accidents do happen. People do get killed by unknown assailants. Doggett can’t be lurking in the shadows of every suspicious fatality. But where death and money come together I’ll wager the meeting often takes place in the Red Lamb.’
‘So what’s to do? Have the magistrates raid the place?’
I pushed my trencher away. ‘Proof? Evidence? What do we say to Master Kernish? “There’s a villain called Doggett who we think may have paid another villain who calls himself the Shadow to kill Master Packington?” No, a frontal assault would be a bloody business and would probably get us nowhere. We have to outmatch Doggett in cunning. Besides what we… what I… really want to know is the identity of Doggett’s paymaster.’
‘What then?’
‘It’s a problem that needs more thought.’ I yawned. ‘This has been a long day and my brain is sluggish.’
Ben stood up. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow.’
‘No.’ I shook my head firmly. ‘You’ve done enough… more than enough. I’d never have got this far without you.’ I went to my coffer and took out a bag of coins. ‘Here’s more money for you and your friends. You have earned it but you must not be involved any further. You’ve seen the people I’m up against.’
Ben took the silver coins with obvious reluctance. ‘Well, at least you can sleep easy. As long as Il Ombra is shut up in Doggett’s lair he won’t be hunting you.’
I said, ‘That’s very true.’ I thought, If the Italian didn’t try to kill me on Tuesday night, who did?
That puzzle played havoc with my attempts to sleep. But I soon had bigger problems to worry about.
Chapter 22
The following day, Wednesday 23 November, was one of torrential rain which went on for several hours. Few people were abroad in Cheap and we closed the shop in mid-afternoon. Scarcely had we done so when there came a heavy banging at the door. John Fink went to answer. When he came to find me in the workshop he was trembling so violently that I thought he might collapse.
‘What’s the matter, man?’ I demanded.
‘Armed men… from the bishop,’ he gasped.
I brushed past him into the shop. There I found four pikemen in helmets and long capes that dripped water. There was a captain in charge and he addressed me in a peremptory manner.
‘Master Thomas Treviot, freeman goldsmith?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are to come with me, by order of His Grace, the Bishop of London.’
‘Come with you? Where to?’
‘Just come quietly, Master Treviot. If you will not, I have orders to manacle you.’
‘But why? What is this about?’
‘I’m sure all will be made clear to you later. Meanwhile I have orders to search the house.’ He turned to his little troop. ‘Go through the premises and bring everyone you find into here. Don’t let them out of your sight till you’ve finished the search. Stay here and await my return.’ He grasped my arm. ‘Let’s go.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ I protested. His grip tightened.
Shouts, cries and crashes came from the workshop as the soldiers set about their violent task. I looked round wildly. John Fink stood transfixed, mouth agape, clearly as terrified as I was. I made a grasp for dignity.
‘Don’t worry, John,’ I said as calmly as I could manage, ‘I’ll soon sort out this mistake. Please go and fetch my riding cloak.’
‘No time for that,’ the captain said gruffly. ‘Anyway, we’re not going far.’ He pushed me towards the door.
Outside were six more of the bishop’s personal ‘army’. They formed themselves into two columns and I was thrust between them. The captain gave an order and we set off along West Cheap trudging through mud and puddles.
I was in little doubt about our destination, although for as long as possible, hope wrestled with fear. Houses and shops stood fast-shuttered against the weather and there were few other citizens abroad to stare with questioning eyes at the little posse hastening along the wide street in the last light of fading day. We veered left by St Michaels at Querne, passed through Paul’s Gate and so entered the cathedral yard. With the vast bulk of St Paul’s on our right we passed the preaching place, then the south entrance and the old bishop’s palace and came to a halt before the east face flanked by two towers. They were identical but the one on the right had an atmosphere all its own, due entirely to its sinister use. This was the Lollards’ Tower – a lodging place (often a final lodging place) for those designated as enemies of the Church.
A vigorous hammering on the iron-studded door brought a shuffling jailer to the portal. The captain entered, leaving the rest of us in the wet.
It was some minutes before he reappeared and it was obvious that he was involved in an argument with the custodian.
The latter, a squat creature with carbuncled, toad-like features, peered out and scrutinised me. ‘If ’is lordship wants quarters for gentlemen ’e shouldn’t send them ’ere. Separate room, indeed. Where am I going to find a separate room?’
‘Hold your tongue!’ the captain responded. ‘You’ll do well enough out of this prisoner. Master Treviot can afford to pay well for a few comforts.’
With a grunt the jailer opened the
door wide and, still grumbling incoherently, led the way into the building.
‘Just sign for him and we’ll be on our way,’ the captain ordered.
The two of them entered a room on the right that was obviously the jailer’s personal domain. There the formalities were swiftly concluded. The captain came out and he and his men departed. Toad-face locked the outer door with a key attached to his belt, then double-bolted it for good measure.
‘In ’ere.’ He led the way into his sanctum, a narrow, evil-smelling cabinet strewn with rank straw that squelched underfoot. At a table scattered with the remains of at least one meal sat a younger version of toad-face, burly and with an unkempt mane of black hair. ‘Young ’Arry ’ere will attend your honour,’ the master of the tower declared, with heavy emphasis on the word ‘attend’. ‘You’ll want blankets – all our guests do.’ He indicated a heap of stained and torn woollen coverings lying in a corner on the damp ground. ‘’Elp yerself. Penny each. You’ll be arranging your own meals, I dare say. Twopence each dish brought up to your cell. Twopence for emptying slops. All payments a week in advance. We ’ave to ’ave money up front so’s you don’t go to the stake still owing.’ He smiled, obviously relishing the prospect of my imminent fiery destruction.