The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

“The pirates are coming to get me and take me away with them.”

  “You’re safe with us,” Tonneman said, hugging his youngest, blotting Daniel’s tears with the bedclothes. “No pirates here.”

  “But Silvie said they’re coming for me tonight.”

  “And who may this Silvie be?” Tonneman said.

  Racqel, bemused, said, “Lily Spinoza’s younger child.”

  “A child’s fantasy.” Tonneman was quiet for a moment. “And who did she mean by they, Daniel?”

  “Her papa and mutti, of course.”

  “Her papa is –” He stopped because Racqel had her finger on his lips.

  “Papa, why don’t you have a moustache like Silvie’s papa?” Daniel yawned. He snuggled up to his mother.

  “Sleep now, Daniel,” Racqel said.

  Even in the dark Tonneman could see her eyes fastened on his. “The dead man did not have a mustache,” Tonneman whispered. “You say he died of natural cause.” He eased from their bed so as not to disturb the sleeping child. “There’s a stink in the air. The stink of conspiracy.”

  Rain played music on the oyster shells. Soon it lessened. Not the wind. With such a wind sails would fill and a ship could fairly fly . . . Tonneman looked out in the bay at the swaying vessels, their sails billowing. In spite of the storm, dawn was showing the faintest glimmers in the east.

  The Portagee Spirit was gone.

  Gone as well, as One Eye would find when he awoke on this day of supposed riches, were the trunks of coins, the two African guards, and the master of the lottery, Nando himself.

  It was said that The Portagee Spirit was sighted off the coast of Virginia several days later, her sails full, heading south toward the Caribbean, at her helm a captain in a green velvet jacket with elaborate embroidery, and at his side, a woman, her long, dark hair flying in the wind.

  TOM OF TEN THOUSAND

  EDWARD MARSTON

  The following is based on a real case, the murder of Thomas Thynne in 1682. Thynne (1648–82) had succeeded to the estates of Longleat in 1670 and was known as “Tom of Ten Thousand” because of his vast wealth. Thynne had been a friend of the Duke of York, but they quarrelled and Thynne allied himself with the opposition party, the Whigs, under the growing power of Charles II’s illegitimate son, the Duke of Monmouth.

  Edward Marston (b. 1940) is just one alias of the prolific author and playwright Keith Miles. He is perhaps best known for his Domesday series, set in the years after the Norman conquest, which started with The Wolves of Savernake (1993). Of more relevance to the following story is the Restoration series featuring Christopher Redmayne, which began with The King’s Evil (1999).

  FEBRUARY 12, 1682

  The crime occurred in broad daylight. When the coach reached the main street, it slowed down and rumbled around the corner, its iron-rimmed wheels slipping on the frosted cobbles. Before it could pick up speed again, it was ambushed. Coming out of nowhere, three men rode alongside the coach so that they could discharge their weapons at its occupant. Two of the attackers had pistols but it was the blunderbuss held by the third that proved fatal. It went off with a deafening bang and split the victim’s stomach wide open. Blood gushed out over his velvet breeches and dripped on to the floor. Confident that the man had been killed, the villains kicked their horses into a gallop and disappeared at once from the scene.

  Christopher Redmayne saw it all from a distance. He had just entered the other end of the street when the murder took place. He heard the sounds of shooting clearly and the horrified screams from passers-by. He watched the coachman pull the horses to a sudden halt and caught a glimpse of the attackers, escaping in the confusion. Christopher did not hesitate. Riding at a canter, he made straight for the coach around which a small crowd was now gathering. There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. An aspiring young architect, he was on his way to meet a wealthy potential client at a tavern in that street. The closer he got to the coach, the more convinced he became that it belonged to the very man with whom he had arranged to dine that day.

  Having leapt down from his seat, the coachman opened the door to find his employer doubled up on the floor. He was still alive but he was fading with each second. Christopher’s horse skidded to a halt and the architect dismounted at speed. He looked over the coachman’s shoulder.

  “Is that Mr Thynne?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the other.

  “Is he injured?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Christopher eased the man aside so that he could see for himself. Thomas Thynne was beyond help. Face contorted in agony, he made a futile attempt to speak then his eyes rolled and collapsed in a heap. The coachman gasped. Christopher leaned in close to examine the body. When he was certain that Thynne was dead, he offered up a silent prayer before taking control of the situation. Having sent a bystander to fetch an officer, he turned to the coachman, a stout man of middle years, deeply shocked at the murder of his employer.

  “Do you know who those men were?” asked Christopher.

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you seen any of them before?”

  “Never.”

  “Were they lying in wait for you?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the coachman, wiping away a tear with the back of his hand. “As soon as we turned the corner, they were there.”

  “Can you think of any reason why they should do this?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Did Mr Thynne have any enemies?”

  “No, sir. He was the kindest man in the world.”

  Prompted by loyalty, and annoyed by people staring at the corpse with ghoulish interest, the coachman took off his coat and used to it to cover Thomas Thynne’s face. Then he waved his arms to force the onlookers back.

  Christopher asked for any witnesses and half a dozen came forward to tell the same gabbled tale. None of them, however, had been able to identify the men. It was only when a constable came running to take charge of the incident that Christopher spotted a short, thin, ragged individual, lurking in a doorway on the other side of the street. He beckoned the architect across to him.

  “I might know who one of them is, sir,” said the man, slyly.

  “You might know?”

  “If my memory was jogged, sir.”

  Christopher understood. “Who was the fellow?” he said, reaching into his purse for a coin. “Give me his name.”

  “I could give you his address as well,” promised the other, eyeing the purse meaningfully. Christopher took out a second coin and pressed both into the man’s grubby palm. “Thank you, sir.” He snapped his hand shut. “The person you want is Ned Bagwell. He stays at the Feathers, not two hundred yards from here.”

  Christopher knew the inn by reputation. After thanking the man, he mounted his horse and urged it forward. He was soon trotting briskly in the direction of the Feathers, situated in one of the less salubrious areas of Westminster. London was a dangerous city and Christopher was always armed when he went abroad. In addition to his sword, he wore a dagger and was adept with both. He was not deterred by the fact that there had been three men in the ambush. They had not only robbed a respectable gentleman of his life. They had deprived the architect of a handsome commission to build a house for Thomas Thynne. It served to harden Christopher’s resolve to find the killers.

  When he got to the Feathers, he tethered his horse and went into the taproom. Filled with smoke from the fire in the grate, it was a dark, dingy, unappealing place. Customers looked up in surprise. The inn was not used to welcoming someone as wholesome and well dressed as the young architect. Christopher went across to the man behind the counter.

  “Does one Ned Bagwell lodge here?” he asked.

  “Aye,” came the surly reply. “What do you want with Ned?”

  “I need to speak to him.”

  “And supposing he doesn’t want to speak to you?”

  “Then my sword will give him some encouragement,” warned Christopher, meeting the l
andlord’s hostile stare. “Is he here now?”

  “Aye – Ned is always here.”

  “I fancy that he went out a little earlier.”

  “Then you must think again.”

  “He had two friends with him. Are they here as well?”

  The man folded his arms. “Ned’s not stirred from here all day.”

  “I’ve only your word for that,” said Christopher, whipping out his dagger and holding it to the man’s throat, “and I wouldn’t trust you for a second. Take me to him.”

  “No need,” said the other, unperturbed. “I’ll call him for you.” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Ned! Ned Bagwell, you’ve a visitor!”

  A string of ripe obscenities issued from the next room then Christopher heard the thump of crutches on the wooden floor. When he appeared in the doorway, Ned Bagwell was a one-legged old man who let loose another stream of abuse. Christopher had been tricked. The man to whom he had given the money was already spending it in another tavern.

  “Tom Thynne shot down in the street by ruffians!” cried Henry Redmayne in dismay. “It’s a devilish crime.”

  “I mean to solve it,” vowed his brother.

  “I was at Court when the news came. His Majesty was greatly upset. Tom Thynne was a leading member of the Duke of Monmouth’s party. It was his money that has been helping the King’s bastard to win support around the country. There’s your motive, Christopher,” he went on, wagging a finger. “Some scurvy Roman Catholic has set these men on to kill poor Tom.”

  “I make no assumptions, Henry.”

  “But it’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

  “Not to me,” said Christopher.

  They were in the parlour of Henry’s house in Bedford Street. It was he who had recommended Christopher to Thomas Thynne. The contrast between the two brothers was startling. Christopher was tall, slim and well favoured while Henry’s features showed clear signs of dissipation. As one led a decent, healthy, conscientious life, the other pursued vice in every corner of the city. Though he did not approve of Henry’s passion for drink, gambling and lechery, Christopher was grateful for the many introductions his brother had given him to people in search of a talented architect. Henry Redmayne knew everyone of consequence in London society.

  “Tell me about Mr Thynne,” said Christopher. “All that I know is that he was very rich and recently married.”

  “Yes,” replied Henry. “We called him Tom of Ten Thousand. How I envied him! Think what I could do with an annual income of that size.”

  “You’d drink yourself to death in a fortnight.”

  “That was not what Tom Thynne did. He was a sober gentleman but not without an eye for the ladies. The beautiful widow, Lady Ogle, was half his age yet he wooed and won her. There was only one problem.”

  “Was there?”

  “Yes, Christopher. She let him wed her but not bed her. Repenting of the marriage, she fled aboard to Holland and is rumoured to be staying with Lady Temple. One of the ways her husband hoped to lure his wife back was to have a new house built for her. That’s why I whispered your name into Tom’s ear.”

  “We were supposed to dine at the Golden Fleece today so that we could discuss the project. Mr Thynne was murdered on his way there.”

  “The blackguards must be punished.”

  “They will be,” said Christopher, gritting his teeth, “but I may need your help to catch them.”

  “What can I possibly do?”

  “Find out who else knew about the arrangements for dinner. Those men were waiting for him, Henry. Someone told them when and where he would be at a certain time.”

  “So?”

  “The most likely person is employed in Mr Thynne’s household. You were a guest there in the past. See what you can learn at the house. The body was taken there. You’ll be able to pay your respects.”

  “But I’m expected at the card table within the hour.”

  Christopher was decisive. “Solving a murder is more important than gambling away money that you can ill afford,” he argued. “Get over there at once.”

  “I take no orders from you.”

  “Then take them from His Majesty. You told me how alarmed he was by the turn of events. This news will inflame those who hate the Court and its political friends. What better way to curry the King’s favour than by helping to track down the culprits? He would be eternally grateful to you. Now ride across to Mr Thynne’s house.”

  “Very well,” said Henry, peevishly. He adjusted his periwig in the mirror then preened himself. “What will you be doing in the meantime?”

  “Seeing what Jonathan has managed to find out.”

  “Jonathan?”

  “Jonathan Bale.”

  “That gloomy constable? A sour-faced rogue, if ever there was one. He has far too many Puritan principles to be allowed in respectable company.” Henry snorted. “A hue and cry will have been granted. Westminster will be crawling with officers. Why bother to involve Bale?”

  “Because he is so tenacious.”

  “Too damned tenacious!”

  “He once helped to save your life, Henry.”

  “Yes,” wailed the other, “then he read me a lecture on the need to abandon my evil ways. The brazen audacity of the man!”

  “Jonathan Bale is a godsend,” insisted Christopher. “He’s not without his faults, I grant you, but he has a gift for finding out things that other men would never even sniff.”

  “When was this, Reuben?” asked Jonathan Bale.

  “Soon after I heard the shots being fired.”

  “And you saw the men?”

  “I did,” confirmed Reuben Hopkiss. “The three galloped straight past me and all but knocked over our chair.”

  “Did you recognize them?”

  “I recognized one of them, Mr Bale. We carried him from his lodging here in Westminster only yesterday.”

  “And where did you take him?”

  “To the Black Bull.”

  Hopkiss was a brawny man in his fifties with the strength and stamina needed to carry heavy passengers in a sedan chair. He knew Jonathan Bale of old but was surprised to see him so far from his own parish of Baynard’s Castle. Bale seemed to read his mind.

  “A certain gentleman has taken an interest in this case,” he explained, “and he sent me a note. I was asked to search for anyone who could put a name to the face of any of the killers.”

  “Lieutenant Stern – that’s what he was called.”

  “Lieutenant?”

  “A naval man.”

  “And a foreigner to boot, then?”

  “A Swede.”

  “That will make him easier to find. Describe the fellow, Reuben.”

  “Gladly.”

  As the chairman gave a description of the man, Jonathan Bale memorized every detail. The constable was a big, solid, serious man in his late thirties with an ugly face that was puckered in concentration. He and Christopher Redmayne had been thrown together in an unlikely friendship, and they had solved a number of crimes together. When the request from Christopher came, Bale had responded at once. Other constables had combed the scene of the crime for witnesses. Bale was the only one to wander off into the side streets. His encounter with Reuben Hopkiss had been productive. He now had a clear description of one of the attackers. He also knew where the man lodged and in which tavern he preferred to drink.

  Jonathan Bale walked swiftly off to the Black Bull, hoping to catch the Swede – if not his two confederates – at the place. He was out of luck. Stern was not there and neither were any friends of his. Bale therefore retraced his steps and made for the man’s lodging. Once again, he was thwarted. The landlord told him that Stern had left early that morning and not been seen since. That worried the constable. He feared that the Swede might have quit London altogether after the crime.

  The booming of a bell reminded him that he had been asked to meet Christopher Redmayne at two o’clock. Hastening to Tuthill Street, he found his
friend waiting impatiently at the corner. After an exchange of greetings, Bale told him what had been gleaned so far. Christopher was impressed with his diligence.

  “I’ve just come from my brother,” he said, nothing the look of disapproval in Bale’s eye at the mention of his sibling. “Henry spoke to the steward at Mr Thynne’s house. It appears that his master used to dine at the Golden Fleece at least four times a week. Those who lurked in ambush must have known that he would come that way sooner or later.”

  “Can you tell me why Mr Thynne was killed?” asked Bale.

  “Henry believes that it may be linked to his support of the Duke of Monmouth’s cause.”

  Bale frowned. “Yet another of the King’s many bastard sons.”

  “The duke is claiming to be the legitimate heir to His Majesty, insisting that he has written proof that the King was legally married to his mother, Lucy Walter, at the time of his birth.” Bale said nothing. Having fought against the Royalists at the Battle of Worcester, he remained an unrepentant Roundhead. “It provoked the Exclusion crisis,” Christopher went on. “Monmouth is resolved to exclude the King’s brother, James, Duke of York, from the succession because he is an ardent Roman Catholic.”

  “Then you believe this murder to be a Catholic conspiracy?”

  “Henry does, certainly.”

  “What of you, Mr Redmayne?”

  “I think that we should look to the lady.”

  “What lady?”

  “Mr Thynne’s wife,” said Christopher. “No sooner did she marry him than she took to her heels and fled to Holland. Now, why should any wife do such a thing?”

  Bale shook his head. “It’s beyond my comprehension.”

  “I can’t imagine your wife behaving so recklessly.”

  “Sarah would never let me down – nor I, her.”

  “Yours is a real marriage. Mr Thynne’s, alas, was a sham. I think that it behoves us to find out why.”

  “How can we do that?”

  “We begin with the Swedish gentleman, Lieutenant Stern.”

  “But we have no idea where he is, Mr Redmayne.”

  “Oh, I think I can hazard a guess,” said Christopher. “Let’s go to the Black Bull. He may not be there but I’ll wager that someone will know where to find him. A few coins will soon loosen a tongue. If he is a hired killer, he’ll have collected his payment by now.”