The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  “You were part of the family, Mistress Biddy, more than just the poor man’s wet – nurse. You are the chief mourner.” He could not have escorted that foreign queen herself, the one who ruined the king, they say, with a more gentlemanly air.

  I was glad of his arm. And glad of the chance to murmur in his ear before the service began. Even I did not know the moment Master Simon would choose to make his declaration.

  We had left the church and were gathering round those two unforgiving holes in the sward, sombre and anxious after a sermon less concerned with speaking kindly of the two dead men than with ranting about eternal perdition. The God of Love was nowhere to be found, it seemed. Master Bulstrode was interred first, the clods of earth sounding like a death knell into the quiet corner that held all recent the family graves. It must be soon! My heart thudded painfully as the preacher begged the Lord to deliver us from the bitter pains of eternal death. Even as he signed to Sir Peter and me to gather a fistful of earth, the coffin lid rose and up stood Master Simon, wrapped like his brother in a good linen sheet. He stood still as a statue, his eyes closed.

  Slowly, slowly, relentless as death itself, his right arm rose.

  The gasps of shock gave way to screams of horror.

  There was silence again. Would the dead speak? The body turned, slowly, taking in all who were there. Any moment now we knew it would speak.

  But to whom?

  When they were young, before the theatre was found to be sinful, there was nothing my lads had enjoyed more than reading a play. My late master had oft wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, until he realized that he was encouraging them in sin. After that, there were no more plays.

  But Master Simon might have been in Shakespeare’s own theatre as he stood upright and looked around the circle of terrified mourners. Slowly, slowly he moved his right arm, pointing in turn. Surely someone must be driven by that accusing finger to confess, and soon. Would it be the Berry family, with their natural grudge? The cuckolded Lord of the Manor? Even Master Will, whose courtship of me when I was a comely widow in my middle years had cut sadly short by Tom’s scathing words?

  As no one moved, I shook with fear. Had our daring, some would say dangerous, plan come to naught?

  There was too much of the Bulstrode blood in Master Simon for him to give up, however. Pulling himself from the very grave, he paced in clear fury. Some prayed aloud for all our sakes that he would stop before the stranger, Sir Waller Massey. No one wanted the accused to be anyone from what little that was left of our once close community. But to my horror and that of all of us he headed straight for poor, simple Jacob. From his grave-clothes, he produced a purse. “You have seen this before, young sir?”

  The child nodded.

  “Whom does it belong to, child?”

  Jacob looked wildly about him. “He is not here, sir.”

  “And is the kind man who told the other men to put up their swords here?”

  “Yes, Master – it’s you! Master Thomas! Fresh risen, sir!”

  I went to comfort the lad, but Master Simon stayed me with a gesture.

  “To whom was this purse given, Jacob?”

  “To that man there, sir! The Commander!”

  “It was when the child spoke of putting up the bright swords, lest the dew rust them, I knew the man refusing further orders must be my brother,” Simon reflected, drawing on the wine he’d found buried deep in his father’s cellar. “Think of all those nights we read Shakespeare, us lads.”

  I nodded sadly: there had been such joy then. “’Tis sad to reflect he was a spy, Biddy, but in this dreadful age, no one can say any longer who fights for what is right. But why did you suspect the commander of the killing?”

  “He threw so much dust in my eyes, young Master, that I thought he wanted to hide something. The killing of an enemy informant. And why not make it look like a battle wound? Kinder, in fact to his family. It was only the meddling of a foolish old woman that brought it out. Thank God the old Master did not live to know his son’s disgrace.”

  “I think he knew some of it. Why else should he have summoned me? No word of explanation, of course, lest the missive were intercepted and Thomas hanged for the villain he probably was. Do you know, I am proud that at the last he refused the blood money.”

  “And he was kind to Master Jacob.” The lad he dared not admit was his own son. I opened the window a little wider to let the smell of the roses into the parlour, unused for so long it was musty.

  “Indeed. And now, Biddy – what will you do?”

  I stared. “Stay here and care for you, Master. If it pleases you.”

  “It pleases me indeed. But not here. Not in this place of strife, Biddy. There is too much hatred. I know others think so too. Your old suitor Will, now: he longs to quit the village, but will not, as long as you are here. I’ve already offered him a position.”

  “In the New World?”

  “In the New World. Tell me, Biddy – will you come too? I cannot promise you an easy life over there, but already I have a snug farm, good beasts and a fine dairy. Say you will come.”

  I nodded. “Perhaps I will, Master. It is as you say: nobody can tell what we have fought about all this while.”

  TWO SIDES

  MIKE STOTTER

  During the Civil War some more forward-thinking radicals, such as John Liburne (1614–57), had advocated the complete overthrow of the monarchy and the House of Lords and that all politicians in the House of Commons should be elected by the people on an annual basis. He formed a political party called the Levellers. There was a lot of sympathy for the Levellers and Cromwell even went some way towards meeting their demands but it was not enough. Liburne became a relentless agitator and eventually was imprisoned in the Tower. Despite a public outcry Cromwell refused to release him. This turned the Levellers, now led by Edward Sexby, into anarchists, determined to overthrow the government.

  Which brings us to Mike Stotter’s story set in the midst of all this fear and turbulence. Mike (b. 1957) has worked at various jobs ranging from BBC TV through to Asset Management. His short stories have appeared in such anthologies as The Best of the American West (Volumes 1 and 2), Desperadoes, Future Crimes and The Fatal Frontier. He is the editor of Shots Magazine, which continues on his website devoted to the genre, .

  A weak shaft of winter sunlight reflected on the axe blade as it descended. With a single blow the head was severed from the neck, ending up in the wicker basket placed alongside the vast wooden chopping block. The crowd gathered outside the Banqueting House of London’s Palace of Whitehall let out a moan. Richard Brandon, the executioner, expected a roar of celebration not this display of empathy. He did not remove his black leather mask as he moved across the raised dais to collect the severed head. He lifted it aloft, displaying the gory remains for the onlookers, and obeyed the order that he was not to announce: “Behold the head of the traitor!” as was the normal practice. Brandon saw both men and women alike weeping.

  Charles, by the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, and France, Defender of the Faith – no more. Charles Stuart, King of England, executed as a traitor. On 30 January 1649, his death brought an end to the monarchy’s claim to absolute power by Divine right. Long live Parliament and Cromwell’s new Republic.

  It is a well known fact that if you stood on London’s Fleet Bridge and looked down upon the Fleet River itself for long enough, you would see any manner of things taken by its lazy current into the Thames. It would be a brave soul indeed to endure the powerful stench emanating from the butcher’s sweepings of dung, guts and blood of dead cats, of human excrement and the entrails and hides of dogs. The dying days of December 1656 had not deterred Londoners from continuing to use the ditch as an open sewer.

  The fog had come in off the Thames at early evening and shrouded Davy’s Wharf on the east bank of the Fleet in a dense cloud so thick you could almost grab it with your hands. A small group of people were huddled togeth
er despite the intense cold. They spoke in soft tones out of respect for the dead. The fog muffled their voices and hid their forms making them appear as spectres in the night. Some yards away, armed men carried pitch and tar torches that threw a hellish light around the still form on the wharf side.

  “The body was found thus?”

  The Alderman was startled at the sound of the voice so close in his ear. He turned, his right hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of the dagger on his belt. Many a thief, pick-pocket, night walker and murderer came to this area of the city to either escape the law or ply their trade. The dark alleyways and the huddle of buildings and warehouses provided an excellent refuge. The stranger was quick, and wrapped his fingers around Hemsby’s wrist, squeezing with enough pressure to stop him drawing the weapon.

  “Put away your weapon, sir. I have come to assist you.”

  He seemed to have materialized out of the night, bypassing the guards, arriving with an air of authority that even he, Alderman Joseph Hemsby, did not question. The newcomer had the bearing of a man from the military. He was dressed in the sombre tones of the day: a dark woollen cloak fastened about him so only the white falling ruff gave any relief. His tall conical hat was decorated with a simple buckle, whilst the wide brim concealed his upper face. He was freshly shaven and smelt of herbal soap.

  “Was the body found here, sir?” The stranger pressed.

  “Only after he was dragged from the ditch,” Hemsby replied.

  The newcomer did not take his eyes from the corpse, saying, “That much is obvious, Alderman Hemsby. I wouldn’t expect a dead man to climb out of the ditch and lay out on the quayside for our convenience!” He pointed to a large lump above the man’s right eye. “Was that the killing blow?”

  The alderman glared angrily. He was similarly dressed but gave into vanity by wearing a lace neck ruffle. Obviously the elder, Hemsby nevertheless gave in to his superiority. He moved closer to the body sprawled out on its back and kicked at the man’s foot, showing little respect for the deceased.

  “I assume so,” he muttered. The stranger knew his name and position but had not introduced himself. “Do you have a name, sir, or credentials as you see fit to trespass my province?” he asked.

  “Sir, my name is William Titcomb. I am from Mr Thurloe’s office.”

  Hemsby’s stomach lurched and swore under his breath, wondering how news of this death had reached the Lord Protector’s spy master so quickly. And why was this corpse of interest to him?

  The evening held a promise of snow, and a cold wind whipped around the men, shifting tendrils of fog in its motion. Rats, undeterred by human presence, ventured out of their holes and began to sniff around. Torch light reflected in their black soulless eyes. The fog brought an eerie quietness, only broken by the soft lapping of water against the wooden supports below their feet.

  William turned to face Hemsby. “Sir, I fear this is not the place to examine the body. Have it removed to the Guildhall for the coroner’s inspection.”

  “With due respect, sir, what interest is it to the Secretary of State of a poor waterman who more’n likely had his fill of ale, fell and struck his head and ended up face down in the Fleet? It wouldn’t be the first time, and surely not the last. Who is he?”

  “Is that how you see his death?”

  Hemsby shrugged. “I only offer a possible explanation.”

  William sighed loudly and turned around and strode over to one of the guards taking the torch from him. He commanded Hemsby to hold the torch for him. The light made the shadows dance, making the dead man’s pale countenance as grotesque as a church gargoyle. The Chancellor’s man squatted down on his haunches over the body, ignoring the foul smell of putrid water, and moved his eyes back and forth over the torso. The neck ruffle was stained black with spilled blood. With great care, William pushed it to one side.

  “Bring the light closer, alderman.”

  Hemsby moved in closer, pushing the torch in front of him.

  “By God, sir! There!” William snapped, one hand grabbing Hemsby’s cloak, the other pointing at the exposed flesh.

  There were two puncture wounds around the area of the windpipe. There could be no doubt – it was murder.

  “We have many such warnings sent to us, Mr Stoupe. His enemies, royalists, republicans and Anabaptist clamour against him. And it would be seen as weakness if we acted on every single claim. What signal would that send the world? That the great man was living in fear of his life?”

  John Thurloe sat back in his chair, his fingers pressed together to form a temple under his cleft chin. His large eyes were fixed upon the minister of the French Protestant Church in London opposite, whose large bulk was barely contained by the seat provided.

  “But Mr Thurloe,” Stoupe’s high-pitched voice filled the room. “I have a name from a reliable source. The disclosure would be of the greatest import for His Highness, and yourself.”

  Thurloe fixed him with a piercing stare. It was unlike him to not think charitably of another person but there was something about the Frenchman that got under his skin. It might have had something to do with the fact that the minister had initially approached Cromwell directly by way of a note. Cromwell being in Council at the time, and thinking that it was a matter of intelligence, had deferred the minister to his Secretary of State. Now the two men sat opposite each other, both resolute in their demeanour to one another.

  ‘Sir, I have acted on similar information relating to attempts on the Protector’s life and they were of no consequence. Why should yours be different?”

  “I trust my information without reservation.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Quite so.”

  Thurloe leaned forward, his right thumb and forefinger stroking his moustache. His head was thumping with an ache that had troubled him all week. He was finding it increasingly harder to concentrate in the meeting. He was fatigued and his mind had been distracted with family these past couple of weeks. His youngest was dangerously ill, and lay in his sick bed. Physicians had come and gone but to no avail. Thurloe had prayed every day that his son be spared.

  “Mr Thurloe, I can provide a name of the chief instigator and where he may be located.” Like it or not, the French minister was insistent that an attempt on the Protector’s life was at hand.

  Thurloe made an open-handed gesture for Stoupe to continue.

  “He is a Leveller by the name of Miles Syndercombe, an Irishman who was once a soldier in your New Model Army. In 1649 he mutinied with his regiment but fled when it failed. Six years later he arrived in Scotland and became a member of a cavalry unit and attempted to take control of the army. Alas, this also failed and he fled to Flanders.”

  “Your friends are well informed, sir,” admitted Thurloe.

  Stoupe gave a little bow of his head. “Thank you, sir. The message was conveyed to me by well-meaning friends, and I am bound to secrecy of their identity.”

  Stoupe continued, “Evidence of Syndercombe’s activity in Flanders is documented and it is known that he is in the pay of Colonel Edward Sexby, another of your Levellers hiding abroad, who has supplied both arms and money. I know that the Lord Protector would not wish to see an injustice performed on his person or England. You may rest assured that I have not acted in haste, and came to you at the earliest convenience.”

  Thurloe suppressed his indignation that the French were giving the impression that their intelligence department was superior to his own office. The agitators known as The Levellers rose to prominence during the Civil War within the ranks of the New Model Army. Their aim was to bring about a less class-driven regime, believing – and here Thurloe could quote Richard Overton, one of their most vocal supporters – “by natural birth all men are equally and alike borne to like propriety, liberty and freedom,” and that there should be complete religious freedom.

  Thurloe said, “Sir, we have not been troubled by the Levellers since its break-up in ’49 when the leaders, Thompson, Perkins and Ch
urch, were hung after the attempted mutiny at Wellingborough. It is a well-known fact that all Leveller support in the New Model Army was crushed. Pray tell me, what harm can this man do?”

  “Syndercombe is back in England. He has rented a house upon King Street. Spain supports Sexby, who in turn, provides monies and arms to those like Syndercombe. There is a plan to restore the Puritan republic as believed by the Levellers. Thus he plots to remove Oliver Cromwell as the head of the republic by violence if necessary.”

  Thurloe looked at the Frenchman’s gaunt face and said nothing.

  Stoupe rose to his feet and gathered his hat and cane.

  He said, “I fear that you do not take this of import, sir. I come to tell you that an attack on the Lord Protector’s life is imminent, plus the name of one of the would-be perpetrators, and yet you sit there and say nothing. You insult me, sir!”

  “Hold fast, Mr Stoupe,” Thurloe cried out. “Be seated and rest. I shall send for a steward to take a statement from you. Perhaps some wine or ale?”

  “In God’s name, do not trouble yourself, for I have nothing left to say.”

  “You are in error, sir. Before you depart I pray that you write a report and send it to Brussels.”

  The minister was stunned into silence. Had he misjudged Thurloe all along? Was he privy to the information from his spies abroad? Stoupe hesitated for a moment before turning on his heels and leaving the room. Thurloe lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. The small battle of wills was over and the victory was his. Had Stoupe continued to press him on Syndercombe, Cromwell’s head of intelligence might well have told him that he already knew of the agitator’s presence in London. His address on King Street was a touch of irony that didn’t escape his attention.