The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  “It would be madness, pure and simple, if these deaths were random acts.”

  Both de Ruiter and Carteret had also railed at unreason, and the world gone mad. So it was only when Adams had stopped imagining there was some reason to the sequence of deaths – a reason that hung on Old World enmities – that he had seen the true cause. The reason for the murders was no reason at all. The cause was bound up in the very liberties of the Middle Colonies themselves – freedom to think the unthinkable. And then do it. It was truly a world turned upside down. And now in that world he could hear weeping.

  “You can come out now, friend. I understand. I can help you.”

  Even as Adams spoke the words, he knew he couldn’t. Penn’s new laws may reflect Quaker idealism, but two crimes were still punishable by death. One was treason, and the other was murder. The fugitive knew this too, and though he may feign a child’s voice, he was a fully grown man. Seven years earlier, it had been three young men – two English and one native – who had sat together imbibing new ideas, free of the past and its encumbrances. One of them had perverted those ideals.

  Adams could see his adversary’s large shadow etched against the sunlight. So he was ready, when Oliver Bowater emerged from the room. Even so, the sight of a stark naked, wild-haired Oliver with tears running down his face almost distracted him. And the arc of the lump hammer came close to bursting Adams’s head open. He ducked at the last minute, and felt the wind of the hammer’s passage over his head. He grabbed Bowater’s weapon arm, and struggled to disarm him. Face to face with Oliver Bowater once again after seven years, he was shocked by the demonic look that haunted the man’s features. He recalled a soft-faced young man with an earnest look in his eyes, who had left for the frontier with naive dreams in his head. This person was no longer that Oliver Bowater, but a man truly possessed. How his father had hidden him away for the week he must have been back in Philadelphia wreaking his havoc, Adams could not guess. Why Simon should have done it, knowing what was happening in Philadelphia, was more understandable. Often, a father loves his son too well. Oliver now looked like a demon, and his strength was that of a demon too. As they fought, Adams felt he was losing the battle. Bowater pushed his face into Adams’s, his eyes almost popping out of his head, and grinned.

  “Remember the book, John Adams? Father taught us how it was a true picture of the world. Well, I have set about making the world match the pictures. You are next, John. Remember the Duel of the Palfries?”

  Adams conjured up the picture from the chap-book: two men carrying horses on their backs, the horses with lances under their forelimbs. He had an image of himself found dead by James Bunce, crushed under the weight of a dead horse. Slowly, his vision began to fade, and his hope along with it. Then suddenly, as if Adams had wished it, Bowater groaned, went limp and crashed to the floor. Adams looked up through hazy eyes, and was aware of James Bunce supporting him with one hand. In the other, he held the club with which he had floored the Philadelphia Slaughterman, and saved his life. He could also see Teinane hovering in the background, smiling his enigmatic smile.

  “Thank you, James Bunce.”

  Bunce blushed.

  “You have no reason to thank me, John. When you sent me on that wild goose chase after Teinane, I was sure you meant to come and kill Simon Bowater. I still harboured the thought that you were the man who stalked the Philadelphia streets.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t put from my mind that you were the only person linking the murdered men. Did you not see that Burewald, Peters, Bird and Rokesby all used Bowater’s warehouse to store or purchase goods?”

  Adams stared at Bunce in astonishment, then burst out laughing. Indeed the fact had not even occurred to him. Unfortunately for the four men, it may indeed have been their association with Simon Bowater that had homed Oliver in on them. Adams had not seen the link, because he knew he was innocent of the murders, even if his friend hadn’t. Bunce looked suitably shamefaced.

  “Can you ever forgive me for thinking evil of you?”

  Adams clasped his friend’s hand, and reassured him of his forgiveness. He looked down at the face of Oliver Bowater, which somehow in death had regained its former innocence.

  “We both of us feared that the evils of the Old World had followed us here like rats on a ship. It distracted us from the reality. For here we have a far worse evil – a whole new evil – lying in wait to infect pliant and susceptible souls like Oliver Bowater. May God allow it to perish with the death of the Philadelphia Slaughterman.”

  TO WALK ON THORNY PATHS

  PAUL FINCH

  We reach the end of our journey through Jacobean crime with a suitably sinister story that could claim to be the first country-house murder. It is set in a snowbound house on Exmoor in the days immediately following the flight of James II from England to France, bringing to an end the Jacobean Age. James II, as stubborn and high-handed as his father and grandfather, had determined to revert to the Catholic faith, despite all that had happened over the previous century or so. Catholic supporters still regard him and his son – who became the Old Pretender (and the father of Bonnie Prince Charlie) – as the rightful kings of England and the true heirs to the throne.

  Paul Finch (b. 1964) is a former police officer who has written for TV, including episodes of The Bill. His first collection, After Shocks, won the British Fantasy Award for 2001. He is also the author of The Extremist and Other Tales of Conflict (2004), Cape Wrath (2002) and a volume of Viking horror, Darker Ages (2004).

  All through the December of 1688, it snowed heavily in the English West Country. A bitter northerly wind blew down from the Welsh mountains, rivers and streams froze, and many of the more isolated roads became impassable. None of this, however, prevented the local populace from coming outdoors to celebrate the stately advance of Prince William of Orange, as he and his fifteen thousand Protestant mercenaries proceeded eastwards from his landing-place at Brixham, in Devon; then, later, from Exeter as he embarked on the final leg of his journey to London.

  The reign of the Catholic King James II was over. After four years of intrigue, chicanery, “popish plotting”, and aggressive absolutism at the very heart of government, the least popular monarch since Bloody Mary had finally abandoned the throne of England. When the news broke on Christmas Eve that James had fled to France, Whig and Tory gentlemen alike left their country residences to join the merry throngs in the snow-bound villages. This, it appeared, would be a very happy Christmas indeed.

  “Not a good night for you, O’Calligan, I dare say,” Lord Chillerton said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

  Captain O’Calligan shrugged. “I’m merely a soldier, my lord. These great political events pass me by.”

  “Well, that’s a novel way to rationalize it,” Lord Lightbourne retorted. He was seated directly across the table from O’Calligan, and had been glowering at him from the moment the meal had begun. “If I were you, I’d consider myself lucky that Lady Foxworth is in such forgiving mood.”

  “No, no, no, I won’t have that,” Lady Foxworth interrupted in her delightful, sing-song tones. “Captain O’Calligan was always a most gentlemanly gaoler.”

  “A gaoler, my dear,” said Lady Lightbourne, “is a gaoler.”

  Lady Foxworth waved the business aside as though it was all best forgotten. “And Silvercombe was a most comfortable dungeon.”

  There were nods and smiles at this. The assembled guests had no desire to spoil their hostess’s gay mood. If she was inclined to pardon those who had wronged her, then who were they to disagree? At present, she was as happy as a schoolgirl, as beautiful as a butterfly. An inner-light seemed to shine from her, which, after the uncertain years of James’s reign, they could all now comfortably bask in.

  Only Jack O’Calligan had difficulty appreciating it. Thanks to the Arctic conditions outside, it was only a small gathering of Exmoor’s minor nobility at the Silvercombe Hall feast-table that night, but the tall, good-loo
king Irishman was uncomfortable all the same. Of Lady Foxworth’s guests, Lord Lightbourne and his wife, Loretta, long-time Whigs, were openly against him, while Lord Chillerton, though a Catholic and a Tory, was past ninety now, and his wife, Lady Barbara, much older, so there was little support to be had there. Even Judge Prendergast, who’d presided alongside Lord-Chief Justice Jeffreys at the Bristol Assizes, was keeping a low if corpulent profile at the far end of the table; he hoped to retain his office on the West Country circuit, and was thus being as obsequious as possible to the incoming administration. In any case, even had O’Calligan been seated among close companions, his position here would have been invidious: up until the last week or so, as a captain in the King’s Horse Guards, he had been charged with keeping Lady Hannah Foxworth under strict house-arrest. (Three years earlier, her younger brother, Rupert, had taken part in Monmouth’s ill-fated rebellion and had then dashed treasonously overseas to find service with the Dutch navy, which had not reflected well on her in King James’s eyes.) Granted, Silvercombe Hall, her ancestral home, had made a luxurious prison, but she hadn’t been permitted to leave it under any circumstances, except for those frequent occasions when she’d been summoned to Court to answer trumped-up charges of seditious libel. All things considered, her time had been exceptionally difficult, and O’Calligan was the one who’d enforced it. As such, he had no appetite. The repast that evening was delightful – roasted goose stuffed with cherries, a saddle of pork garnished with apples, and all manner of pies, tarts and puddings – while several excellent clarets had been produced from Lady Foxworth’s famously well-stocked cellar, but it was more than the Irish soldier could do even to sip at his brimming goblet.

  “Conciliation will be the order of events in the New Year, Captain O’Calligan,” his prisoner-turned-hostess said, leaning towards him. “You needn’t worry so.”

  He glanced sidelong at her. Even at forty-four years old, and two years his senior, she was extraordinarily handsome. Gemstones sparkled on her bosom, but were dull compared to the sapphire lustre of her eyes. Her golden hair, which she wore high and layered in thick curls, shone in the firelight. Her perfume was intoxicating.

  “If you’ll excuse me, my lady,” he said, pushing his chair back. “I’ll take some air.”

  She smiled and nodded, and watched him as he withdrew from the dining-room.

  “By God, I’d have my pack on his heels by now if I was you, Hannah,” Lord Lightbourne remarked.

  She tittered. “Oh Randolph, you do change with the tides.”

  He looked hurt. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come now,” she said. “You weren’t so committed a rebel when the Duke of Monmouth and his army arrived at Lyme Regis. And especially not after the Assizes, when they were all being marched to the gallows.”

  At the end of the table, Judge Prendergast gazed awkwardly down at his plate.

  Lord Lightbourne was no less discomforted. “In my opinion it was an ill-considered enterprise . . . with all respect to your family’s involvement.”

  “That respect is duly noted,” Lady Foxworth replied, and she smiled teasingly, which caused Lord Lightbourne to fumble with his cutlery, and his wife – who, compared to their hostess, was owlish and plain-looking – to scowl through her powdered blusher.

  Silvercombe Hall was a great rambling structure.

  It had originally been constructed during Henry VIII’s reign, from local stone, and at the time cast a grim, functional shadow across the bleak wilderness of northern Exmoor. Now however, thanks to the Foxworth family’s profitable sea-faring exploits, it boasted parkland and lush, manicured gardens, while its interiors had been paneled throughout in richest oak and hung with portraits and hunting-trophies, and at this time of year, of course, were decked with evergreens.

  As he walked down the entrance hall, Captain O’Calligan felt conspicuous in the presence of such grandeur. He hadn’t deemed it appropriate to dress for dinner, and still wore his riding-boots and red regimental coat, knee-length and trimmed with gold at the collar and cuffs, but old and weather-stained. His pistol and sabre hung at his hip, but were purely symbolic now that he had no office to enforce with them. Outside the hall, brushing snow from the porch, he found Cedric, Lady Foxworth’s oldest retainer, and the senior member of the three household servants she’d been allowed to keep during her period of confinement. Cedric had seen countless years: he was a tall but crooked fellow, with a thin, mournful face and long white hair. Compared to the stockings, wigs and dandified ruffles of his betters, he still preferred the Puritan garb of yore: the dark trousers and doublet, the starched white collar spread broadly over the top. Despite this, possibly because of their lowly birth and uncertain status in an ever-changing world, the Catholic Irishman and the Protestant Englishmen had become – if not friends – polite acquaintances.

  “You’re a long way from home, Captain O’Calligan,” the servant said after a moment. “Especially on Christmas Eve.”

  “Duty calls, Cedric.”

  Cedric eyed him curiously. “Unless I’m mistaken, your duty fled with your lord and master?”

  O’Calligan nodded and gazed across the snowy wastes. An icy wind whipped up flurries of feather-sized flakes. “Until I receive official notification that my post is terminated, I’ll stand my ground for King James.”

  “You’re a strange kind of Irishman, and that’s a fact.”

  O’Calligan acknowledged this, though, as far as he was concerned, he’d had good cause to serve the English crown so loyally. “You remember me telling you about when I was a child in Drogheda?”

  “Aye. That I do.”

  “I saw every member of my family slain, Cedric.” The soldier’s eyes misted as he recalled the grisly event. “It was Cromwell’s Ironsides, who did it. I was three years old at the time. That’s the only reason I was spared . . . but I remember it like it was yesterday.” He paused to swallow his emotions. “I learned early that Catholic England’s fight was Catholic Ireland’s fight too. I’ve seen nothing since to change me of that opinion.”

  Cedric continued to brush. “Let’s just hope that fight’s finally over, eh?”

  O’Calligan agreed. The religious wars had drained too many men of their humanity, but despite his dismay at the recent turn of political events, at least this latest revolution had been bloodless. That had to be a good sign, he thought.

  It was in the darkest, coldest hour of the night when hellish screams woke the household. The wind blew shrilly all around the ancient building, whistling through its chinks and rafters, but there was no mistaking what could only be cries of unimaginable horror.

  Several minutes passed before O’Calligan and Cedric, both of whom arrived on the upper floor of the east wing at the same time, carrying flaming candelabra, were able to locate the source of the sound, which appeared to be the guest-room allocated to Lord Chillerton and his wife. By this time the screams had ceased, and an eerie silence followed. The two men tried to force entry, but the door was locked from the other side. They knocked and shouted for several minutes, but received no answer. By now, Lord Lightbourne, Lady Foxworth and Judge Prendergast had also appeared, huddled in their caps and bed-robes but white-faced in the early-morning chill. Cedric, on the orders of his mistress, went for a hammer and chisel, and they finally broke the door down.

  Inside, the once elegant room was more like an abattoir.

  Even from the low fire in the grate and a guttering candle on the mantel, it could be seen that blood daubed everything: the bed-hangings, the curtains on the window, the Persian rug. Lord and Lady Chillerton lay like broken mannequins in a heap of bedclothes, their faces frozen rictuses of agony. In each case, a deep and fatal wound had been gouged across the throat.

  Lady Foxworth promptly fainted into Cedric’s arms. The other would-be rescuers stood there with stunned disbelief. Numerous items were out of place: a night-stand had been thrown over, its garments scattered; a chamber-pot was broken, its odious contents seep
ing into the floorboards. Despite that latter, rather foul detail, another stench was in the air – something pungent and carrion-like – though the intruders were too appalled by what they were seeing to even comment upon it. In truth, moments of utter confusion and Bedlam followed. No-one could make sense of the situation.

  “Here’s a curious start to your loyalist fight-back!” Lord Lightbourne suddenly shouted, rounding on O’Calligan. “Cutting the throats of your own toraidhe companions!”

  The Irishman stared at him uncomprehendingly. It was Lady Foxworth, who’d now recovered somewhat, though her pallor was still sickly white, who retorted: “Lord Lightbourne!” Her voice quavered with emotion. “I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from making wild accusations.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you’d put this Irish devil-dog under lock and key!” Again, Lightbourne rounded on the soldier. “Tell me, O’Calligan, isn’t it true that as a young trooper, you pursued the brigand Colonel Blood through the Wicklow Mountains, then later through the marshes of the Low Countries? That you also hunted robber bands in Scotland who’d disguised themselves as Covenant rebels?”

  The soldier said nothing. But it was true; they all knew it.

  “Isn’t it also true that you’ve developed something of a talent for clandestine warfare?”