A Murder by Any Name

by Suzanne M. Wolfe

  John nodded and looked away. Nick knew he was thinking of his own daughter, Jane.

  They proceeded more slowly, matching their steps to the child’s. Instead of shoes, her feet were wrapped in rags, and she walked with a stumbling, stiff-legged gate. Nick feared frostbite. Perhaps he would ask Rivkah to take a look at her, even though he was loath to drag her back across the river twice in one day. Suddenly his promise of a shilling didn’t seem enough. Not even close. He realized he didn’t even know the girl’s name. Scooping her up, ostensibly to lift her over a pile of snow, he kept hold of her. She weighed almost nothing. After a while she gave a little sigh and laid her head on his shoulder. By the time they arrived at Sir Christopher’s house in Cheapside, she seemed to be asleep.

  Carefully transferring the girl into John’s arms without waking her, Nick continued on to Candlewick Street with Hector loping beside him. He had toyed with leaving the dog with John but figured that he might get less of Wat’s cheek if Hector was with him. Innumerable times in the past he had found that the unblinking gaze of his monstrous pet could unnerve even the most reluctant witness, encouraging them toward garrulity if not truthfulness. Nick didn’t tell them that what Hector was probably thinking about was not tearing them limb from limb, but taking a nice long nap in front of a roaring fire at The Black Sheep.

  On the way, Nick went over Perkin’s murder. If Perkin had been killed by a thief, why had a lad who obviously didn’t have two farthings to rub together been chosen? Mistress Plunkett had said that nothing seemed to be missing from the house when he had talked to her in the kitchen the other day. And if a drunk in a tavern, then why did Perkin’s body have no signs of a fight. It was possible, of course, that Perkin’s natural insolence had rubbed someone the wrong way, and he had been set upon after leaving a tavern. But that didn’t explain the location of the body. Why would a stranger go to all that trouble to dispose of the body? Perhaps a tapster had discovered the body on the premises of his tavern and decided to get rid of it quietly.

  It was possible the killer could have been someone Perkin knew from the neighborhood, but this was unlikely. Despite its name, Cheapside was far from cheap, populated as it was by wealthy merchants and shopkeepers selling luxury goods; not the type of neighborhood frequented by either drunks or vagabonds. The nearest tavern was The Mermaid, which catered to respectable business types in the heart of the Guild district. If Perkin had been found in Bankside, Nick would not have been nearly as troubled.

  It looked as if Perkin’s death was a completely random event, but the more Nick thought about it, the more he had a feeling that there was a connection between the killings. This vague unease—not even a hunch, but more like a pricking of his thumbs—was why he needed to find Wat. Nick pushed open the door of the apothecary, in no mood to trade banter with either Master Hogg or his apprentice.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Master Hogg asked. He was writing something in the ledger and had not looked up when the bell rang above the door.

  “I’m here to speak to Wat,” Nick said.

  The apothecary raised his eyes. “You,” he said. Then his gaze shifted to Hector, who was sniffing at the floor. The dog let out a tremendous sneeze, and Master Hogg jumped, spilling ink from his quill.

  “You’ve blotted your copybook,” Nick pointed out.

  “And you’ve just missed Wat,” the apothecary said with some satisfaction.

  “I need a list of his deliveries.”

  “That’s confidential.”

  “Fine,” Nick replied. “I’ll just wait here until he returns.” He walked behind the counter into the back room of the shop and sat down, crossing his legs. A flagon of ale and a cup stood on the table. Nick cleaned the cup with his sleeve and, filling it, drank. “Not bad,” he said. “Not as good as The Black Sheep’s, though.”

  At a signal from Nick, Hector lay down in the middle of the floor. A customer came to the door but, when he saw the dog, decided his purchase was not so urgent and went away.

  Master Hogg tore off a corner of the ledger and started scribbling. “This is harassment,” he grumbled, handing the list to Nick. “I’ve a good mind to lodge a complaint.”

  “Make sure you ask for an audience with the Queen in advance,” Nick said, taking the paper. “She’s a bit busy at the moment.”

  He left Master Hogg standing behind the counter with his mouth open—it was getting to be a habitual expression—and left the shop. Glancing at the list, he saw that Wat’s first delivery was on the same street as The Mermaid, just around the corner. He smiled to himself. He knew exactly where to find him.

  Just as he’d thought, Nick found Wat slouched on a stool in the corner of the tavern, a tankard of ale on the table in front of him. Surrounded by wealthy merchants in velvet doublets and cambric shirts, Wat’s fustian made him as conspicuous as a nun in a whorehouse. Nick plonked himself down on a stool opposite. Hector sat down next to Wat, effectively boxing him in.

  “Time for a chat?” Nick asked pleasantly.

  “I suppose,” Wat mumbled, eyeing Hector warily.

  Nick waved over the woman making the rounds, with a tray balanced on her hip to collect the empties, white breasts pushing up out of her bodice so far Nick doubted she could safely lean over. Nick noticed Wat getting an eyeful.

  “What’ll it be, sir?” the barmaid asked, quickly sussing that Nick was the one with the money. She had pointedly turned her back on Wat who, Nick suspected, was one of those cursed tavern patrons who nursed a beaker of ale for hours, taking up valuable space where those more frequently imbibing might sit. He had a few of those in The Black Sheep. Harry the Tinker came to mind, a malodorous lump forever cadging drinks from the other customers and trying to pinch Maggie’s bottom whenever she passed. She only tolerated him because he seemed to have nowhere else to go.

  “Mulled wine, I think,” Nick replied. He nodded at Wat’s tankard. “And the same again for him.” He ordered bread and vegetable soup for himself and beef bones for Hector. “Make that two soups,” he said, seeing the wistful look on Wat’s face. The boy brightened.

  “Ta,” he said. Then his face darkened with suspicion again. “What do you want?”

  “You’re not as thick as you look,” Nick said.

  As they ate, Nick regarded the apprentice over the top of his bowl. He ate like a starveling, hunched over his bowl, spooning in the broth as fast as he could, and cramming large pieces of bread into his mouth. Nick remembered what is was like, as a growing lad, to be perpetually famished, and Wat could not be much older than sixteen if his gangly frame, huge hands and feet, and the unattractive bloom of acne on his chin and forehead were anything to go by. Nick waited until the boy had finished, partly out of kindness, partly because he had no desire to view the masticated contents of Wat’s mouth as he ate and talked at the same time.

  “That hit the spot,” Wat said at last, belching hugely. Like a full-fed baby, his eyes were already beginning to droop. In a few minutes he would be nodding off.

  “Tell me about the servant who purchased Guinea spice for his master on November third,” Nick said.

  “No livery,” Wat said drowsily. “Which was strange, come to think of it, because he had a full purse of gold on him. So his master must have been stinking.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He were a scruffy cove.”

  “Did you talk about anything?”

  Wat gave him a look as if Nick had lost his senses. “Master Pig-Face were there, weren’t he?” he said, as if this explained everything.

  Nick smiled at the nickname.

  “He usually serves the posh customers. Leaves me to serve the riffraff. Even so, he doesn’t like me passing the time of day with any of them,” Wat concluded. “Miserable sod,” he added by way of punctuation.

  “Would you recognize the servant if you saw him again?”

  “Might do.” Wat sat up. “What’s this about then?” he asked, showing interest for the first time.


  Nick stood up. “Murder,” he said. “Get your cloak. We’re going for a little stroll.”

  Once Nick had popped his head into the apothecary’s and informed Master Hogg that he was borrowing his apprentice for the afternoon on the Queen’s business, Wat cheered up considerably and regaled Nick with the names of all the barmaids in the taverns from Cheapside to as far away as Shoreditch.

  “That piece in The Curtain is a right strumpet,” he said, as if this were a compliment. “I go out there quite a bit to see the plays. Have a drink after.”

  “Like the theater, then?” Nick asked.

  “Nah,” Wat replied. “I only go to feel up the prossies.”

  “Charming,” Nick muttered.

  * * *

  They stopped off at Sir Christopher’s house on their way to the Fleet. Nick told Hector to guard the front door—he didn’t want to risk Mistress Plunkett’s wrath by decorating her gleaming floors with muddy paw prints. Hector gave him an accusatory look but did as he was told.

  “Good boy,” Nick said.

  Wat gave him a sidelong glance as if he thought him mad to be talking to a dog.

  “At least he listens,” Nick said, pushing open the door. “Unlike some I know.”

  Wat grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “off his bleeding rocker” and followed Nick inside the house.

  A leather saddlebag was lying on the floor by the stairs. Nick heard voices and followed them to a back room on the ground floor. Judging by the look of it, Sir Christopher used it as his study. It was small and cramped, with only enough room for a table strewn with papers by the casement window, which looked out on the long, narrow strip of garden and the path where Nick had found Sir Christopher’s dog. A chest, lid open to reveal a tumble of parchment rolls, was pushed against the wall opposite, and a chair at the desk at which Sir Christopher was seated were the only other items of furniture. Nick leaned against the doorjamb, as the room was already crowded by the presence of John standing just inside the door to the right. Wat hovered irritatingly over Nick’s shoulder, his beery breath and toxic body odor enveloping him in a noxious fug. Nick was beginning to regret bringing him along.

  “It’s terrible,” Sir Christopher was saying to John, blowing his nose loudly on a white cambric handkerchief. “Poor little thing. And Perkin, of course,” he added, seeing Nick in the doorway. “Do you need me to formally identify the body?”

  “No need to trouble yourself,” Nick said with heavy irony. It was clear Sir Christopher didn’t give a monkey’s about Perkin except, perhaps, to be irritated that he would now have to find another servant and also possibly because, with Perkin being dead, he couldn’t prosecute him for the death of his beloved pet. “Mistress Plunkett identified the lad.”

  “Terrible,” Sir Christopher repeated, fiddling with a quill and inkpot on the table, as if he were eager to get back to work and the news of his servant’s death was but a trivial interruption in his busy schedule.

  Nick waited to see if Sir Christopher would ask how Perkin had died, but he did not. Nor did he show any sympathy for his longtime cook who’d had to see the body. Nick thought that there was hardly a man he had come to loathe more than this foppish, self-centered man, and found it incredible that the countess had taken in the likes of Sir Christopher and made him her heir. Just another reason to rail at Fate, in Nick’s opinion. Or God.

  “I’m assuming you’ll want to see to the arrangements for the burial,” Nick said in a hard voice.

  “Eh?” Sir Christopher looked momentarily puzzled and made a faint gesture toward the window and the garden beyond.

  “Not the bloody dog,” Nick said. “Perkin.” The boy’s father had sounded as if he were too poor or too indifferent to see to a proper church burial for his son. If Sir Christopher did not shell out a few shillings, then Perkin’s body would end up in a pauper’s grave, tipped into a shallow pit in the corner of the graveyard where beggars, prostitutes, and other unfortunates ended up.

  Sir Christopher blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Quite.”

  Nick turned away in disgust. John followed him along the passageway and back into the hall.

  “So,” Wat said. “Master Fancy Pants needs another servant, does he?” He cast an appreciative glance around the hall and snuffled the air where the aroma of cooking meat and fresh baked bread was emanating from the kitchen.

  “Forget it,” Nick said brusquely. “You’re better off with Master Pig-Face, believe me.” Wat looked crestfallen, but he nodded. He too had taken Sir Christopher’s measure.

  Nick turned to John. “Where did he say he’d been?”

  “Dover. To check on a cargo of wine that had been held up at Customs.” John shrugged. “We can confirm that, but it will take a week.”

  “At least,” Nick said. It was two days hard riding to the south coast, and that was only if the freeze continued. Rain would turn the roads into rivers of mud.

  “Pity we can’t arrest him for being a heartless bastard,” John growled. He nodded at Wat. “This the apothecary’s dogsbody then?”

  “Hey,” Wat said with a hurt expression.

  “I want him to take a look at Perkin’s body.” Nick shrugged. “Probably a dead end.”

  Wat smirked. “Dead end,” he said. “Nice one.”

  “Shut up,” Nick and John said in unison.

  Nick and Wat left the house. John said he would wait for Sir Thomas to show up.

  Before leaving the Fleet, Nick had requested that Perkin’s body remain in the cell.

  “What if I have to use it?” Master Plunkett complained. “We’re full to bursting as it is.”

  “I’m sure the presence of a corpse would be salutary on the criminal mind,” Nick said. “Tempus fugit, and all that.”

  “Eh?”

  Once there, Nick led Wat toward the cell. The lad hung back at the door, perhaps thinking that Nick had tricked him and he was about to be arrested.

  “Come forward,” Nick said. “Do you recognize him?”

  Nick drew back the covering from Perkin’s face.

  “Blimey,” Wat said. “That’s him.” Now he had plucked up courage, he seemed fascinated by the corpse, touching Perkin’s face with his finger, as if to make sure he was really dead. He didn’t seem upset, merely curious.

  Nick didn’t reply. He now knew that the same person who had murdered Cecily had killed Perkin.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Nick ran back through the streets to Cheapside, dodging carts and pedestrians and being liberally cursed for his pains until those shouting glimpsed Hector; then their invectives subsided into low mutterings. Wat followed close behind.

  On the way over to the Fleet, the puzzle of how Perkin had ended up dead began to make sense. Wat’s identification had been the final piece. And Nick was furious with himself for not seeing it before, would always blame himself.

  Arriving breathless at the door to Sir Christopher Stokes’s house, Nick hammered on the door with his fist until John opened it.

  “What the—?” he said as Nick and Wat pushed past him.

  “Where’s Sir Christopher?” Nick shouted, running down the passageway and glancing into the study. Empty. Returning to the hall, he took the stairs two at a time. The leather bag that had been lying at the foot of the stairs was gone. Hector began sniffing the floor, a low growl vibrating in his throat. If only he had brought his dog into the house the first time he had visited, Nick thought. Another thing he would never forgive himself for.

  Reaching the landing, he looked into the room where he had questioned the countess, but it was empty, as were two of the bedrooms. Hector had followed him up the stairs and was now ranging all over the upper floor, tracking. He ran into one of the sleeping chambers, a large, ornate room at the front of the house with a casement window overlooking the street. Women’s clothing lay neatly folded on the bed; a jewel casket was open on a small table. It was obviously the countess’s room. The dog put his forepaws on a stool
in front of the table and nosed at the casket, upsetting it and scattering necklaces, rings, hairpins, and brooches.

  “Get out of there,” Nick ordered, gathering up the jewels and trinkets and shoveling them back into the casket. The last thing he needed was for the countess to complain to the Queen that he had been going through her things.

  Nick ran out onto the landing and tried a fourth door. It was locked. Nick kicked it in, the jamb splintering around the lock. At the sound of the door breaking, John appeared. Together they entered the room. It was Stokes’s bedchamber, judging by the yellow doublet lying untidily on the bed and a strong scent of something that irritated Nick’s nose. On a table by the bed, Nick saw a twist of paper. When he opened it, red granules spilled onto the floor. He sneezed. Guinea spice. He recalled Sir Christopher’s dog sneezing when his master had been holding him, the handkerchief that Sir Christopher had blown his nose on in the study. Nick had thought he had been upset by the death of his dog, but now it appeared it was from a reaction to his dog. When he first visited the house, Nick had noticed how liberally coated Sir Christopher’s doublet had been with dog hair; his whole house must be full of it. Eli had told him that many people sneezed around dogs and cats, even horses, he said. Matty had heard someone sneeze in the chapel and all this time Nick had been assuming it had been caused by a cold.

  “Sir Christopher left just after you,” John said. “What’s going on?”

  “I need to find him,” Nick said. “Wat identified Perkin as the servant who paid for the Guinea spice.”

  John swore softy. “I’m sorry, Nick,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to hold him on.”

  “Not your fault,” Nick said. He jerked his head back downstairs. “I’m going to take Mistress Plunkett and the girl away from here. When I’ve done that, I want you to find the location where Perkin was killed, starting with the kitchen. And search this room. You’re looking for a will. And John?”