A Murder by Any Name

by Suzanne M. Wolfe

  “Finest wool in all of Merry England,” he shouted. “Feel it, mistress,” he implored Rivkah. “Lovely nap.”

  “You should be wearing a scarf and mittens,” Rivkah told him severely. “You’ll catch your death standing out here all day.” Then she kept going with not so much as a glance at his wares.

  His mouth agape, the boy looked at Nick who gave him a sympathetic grin over his shoulder as Rivkah towed him along, momentary allies in their shared bewilderment about the female sex.

  Rivkah did stop once at a grocer’s, where she purchased a handful of rather wizened apples after inspecting them minutely for worm holes and bruising. She refused to pay the tuppence the grocer demanded, claiming that out-of-season apples, doubtless moldering in a barrel for two months, were only worth a penny, and even that was outrageous. Again, Nick looked sympathetic, but the grocer, unlike the draper’s boy, was philosophical, clearly used to the discriminating tastes of his predominantly female clientele.

  “Mayhap get better ones tomorrow, mistress,” he said, pocketing the coin in a flash. “Expecting a delivery any day if the lazy buggers can get a move on.”

  “I’ll be sure to check back with you, Master Grocer,” she replied, giving him a dazzling smile. “Many thanks.”

  The grocer doffed his cap, and they moved on.

  “This way,” Rivkah said, turning left along Thames Street, past Fishmonger’s Hall, then right on Dowgate. They were in the heart of the great Guild Hall district, those sumptuous edifices of timber and lathe erected in the Middle Ages as gathering places, in truth “showcases,” for the proud members of wealthy guilds—Tallow Chandlers’ Hall, Skinners Hall, Merchant Taylors’ Hall, and—Nick’s personal favorite—Innholders’ Hall, although he had been miffed to learn he was not eligible for membership in the latter since The Black Sheep was not considered an inn as it had no stables attached nor rooms to let. Informed of this by a snooty clerk in the front office of the guild, Nick was briefly tempted to inform the odious little quill pusher of his illustrious pedigree and how much wine and ale his forbears had drunk in their time—enough to float a small galleon—but he refrained, merely turning on his heel and stalking away.

  At the intersection of Walbrook and Budge, they turned right onto Candlewick Street. Rivkah stopped at a shop occupying the ground floor of a black and white timber house, its third story listing drunkenly over the street, creating a natural porch and blessed shelter from the wind. A painted wooden sign depicting a pestle and mortar swung creakily on its hinges above the door. A bell tinkled as they entered.

  The inside of the shop was so dim that it took a few moments for Nick to spot a pimply youth with his elbows on a counter by the far wall. To his left, through a doorway, Nick could see Master Hogg, a short, rotund man with a fleshy face in which button eyes seemed to disappear in the folds, busily grinding something in a mortar.

  Aptly named, was Nick’s first thought.

  Arranged on the table about the apothecary were various jars, bottled concoctions, and bunches of dried herbs. Hogg was whistling tunelessly between his teeth and seemed unaware of their presence, despite the herald of the bell.

  “I’d like a word with your master,” Rivkah told the youth.

  “Oh yeah?” he drawled, absently picking his teeth with a dirty fingernail, eyes lustfully raking Rivkah’s body, even though she was tightly swaddled in her cloak.

  “Hector,” Nick said softly.

  The dog stepped out of the shadows by the window and laid his chin on the counter so his eyes were on a level with the youth’s. The apprentice gave a strangled yelp and jumped back, flattening himself against the wall and dislodging a jar that crashed to the ground in a great puff of white dust.

  At the commotion, the apothecary bustled out of the back room, wiping his hands on an apron. “What’s all this then?” he demanded. The boy gibbered, pointing. Master Hogg turned around and blanched.

  “Master Hogg?” Rivkah said pleasantly, as if she were a local housewife come to purchase a remedy for her husband’s piles. “A word, if you please.”

  “Get that thing off my counter,” the apothecary spluttered, his jowls trembling.

  “He’s resting,” Nick said. “It’s been a long walk.”

  “A word?” Rivkah repeated, steel creeping into her voice.

  The apothecary reluctantly took his eyes off the giant head on his counter and looked at Rivkah. Nick could see he was thinking that the quicker he answered their questions, the quicker they would leave and take the monster with them.

  “I believe you stock Guinea spice?” Rivkah said.

  Master Hogg nodded. “When I can,” he said. “It’s hard to come by, and there’s not much call for it. Too expensive.”

  “So you would remember who you sold some to,” Rivkah said. “It being rare and not much sought after.”

  The man nodded again.

  “Do you keep records?” Nick asked.

  “Only of orders,” the man said. “When people want something special.”

  “Like Guinea spice?”

  “That would be correct.”

  “Names would be helpful.”

  “Can’t do that,” the apothecary said smugly. “Client confidentiality.”

  “Come now, Master Hogg,” Rivkah said. “You are not a physician.”

  The apothecary folded his arms across his chest. “Even so.”

  Nick sauntered over to a shelf by the window and picked up an enormous glass jar filled with murky liquid with a nameless something floating in it. Holding it up to the light, he could just about make out a jellied abomination of nature—a lamb with two heads.

  “Look at this,” he said to Rivkah, holding out the jar. “Twins.”

  She frowned, whether from his tasteless joke or, more likely, because she was wondering what he was up to. Behind her, Nick could see beads of sweat pop out on the greasy forehead of the apothecary, even though the room was cold.

  Nick tipped the jar slightly, sloshing some of the liquid onto the floor. “Oops!”

  “Butterfingers,” Rivkah said.

  Master Hogg bolted around the counter, paying no heed to Hector, and tried to wrest the jar from Nick, who held onto it.

  “Have you any idea how rare that is?” the apothecary said.

  “Just a few more questions.”

  Master Hogg sighed, then nodded, his eyes never leaving the jar, as if Nick had kidnapped his firstborn son and heir.

  “Can we see your order book?” Rivkah asked.

  “Wat!”

  Rivkah opened her mouth to repeat the question, then realized the apothecary was addressing his apprentice. The boy unfolded himself from the floor, where he had been crouching as far away from Hector as possible; took a giant book from a shelf under the counter; and banged it on the table.

  Rivkah leafed through it, her finger swiftly running down entries. She stopped halfway down the second to last page.

  “ ‘Guinea spice, three ounces; one order; six shillings, three pence; two days after All Saints,’ ” she read.

  “Name?” Nick asked. A name would give him a starting point, perhaps lead him directly to the killer. The murder had happened a month later, on December 4th.

  “ ‘Boy,’ ” Rivkah read.

  Nick’s heart sank. “Boy?” he almost shouted.

  “What’s wrong with that?” the apothecary said, his eyes darting nervously from Nick’s face back to his beloved jar. “You don’t think I ask the name of every servant who comes in here, do you?”

  “What was his master’s name?” Nick asked, forcing patience.

  “Wouldn’t say.”

  “And that didn’t bother you?”

  “He had money, didn’t he?” the apothecary whined. “It’s not like he wanted arsenic or ground foxglove to off the mother-in-law.”

  “Livery?”

  “None.”

  Nick sighed. He was tempted to drop the jar and dump its loathsome contents all over the apothecary�
�s fine woolen gown.

  “I paid a fortune for this,” Master Hogg said when Nick returned the jar to him. He stroked its sides lovingly. “Siamese twins,” he informed them. “Born every thousand years when Gemini is in ascendance.”

  “You’ve been diddled,” Nick said, opening the door to let Rivkah and Hector precede him. “Check out the stitches joining the heads.”

  Closing the door behind him, Nick saw the apothecary anxiously inspecting his treasure, his eyes huge and bug-like through the glass. The pimply youth was sniggering.

  * * *

  “That was a waste of time,” Nick said when they were back on the street.

  “At least we have a date,” Rivkah said. “November third.”

  Nick noted the “we.” He also noted how her cheeks were glowing, whether from the cold or the excitement of the chase he didn’t know, but he appreciated the effect.

  “You didn’t get your lavender and … what was the other stuff?”

  “Arrowroot. It doesn’t matter,” Rivkah said, pulling a face. “I’m not buying from that defective numbskull. Gemini indeed! He ought to bottle himself so people can stare at him!” She muttered something under her breath about superstitious nonsense and living in the Dark Ages before saying, “Where to now?”

  “Whitehall,” Nick said. “I have to see Codpiece and the Countess of Berwick. They were the only ones I didn’t interview yesterday.”

  “In that case,” Rivkah replied, “I’ll give it a miss. You know how I hate all those court toadies.”

  Nick suppressed his disappointment, but he understood. As a Jew, Rivkah was wary of drawing attention to herself, preferring to stay close to her neighborhood, where people knew her and were indebted to her for curing them of one ailment or another. It was not fear exactly—Nick knew Rivkah was courageous; Eli had told him she had tried to rescue their infant sister from their burning home in Salamanca—just an overabundance of caution. Given her tragic past, he couldn’t blame her.

  She was even more at risk as a Spaniard. Earlier that year, England had unofficially declared war on Spain, siding with their ally, the Dutch; long brewing, the hostilities between the two nations had been inadvertently made inevitable when, in 1570, fifteen years before, Pope Pius V issued a bull excommunicating Elizabeth for heresy, thereby deposing her and making it open season for assassination attempts. With one stroke of a pen, regicide was elevated to a holy act. He had former Catholic friends, now fled abroad, who felt that their highest act of patriotism for England would be to put a dagger through Elizabeth’s heart. Nick had never understood the torturous morality behind this kind of reasoning, nor the frightening self-righteousness it implied. He had spent the last year making frequent trips to Spain, trying to discover the war footing of the Spanish. A letter he had intercepted in Barcelona had identified a Catholic agent named Gilbert Gifford, who was subsequently arrested in Rye, Sussex. Under threat of torture, he was turned into a double agent working for Sir Francis Walsingham and the Spider. Nick knew that Gifford was somehow involved in a high-level plot to indict Mary, Queen of Scots, for treason and force her cousin, the Queen, to sign her death warrant. Mary still languished in prison, but the Queen and the rest of the country, especially Londoners, were twitchy. Nick had nightmares of an anti-Catholic mob cornering Rivkah in the streets and tearing her limb from limb. With her dark hair, brown eyes, and accented English, she stood out as a foreigner. Sometimes that was all a mob needed—to vent their fears on someone who looked different.

  “Hector can go with you,” he said. When she looked as if she might argue, he added, “You can protect him.”

  She called to the dog, and she and Nick parted, Rivkah walking east toward London Bridge; Nick heading toward Old Swan Stairs, where he caught a ferry to Whitehall, a long pull west against the tide.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Palace of Whitehall

  On arriving at the palace at the Privy Stairs, a more central place to alight from the river than Whitehall Stairs, Nick paid the sweating boatman and told him to wait. He didn’t know how long he would be, but wanted to make sure he had a ride home, a short row east across the river to Lambeth Stairs, then a brisk walk along the riverbank by Paris Gardens to Bankside. On entering the palace, he inquired as to the whereabouts of the Queen, knowing she seldom went anywhere without her Fool. He was told by a surly usher with reeky breath that she was closeted with her Privy Council—that meant she was without the Fool, the usher informed him with malicious glee, as the usually mild-tempered Baron Burghley had recently threatened to have Codpiece hung, drawn, and quartered after he had upset an inkpot over some papers waiting to be signed.

  “Serve him bloody well right, and all,” the man cackled, blowing pickled herring at Nick. “He’s a right menace, that one.”

  Without bothering to reply, Nick made straight for the Queen’s private apartments, hoping to catch the countess as well—two birds with one stone. More like one and a half birds, he mused as he negotiated the maze of corridors, unless the fat pullet of a countess makes up the half missing from the Fool. Vastly entertained by this idea, he emerged at the top of the stairs to the main hallway leading to the royal apartments.

  “Psst!”

  Nick looked around but could only see the Royal Guards positioned one on each side of the door to the Royal Suite, pikes crossed. They might have well have been carved out of stone for all the notice they took of him.

  “Psst!”

  The curtain twitched over the entrance to the privy set in the stairwell. A face peered out. At first Nick thought it was a small boy; then he realized it was Codpiece.

  “Just the person I wanted to see,” Nick said. “I was told you were not in the Privy Chamber, but I see that I was wrong.”

  “Ha ha,” Codpiece said sourly. When Nick would have replied, he held a stubby finger to his lips. “Not here,” he hissed. “Follow me.”

  Nick followed him back down the staircase into a small room at the bottom. A storage room by the looks of the barrels and stacked crates with straw spilling out of them. A scuttling in the corner told Nick they weren’t alone, and he wished Hector was with him. He shuddered. He hated rats. Carriers of disease, Eli said. Which was why he and Rivkah had no rushes on their floors but plain slabs of stone, washed daily. No sense providing a nest for them to breed, Eli said. Both he and Rivkah couldn’t understand why the poor still strewed rushes on their floors—an ancient practice from the days of the Plantagenets, long abandoned by the gentry—the noisome mess changed only twice a year.

  Codpiece stuck his hand into one of the crates and removed a candle and tinderbox. Nick got the impression he had stowed them there beforehand. His movements were fluid and sure, and he struck a spark on the first try, blowing on the lint until a small flame appeared. He lit the candle, dripped wax onto the top of a barrel, and stuck the candle down on it. It gave off a feeble light, just enough to make out the Fool’s features when the door was closed. Then Codpiece replaced the lid on the crate and hopped up on it, legs sticking straight out like a child’s. Nick leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.

  “Why the secrecy?” he asked.

  “That’s a foolish question,” the Fool said. “I thought better of you.”

  Nick regarded him thoughtfully. Not only had Codpiece refrained from making a feeble pun on the word foolish in relation to himself, but his voice sounded different—deeper, more serious, without the singsong cadences he usually employed. Nick got the uncomfortable feeling he had underestimated him.

  Codpiece watched the change in Nick’s expression and smiled. “No need to get your hose in a twist. Most people think because my body is small, so are my wits. Ergo: A monster must be a simpleton. My parents certainly thought so. That’s why they sold me to a traveling acting troupe.” Briefly a shadow passed over his face, then he brightened. “Such foolishness serves me well.” He was back to double meanings—a flicker of his usual self.

  “I’m beginning to see that,” Nick said wit
h a twinge of guilt. Before he had reluctantly agreed to spy for Cecil and been sent on his first mission to the Continent, Nick had avoided the court like the plague, despising the jockeying for favor, the blatant smarming, and the incessant backbiting. Like most people, he had assumed that Codpiece was simple, although he had to admit, his repartee was so pointed that Nick suspected there was more going on inside the dwarf’s head than people gave him credit for. And more going on inside his heart. Nick had picked up on the Fool’s bitterness, his underlying grief. Nick couldn’t imagine how he would have felt if his parents had sold him like the two-headed lamb Master Hogg kept in a jar, a freak of nature to be gawped and shuddered at. The court was like the jar where Codpiece was displayed for all to see, his origin as fantastical as the one related by the apothecary. Generally, Nick knew, people saw only what they wanted to see, a two-headed sheep, a Fool, or a monster, seldom looking closely enough to see the sleight of hand, the stitches, the shining intelligence in Codpiece’s eyes and realize they were being duped. Himself included. Nick wondered if the Queen kept the Fool by her as a kind of joke on her court; she was certainly canny enough to be capable of such a thing.