The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  Neither Thurloe or Cromwell were under any illusion that the Levellers had been quashed. Spies and informers in the exiled king’s circle in Spain knew that there were negotiations between the two parties, who swore to see Cromwell destroyed. The Lord Protector and his Secretary of State had gathered about them one hundred and sixty brave men who should always be on duty near his person on a rota – his Life-Guards. They knew that the plotters would take every advantage to murder Cromwell. His death would signal the rise of the Levellers and royalists, and an expedition of hostiles would set sail from Flanders.

  The coroner was a wizened small man, bereft of hair and bulbous nosed. His breath reeked of stale ale. As he straightened up from the table his bones cracked in protest. “Poor man, God rest his soul.”

  “Amen,” replied William Titcomb.

  “You seem at ease at the presence of death, sir.”

  “Aye. I’ve seen it on the battlefield. It is an image that, once seen, cannot be erased from the mind’s eye.”

  Though it had been more than six years since he had seen a dead man William felt a coldness all over his body as he stood close to the deceased. He watched the coroner as he went about his task of examining the body.

  The coroner nodded sagely. During the war he had been pressed into service into the Parliamentary army.

  “Strange that our paths have not crossed at some other time, Mr Titcomb.”

  “Quite so, Mr Newman.”

  The coroner began to strip the body naked, discarding the clothes to one side and initiated his investigation. There was a cool efficiency about him that made Titcomb feel he had performed such a task on many an occasion. Newman spoke to Titcomb on every step of the procedure. Titcomb moved across to the pile of clothes, lifting each item and examining them, then searched through the pockets.

  “He was dead before he entered the water,” Coroner Newman said. “Any one of those knife wounds to the heart would have been enough to kill the man.”

  The body was now fully naked on the table, and in the light of the morgue William saw that there were around half a dozen wounds around the heart, two more near the neck and one to the belly.

  “Whoever did this was no assassin.”

  The coroner looked up. “What a curious thing to say. Why would he be assassinated? Do you know the man?”

  William nodded. “He was a groom in the stables at Glass House Yard. He and my brother were friends as their parents came from the same village in Wiltshire.”

  “I can confirm that the man was indeed murdered, but you mentioned assassination – why?”

  William felt a sudden chill. He had said too much. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I am confused with another investigation. He and the other victim lived in the same area. An assassin would strike quickly and cleanly. Why stab a man so many times?”

  The coroner overlooked the point. What concern was it of his that this representative of the Secretary of State was lying? He was sure of that. All he needed now was a name to sign off the certificate and he was done. But the question piqued his professional curiosity. He stood by the body and raised a hand, closing his fingers around an invisible knife and brought it down nine times, mimicking how the perpetrator might have carried out the deed.

  “In my opinion the attack was carried out in a state of frenzy,” the coroner explained. “The position of the wounds suggests that perhaps the first blow was to the belly, followed by two to the neck area. He probably fell onto his back when the other injuries were inflicted upon him.”

  William removed the man’s valuables from his pockets, placing them with a reverence upon a small table. He looked at the paltry possessions: a comb, a handkerchief, one large brass key and four pennies. He shook his head sadly. Then his fingers brushed against a cold item. He used his fingertips to trace around the jagged edges, feeling the raised areas in the centre. He palmed the coin-sized object and slipped it into his vest pocket.

  “And the blow to the head?” William asked.

  “Oh, post mortem. Suffered when he fell into the water.”

  “Or pushed?”

  “Or pushed indeed, sir.”

  “Sir, I need your verdict.”

  “Murder, sir. Murder.”

  In the morning William Titcomb brought John Thurloe the bad news. He arrived at the Secretary’s office shortly after nine, having had one of the most restless night’s sleep in a long while. His master appeared to have not fared well either. His shoulder length hair was matted against his forehead, his face ashen and his eyes swollen.

  “Are you unwell, sir?” William enquired.

  “A sickness that will pass, Mr Titcomb. Pray sit down and tell me the news.” He waved at the empty chair opposite his desk.

  “I’m afraid it is as we feared, sir. Mr Slade is murdered.”

  Thurloe seemed to shrink back in on himself and let out a small moan. “We shall pray for his soul, William.”

  Both men lowered their heads and gave up a prayer in silence.

  “Do we know the murderer?” Thurloe asked after a suitable moment of reverence had passed.

  “No, sir. But he had this upon his person.” William brought out the object he discovered on Slade and placed it upon Thurloe’s desk.

  Thurloe looked over the item before picking it up. “Do you know what this is, William?”

  “A wax seal.”

  “Not just any seal, my boy. This is the seal of the King of Spain.”

  “Why would Slade be carrying a Spanish royal seal?”

  “He reported that he had intercepted a letter from an Englishman named John Fish to the Spanish Ambassador in Brussels. Fish requested a hundred pounds and a cache of weapons to be smuggled into the City, and left at the wharfside by the Thames. It appears that the parchment did not survive the ordeal in the water but the seal did not perish.”

  “Slade was expecting this John Fish to be at the rendezvous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he go alone? Why weren’t there soldiers despatched to help him?”

  “Fish is just one man. There are many plotters.”

  “So Slade was to follow Fish to discover the agitator’s headquarters?”

  “No. Slade had actually infiltrated the Levellers. He knew Fish was planning something outrageous but he could not find out what. At any given time there may be thirty or forty people operating but not all the plotters are known to one another. That the King of Spain is openly financing any rebels who help Charles Stuart regain the throne and bring back the monarchy to rule England is a serious threat in itself. I believe Slade was discovered and murdered.”

  “By Fish?”

  Thurloe shook his head. “That is just conjecture at the moment.”

  “Then we must get proof. Do you know the whereabouts of Fish at the moment?” William was already planning to gather some men and arrest the murderer.

  “We know he is in London. I am as anxious as you to get my hands on the man. He is intelligent, make no mistake about that. How he discovered Slade’s identity is beyond me. I admit that to you. But we must tread softly; this Fish is a clever and dangerous man.”

  Miles Syndercombe arranged to meet the others at the house in Hammersmith. It was here that he had planned to shoot Cromwell as he rode in his coach on the way to Hampton Court. An associate had provided him with seven guns which could carry a number of balls, but his designs were thwarted as a clear shot could not be taken for the multitude of spectators. Under the name of Fish, he continued to rent the property. The expense meant nothing; he wasn’t paying for it.

  John Cecil stood to one side of the upstairs window and looked down upon the street. His eyes searched for any familiar faces or inappropriate activity. He was an overweight man given to sweating profusely, always dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. John Toop was the third man in the room and was very edgy. He had already upset a flagon of ale.

  “I have to admit to being very nervous,” he said. “I don’t know if I can go t
hrough with this.”

  “I don’t regard myself as a violent man,” Syndercombe said, easing his bulk away from the wall. “But you have already received twenty pounds on account.”

  Toop picked up the broken pieces and carefully placed them on the table. He was a tall, stone-faced man, whose clothes hung loosely about him. He said to Syndercombe, “Whatever you have paid me, I have returned with good information. There is no need for threats, sir.”

  “If I make a threat, sir, then I intend to carry it out to the full. I merely am pointing out the obvious.”

  “What is it you want, this time?” Toop asked, admitting defeat.

  “If you were offered a troop of horses, how would that sound?” John Cecil said.

  Toop turned around. “A troop, sir?”

  “Yes,” Syndercombe said. “Plus an annual sum of one thousand and fifty pounds. How does that sound?”

  He felt that they were playing him like a fish on a hook. The thought of such a high position, plus the money was too great a temptation.

  Toop turned back to Cecil and asked, “You can provide that?”

  The fat man nodded his head.

  “What support is there in the Life-Guards for the Levellers?” Syndercombe pressed.

  As a trooper in Cromwell’s Life-Guards, Toop was in a position to report on the Protector’s movements. Syndercombe had approached him after he overheard his anti-Cromwell rhetoric during a drunken session. It was a simple business deal: in return for twenty pounds, Toop was expected to provide information on Cromwell’s future activities. Now they provided a lucrative inducement.

  “I would hazard a guess that at least three-quarters are in support of the Levellers.”

  Syndercombe smiled. “And they would support us, and the Army, if the Protector were to be killed?”

  Toop felt a cold, unyielding pressure across his chest. He was not prepared for such a bold statement. And he understood the full implication of the deal. Could he come to terms with the fact that he was a traitor?

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  Syndercombe crossed the room and placed both hands on Toop’s shoulders. “It is far better that we are in league with Spain than with France,” he said. “But there cannot be peace with Spain until this tyrant is removed. I have prayed to God on this, and he has answered that this is the true and rightful path to take. He is the common enemy of the liberties of this country and the rights of Spain. Once the Protector is dead, the way would be cleared for a new Utopia. You are doing this country a great service, sir.”

  “A great service indeed Mr Toop,” Cecil added, slapping the man lightly on the back. “Now back to the barracks before your presence is missed. You will be contacted in the very near future, sir. God speed.”

  Toop did not hesitate and left the building without looking back over his shoulder.

  Syndercombe sighed heavily.

  “Do you think that he can be trusted, Miles?”

  “Toop? As far as I can throw him! But he is well connected in the Life-Guard, and the guardsmen trust him. Did you see his greedy little eyes light up at the thought of all that money? As long as we can grease his palms, he will do what we expect of him. But we have a problem. Edward’s last remittance of eight hundred pounds has been seized by that damned Thurloe. He is determined to cross over to England and make arrangements, then return to the continent.”

  “No, sir. He must not come over. It is far too dangerous.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I sent word to him but I fear that has been foiled.”

  “How so, Miles?”

  Syndercombe began to pace the room. “Not two nights ago,” he said. “One of our patriots was found murdered at a designated meeting place.”

  “Murdered, sir? By whom?”

  “I surmise that it was one of Thurloe’s dogs.”

  “Surely not! Even they would not stoop so low as to kill a man without trial. If he were suspected, then they would have arrested him and extract information from him.”

  “Mayhaps, John. But what a strange coincidence that Joseph Slade had provided us with the fleetest of horses to assist our escape.”

  Syndercombe stopped his pacing and went across to the window, where he looked down at the road. “We must act again. I have a feeling in my bones that time is running short. No more guns, this time. I plan to burn down the Palace of Whitehall with the despot inside!”

  Three days later Thurloe gave instructions to arrest the plotters. It was Toop’s change of heart that made it possible. He approached the Chancellor and revealed Syndercombe’s plan that he, John Cecil and Syndercombe were to place an explosive device in the palace chapel, and the intention was for a fire to break out about midnight, and in the confusion, the Protector was to be killed. They were captured as they locked the chapel door. Toop had to be there. It all depended on that. The three of them a party to the act. Cecil, the facilitator; Syndercombe the instigator who burned with an intense hatred of Cromwell. And Toop as an associate. He had to make sure that they could get into the Palace chapel, plant the explosive in a basket, then set the candle burning on a timed fuse. Cecil confessed all he knew but Syndercombe remained silent. Toop escaped with his life by turning informer. Thurloe was happy with the outcome.

  William Titcomb walked up and around the Fleet area every day and night after the arrests. There was something that didn’t sit right in his mind about Slade’s death but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He called in on warehouses, shops and inns, asking questions about the brave fellow found murdered at Davy’s Wharf. At first he found that many people feigned ignorance, whilst others had no interest. Titcomb visited the stables at Glass House Yard and questioned the ostler. He repeated that Slade was an honest man, a hard worker, reliable and of good character. He didn’t know of anyone who would harm him. Yes, but someone did, Titcomb said to himself.

  When he returned home later that evening, it was late, as it was every time for the last month, his wife was sitting up waiting for him.

  “Sarah, you shouldn’t be up,” he said.

  “I need to speak to you. The children are asleep. I had to wait for you.”

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “I was going to ask you that.”

  “Sarah, that man’s death . . .”

  “Yes, I know a man died, William. I know that you have worked diligently to find the killer, and how important it is to you. You’re out every day and night scouring God knows where. But you’re never here for me or the children of late.”

  “How can you say that, Sarah?”

  “Are you looking for the killer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you?”

  “Of course. What else would it be?”

  “I was going to ask you that.”

  “Sarah?”

  “Is there someone else? Are you seeing someone else?”

  William’s mouth dropped open.

  “Is there another woman, William?”

  He shook his head. “No. You should have to ask me that?”

  “What else am I to think? You have been acting quite strangely about me. It seems that you don’t want to touch me any more.”

  “No, Sarah, you’re wrong. Absolutely wrong.”

  She stood up. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  He nodded. “There is no other woman.”

  “Are you bored with your life with us, William. Is that it?”

  “For God’s sake, Sarah! No. No. No!”

  She looked at him and then turned away. Without looking back she said, “If you are, I’d–I’d kill you.”

  “My God, Sarah!”

  She turned around, tears streaming down her face. “It’s true, William. I swear by Almighty God, that I’d take your life rather than have you commit adultery and bring shame on me.”

  She didn’t push him away when he came over to hold her in his arms. He wasn’t angry with her and when he pulled away and looked into her face, he was smiling.

 
; “My dear, sweet Sarah,” he said and kissed her.

  It took him two days to find the house in Smithfield. Twice he had to retrace his steps. He had visited some of the most squalid places he had ever seen, almost certainly risking his life, but at last his cautious questions delivered a name and a place.

  A gust of wind came up carrying flakes of snow and the stench of the river. He turned away to wipe his eyes and saw it then. It was a decaying building, dirt besmearing its walls, windows broken and patched over, debris piled knee-high around the doorway. It was the most loathsome place he had ever seen. William was told it was a haunt and hiding place for all sorts of burglars, footpads, fences and other villains. He was certain that no ordinary citizen would step across the threshold.

  Inside the squalor continued. Rats ran merrily across the bare wooden floors. The room was small and smoke filled. About eight men and women sat around on chairs or on the floor itself, all in various stages of drunkenness. William counted up to three to himself and entered. He made to walk further into the room when a muscular man stood in front of him barring his way.

  “Whad’ya want ’ere?” he leered into Titcomb’s face.

  Titcomb stood his ground, one hand slipping inside his cloak pocket and resting upon the hilt of a pistol, cocking back the hammer. The muscle man heard it clearly and stepped back out of his way.

  “There’s a girl here named Mary,” William said.

  “Lots of girls ’ere, an’ you can call ’er anyfing you want!”

  Titcomb checked in his rage. “She’s around seventeen . . .”

  “Likes ’em young, does ya?” Someone said behind him.

  He ignored the comment and said, “Listen, I want to speak to Mary Lewington. Just tell me if she’s here or not.”

  From the shadows at the end of the room a voice asked, “What’s it to you?”

  “Step into the light. Let me see with whom I speak.”

  An overweight woman shuffled into view. Her arms hung down at her side, hairy like a man’s. The sight startled Titcomb but he soon gathered himself together. He said, “Is she here?”

  “What’s she to you?” the woman asked.

  Beyond her, others moved in the shadow.