A Murder by Any Name

by Suzanne M. Wolfe

  Or perhaps the reason Sir Thomas couldn’t answer was that he was caught between a rock and a hard place—either admit to betraying his wife, the Queen’s cousin, or betray his mistress, who could very well be highborn herself and the wife of a powerful lord. Not to mention the offense he would give his sovereign, yet another woman, whichever answer he gave. Poor sod, Nick thought. Sir Thomas was beginning to look like Orestes, pursued by the Furies for killing his mother in order to avenge his father; or Oedipus, who killed his father and married his mother and was likewise pursued by the weird sisters. Aeschylus and Sophocles, those ancient Greek playwrights, sadists both, loved to stack the odds against their heroes. They must have had spectacularly unhappy childhoods to have such serious parent issues, Nick had always thought. Whatever the reason, he would have to get to the bottom of it, and that meant a long walk across London to the Tower.

  He ran his hand over his chin. Rivkah was right: he needed a shave and a wash. Briefly he entertained the notion of returning to Bankside and dropping in on Kat. She had had a bathhouse installed in the garden behind the house—this despite Henry VIII making them illegal, given his belief that they were breeding grounds for the French pox. Nick longed to submerge himself in hot water, let her run a soapy sponge over his back and other more hard-to-reach parts. And a shave: Kat was the only woman he trusted to hold a sharp blade to his throat. Rivkah he didn’t dare ask, having seen her wield a scalpel on some poor unfortunate to excise a cyst on his groin. Just the thought of it made him shudder. He could have had heated water brought up to his room in the palace, but he didn’t have time to wait for a surly laggard to show up with a half-empty bucket after spilling most of its contents on the stairs.

  “I didn’t see puce pants poncing about,” Nick said, referring to the absence of Sir Christopher in the Great Hall.

  “Ooh, alliteration!” the Fool said, clasping his hands and looking dreamy. “Positively poetic.”

  “Cut it out, Richard,” Nick said crossly. “I’m trying to solve a murder here.”

  “Sorry,” the Fool said. “It’s a hard habit to break. Anyway, I overheard the countess telling the Queen that her precious nephew left for Dover the day before yesterday. Something to do with a shipment, apparently.”

  That ruled out Sir Christopher as a suspect for Mary’s death. Even so, seeing as he had to go through Cheapside on his way to the Tower, he would drop by the house and talk to Perkin. He wanted to double-check that the times Sir Christopher had given for his visit to the Custom House stood up, despite the corroboration of Master Summers. Although illogical and most likely a waste of time, Nick felt that Perkin might have something important to tell him. Nick remembered he had also intended to check in with Wat, Master Hogg’s apprentice. This too was probably a dead end—he hadn’t held out much hope about the Guinea spice—but he could afford to leave no stone unturned now that the Queen had given him an ultimatum. When called to account for his progress or lack thereof, he must be able to report that he had assiduously followed every lead.

  First he decided to check in with John to see if Hector had discovered anything damning in Hugh’s room and if Matty had been able to identify Hugh as the man she heard. Then he had to hurry to the Guard House to interview possible witnesses, although he was not hopeful.

  Next he would walk to the Tower. On the way he would drop in on the apothecary and see if Wat was in. After the Tower, he resolved to cross back to Bankside on London Bridge and check in on Rivkah and Eli. Perhaps visit Kat afterward for that longed-for bath and a spot of dalliance. Feeling a little more cheerful, Nick said goodbye to Richard and left the Great Hall.

  CHAPTER 14

  The City of London

  On his way out of the main Court Gate, Nick stopped to talk to John, whom he spotted leaving the Guard House. Only one man, a pig farmer on his way to the meat market in Newgate Street—Nick recalled the crates of squealers he had heard—had anything interesting to report. He had parked his cart next to the kitchen door about half past two—“Five hours before sunup, any road,” was how he described the time—to deliver his load. When John commented on how early that seemed, Farmer Trotter explained that the palace was only his first delivery, that he had several other locations to go to before he could continue on to the market to sell the rest.

  “I’m surprised you do any business in Advent,” John said, “seeing as meat is banned.”

  “People are already preparing for Christmas,” the farmer explained. “Salting, curing, and such. Advent and Lent are my busiest times. Good job I live over by Westminster way,” he continued chattily. “Not far from home, see. Only have the one horse, Petunia. Getting a bit long in the tooth now, of course.”

  After he had suppressed a smile at the mare’s name, a clapped-out nag of dubious temper, John had to patiently steer Farmer Trotter—“I swear to God,” John said when Nick raised his eyebrows at the aptness of the farmer’s name—from his beloved horse back to the subject at hand. As he drove past the buildings that separated the wide expanse of The Court from the Privy Garden, he heard voices.

  “Going at it hammer and tongs,” he said. “Man and a woman, before you ask. Must have been married,” he added thoughtfully.

  When John asked if he could overhear any words, he said only the word “bitch,” frequently repeated.

  “Definitely married,” the farmer concluded.

  Asked if he had seen anyone or heard anything when he unloaded his crates and carried them past the cellar door to the kitchens, he shook his head. “Only the cellar door was open,” he said. “And the lantern on the hook, missing. I noticed that because it was dark, and I nearly tripped over one of those uneven flagstones. Wouldn’t do to drop a crate in the palace,” he said, grinning as he imagined the chaos that would ensue, piglets racing about, servants falling over one another, the cook brandishing his ladle like a general directing his troops.

  “Where were you when the body was found?” John asked.

  At the mention of Mary, the farmer lost his amused look. “I was leaving the kitchens after taking in the last crate,” he said. “While I was chatting with the cook—we’re old mates, you know,” he added irrelevantly—“he sent one of the kitchen maids to fetch some small beer from the cellar. We like a bit of a drink on a cold morning, him and me. Keeps out the chill.”

  “The body?” John reminded him, thinking that, never mind piglets running around the corridors, it was harder to keep Farmer Trotter on track.

  “We heard the maid screaming, and we all rushed down the cellar to see what was amiss. Then we saw her. The dead lass, I mean. Horrible, it was.” He took off his battered hat as if out of respect and twisted it in his hands. “After that, one of the guards came and shooed us all up the stairs. Then the scruffy cove with the massive dog arrived and started giving orders. Friend of yours, is he?” the farmer asked. When John nodded, the farmer scowled. “Then tell him from me that thanks to him, me and Petunia’s lost a day’s trade.”

  John questioned him further, but he’d had no more to tell him aside from the fact that the farmer had seen no guard on duty in The Court. When John asked the guards about this, a jug-eared northern lad whose uniform hung loosely on a lanky frame shamefully admitted he had gone into the guard house for “a bit of a warm-up seeing as it were right parky outside.”

  “Bit of a kip, you mean,” the captain said, advancing on him with clear intent to cause grievous bodily harm.

  John had left them to it.

  “Can I go now?” the farmer asked, clapping on his cap of worn fustian, which smelled suspiciously of pig shit. “Petunia’s been standing outside for hours, poor luv. Feels the cold something horrible.”

  John also broke the depressing news to Nick that none of the other kitchen staff or tradespeople had seen or heard anything.

  “At least Farmer Trotter gave us a time,” Nick said. “Half past two. The killer must have slipped down to the cellar when he was in the kitchens. Very risky. Farmer Trotter wa
s in and out of that corridor between the kitchens and the cart. The killer would have had to wait his chance and then slip down unseen. Speaking of which,” Nick said, “turn up anything on Hugh?”

  John shook his head. “Not a thing,” he said. “No bloody clothes, no stiletto.”

  “Matty?” Nick asked.

  “Even when I made Hugh whisper, she still couldn’t tell.”

  Nick sighed. He hadn’t been very hopeful, but he was desperate for some hard evidence. He then told John about Sir Thomas Brighton and asked him to search his room.

  “Check his clothes, John,” he said. “Take the place apart.”

  Nick told John he was intending to return to The Black Sheep after his interview with Sir Thomas at the Tower but that he would return to Whitehall the next morning.

  “I need you to remain here in case the search of the rooms turns up anything. Talk to the captain and organize a patrol of the palace tonight and every night until I say so. And get some shut-eye while you can. Neither of us is going to sleep until this is over.”

  “And, John?” he said as his friend turned to go back to the palace. “The place is going to be abuzz about Hugh’s arrest. People are going to be saying that the murderer is caught; they are sure to ask why they are still being kept in the palace. It’s probably going to get ugly.”

  “Not to worry,” John grinned. “I’ll just blame you.”

  * * *

  Whistling up Hector, Nick set off north along King’s Street.

  At St. Pauls’ Cross he looked for the beggar girl but didn’t see her. Instead, a meat pie-seller, touting his illegal wares from a tray slung around his shoulders, caught his eye. Steaming in the cold air and swimming in rich gravy, the pies’ aroma was heavenly, and the growling of his stomach reminded Nick that he hadn’t broken his fast since the day before. He bought four for a farthing each and sat on the steps of the Cross to eat them; two for him, two for Hector. If he was lucky, the meat inside would be rabbit trapped that morning near Smithfield; if unlucky, it could be pigeon or even rat. The city bailiffs kept a stern eye on butchers and pie-sellers in Advent and Lent to make sure the ban on meat was being observed, but there was always a thriving under-the-counter trade with country poachers. Nick didn’t care; he thought the Almighty had better things to worry about, and he’d eaten worse on a voyage to the Continent where the ship had run straight into a storm in the English Channel that had blown them so far off course it had taken a month to beat back. By the time they’d limped into port, Nick and the crew had been down to hard tack and weevils, with rain water to drink, foul and bilgy. His hatred for rats stemmed from this voyage, where he and the ship’s crew had had to battle the vermin for food and keep a watch at night for fear they would be bitten. After letting Hector lick his fingers clean and wiping them dry on his cloak, something Rivkah would have told him was woefully unhygienic, he continued toward Cheapside, dodging plump matrons with cowed maids in tow, staggering under huge baskets, and sweethearts strolling arm in arm, taking up the entire sidewalk in such a romantic fog that they were oblivious to other pedestrians and the irritated glances from people in a hurry, unable to pass them.

  “Gardez loo,” a voice yelled suddenly from a window overhanging the street. Nick ducked smartly inside a doorway as the contents of a chamber pot splashed revoltingly into the gutter. A man with his sweetheart on his arm wasn’t so lucky; his plum-colored stockings would never be the same. His lady love wrinkled a pert nose and glared at him as if it were his fault. Safely on the inside, closest to the houses, her sky-blue skirts had been gallantly shielded from just such a mishap by her considerate lover. As far as Nick could tell, he didn’t seem to mind; judging from his moony expression when he looked at her, he was too far gone to fret over a ruined pair of hose.

  The sound of a woman’s voice raised in anger issued from the upstairs room where the chamber pot had been dumped. Nick caught the words “You’ll get us fined, you lazy slattern—” before the window banged shut. The angry tirade continued, muted by the glass. In an upscale neighborhood like Cheapside, the emptying of chamber pots into the street was frowned upon by the authorities. A hefty fine was imposed if a neighbor reported it, and judging from the disgusted look on the face of the haberdasher who rented the ground floor, the upstairs household would soon be visited by the bailiff.

  Nick had shelled out over a pound to have an indoor water closet installed in The Black Sheep; intended solely for use by the family—patrons had to use a jakes in the back, although most staggered out the front door and pissed in the Thames. He had also convinced Robert to install water closets at Binsey House; the abundance of streams providing flowing water on the property made this a lot easier to do, but no cheaper, alas. Even the Queen had had a flushing privy installed at Richmond Palace. In his travels on the Continent, Nick had been impressed by the sanitation in several Spanish cities, had thought it much more advanced and efficient than in England, owing to the influence of the Moors and Jews, who considered hygiene and sanitation an indispensable adjunct to the practice of their faith. In addition, the Continent retained the historical memory of ancient Roman baths and sewer systems. Nick had always found England woefully backward in this regard, suspicious as it had ever been of foreign influences.

  When the coast was clear, and with a quick glance upward to see if the contents of another chamber pot were imminent, Nick stepped back out into the street, only to be stalled by a nursemaid herding a gaggle of small children in front of her like so many errant goslings, cluttering up the walkway and slowing down to a complete wide-eyed halt at the sight of Hector. One of the children, a boy of about four, his nephew Nicky’s age, jumped into the road and started stamping gleefully on icy puddles, splintering them into starbursts. Nick lunged just in time to pull him to safety before he was run over by a cart.

  “Watch out, lad,” Nick said.

  The boy giggled as if being rescued from sudden death were a lark. Nick’s heart beat painfully. The child’s blithe unconcern for a world full of danger reminded him of Cecily and Mary.

  “Oy,” the nurse shouted. “Leave him be.” She had been too busy trading flirtatious looks with a shop apprentice to have noticed the near demise of one of her charges.

  “Mind the young ’uns, Mistress,” the driver of the cart bellowed.

  “You mind your own business,” she yelled back.

  The children petted Hector and waved shyly. Nick waved back. The nurse scowled and shooed the children on, scolding them as she went, the words “Nasty man; nasty dog” drifting back to him.

  As he neared Sir Christopher’s house, he saw a stout middle-aged woman, wearing an apron, on the front step, talking loudly with another woman leaning on a broom. Both looked to be domestics; Nick guessed the woman with the apron was Sir Christopher’s cook, judging from the proprietary way she was leaning on the doorpost. The other woman, younger and thinner, looked like a maid from next door. Nick pretended to be interested in the front window display of the wigmaker’s shop a few doors down and listened in.

  “Done a bunk, hasn’t he,” the cook said. “Nary a word to me nor the master neither.”

  “Where’s he gone then?” the maid asked.

  “Dunno.” The cook folded her arms on her wide chest. “He has family out Shoreditch way. Maybe gone there.” She frowned. “Odd though. Perkin hated his dad, said he were an evil bastard, used to beat him something awful when he were in his cups. And his mam’s dead.”

  “Maybe he has a sweetheart?” This last said with a definite note of wistful longing. Nick guessed she harbored secret hopes.

  The cook guffawed. “Perkin? A sweetheart? You must be joking.”

  “Ain’t you worried?” the maid asked.

  “I’m more worried about who’s going to keep the kitchen fire lit, that’s what,” the cook said. “It were stone cold. Couldn’t get me bread in, could I? At least the master’s not home. That’s a blessing and no mistake. He would have had me guts for garters if
there were no fresh bread. Evil sod.”

  Nick sauntered up. “Morning, ladies,” he said, bowing.

  The maid tittered and gave an awkward curtsey, her broom almost taking out Nick’s eye. The cook gave him a shrewd once-over and frowned. Nick knew he looked a fright: his clothes were rumpled; he needed a shave; and, as Rivkah had pointed out to John, he stank.

  “Who might you be then?” she asked. Nick noticed that she was an experienced servant who had dropped her London dialect in case he was someone of note.

  “The Honorable Nicholas Holt at your service, madam,” Nick said, laying on the formality with a trowel. In his experience, servants were far greater sticklers for protocol than their masters, believing their own worth to be in direct proportion to their master’s social standing; the more important the visitor, the more important the master, and hence the servant. “I was here a few days ago to speak to Sir Christopher and his aunt, the countess.”

  At the stating of his credentials—the reference to her master and his formidable aunt—in a clearly upper-class accent, the cook’s face assumed a helpful and servile expression.

  The maid continued to gape. “What kind of dog is he?” she asked, indicating Hector with the end of her broom. Hector was busily snuffling around the steps, probably catching the scent of Sir Christopher’s dog. Which reminded Nick: he couldn’t hear it yapping.

  The cook gave the maid a glare. “Off you go, Lucy,” she said, “while I see to his lordship.” She gave the girl a none-too-gentle nudge off the steps to speed her on her way. “Won’t you come in?” she said, addressing Nick with a curtsey. She looked dubiously at Hector. “I’ve just cleaned the floors.”