Westminster, London, March 1589
It was the greatest day of his life. As William Anthony backed out of the Queen’s council chamber, bowing low, he fingered the Collar of Esses which Her Majesty had just bestowed upon him. This was the single greatest honour any man could receive from the Queen – a personal gift, as well as an official acknowledgement. The collar was solid gold and carried the badge of the Tudor rose, to signify the wearer’s perpetual attachment to the Royal Family. It had once been worn by no less a figure than Sir Thomas More.
But this was not all. After the Queen had placed the chain over William’s head, resting it across his shoulders, with a smile, she had presented him with a small box as well. ‘We wish you to have this, Anthony,’ she had told him. ‘In further token of Our undying gratitude. Open it only after you leave.’
Outside the chamber, servants had escorted him along a succession of empty corridors. Unable to contain his impatience, William opened the box the Queen had given him and gazed in awe upon the ring of Lucrezia Borgia. Emerging into the light of morning and the Royal stables, he removed the ring from the box and pulled it on to his finger.
Two companions, Thomas Marchmaine and Nicholas Makepeace, were there to meet him, already on their mounts. William’s white mare, Ishbel, was saddled and ready. He flicked the reins and led them out from the stable on to the mud track that wound down a gentle incline. From there they picked their way through the mud towards the path east that would take them to the City and beyond.
By the time the small party reached London Bridge, a weak sun was high in the sky. Nicholas and Thomas had trotted ahead and William saw them stop at the entrance to the bridge. William caught up with them and saw three pikes protruding from a buttress. There was a head on each. They were barely recognisable as human, let alone the remains of three people he had once known. On the first pike hung the head of Edward Perch, recognisable only from the scar that ran from his nose to his upper lip. In the centre, the head of Father John William Allen. The left side of his face was missing, the sinews black and flapping away from the bones. To the right of Allen hung the head of Ann Doherty, remnants of her black hair plastered to her face with long-dried blood. Her eyes had been pecked out, her mouth was a red hole.
‘A merry threesome,’ Nicholas Makepeace chortled. ‘Aye, William?’ He turned towards his friend. But William ignored him and simply stared at the three heads. And for the first time, the full weight of what he had done bore down upon his shoulders. Edward Perch had been a criminal for sure and a Catholic, an unforgivable combination perhaps. But Father Allen? He had been at worst misguided, controlled by forces he neither understood nor questioned. Perhaps, William Anthony mused, he and John Allen were not so different. Each of them had killed to defend their beliefs. They were soldiers fighting a war. If their roles had been reversed, they would each still have acted in the same way.
He could barely bring himself to consider Ann, but made himself look at her, made himself study her ravaged features. This was part of his penance, for even though he was a soldier of God, he must answer for his part in bringing about such a death. Ann, sweet Ann. She had cared for him and he had deceived her. Hers was a noble soul. Her only crime was that she had worshipped the wrong God, prayed at the wrong altar. Perhaps, in a better world, William thought, he could have changed her instead of leading her to the worst of deaths. He forced his eyes away. Without a word, he removed the Collar of Esses and placed it carefully in his saddlebag. Flicking his reins, he gave Ishbel a nudge with his heel and broke into a canter along the road heading east out of London.
They passed the east gate without incident and took the road towards Essex. The snow and rain had turned the track to a slurry and then sleet began to fall, a brisk wind picking up from the north. An hour of struggling along the path exhausted the horses, and as the day started to darken, they saw a welcoming light ahead of them.
‘I would pay double for a jug of ale at the Grey Traveller this eve,’ Nicholas declared, coming up between the other two.
‘I would pay triple, my friend,’ William replied. ‘And offer my first-born for a comfortable bed.’
It was an old inn. Parts of it had been built using wattle and daub, and a few claimed it had first served travellers making the long journey between the capital and Colchester when Henry II had been King, centuries earlier. The inn-keeper knew Walsingham’s relative and his friends and welcomed them into the warmth, serving them soup and ale, and offering them his best rooms.
William was in celebratory mood and bought drinks for everyone in the inn. But then, after a few tankards of ale, he became morose and not such good company. Thomas and Nicholas noticed it and tried to cheer their friend with bawdy tales. When these failed, they invited over a couple of local whores they had spotted. But even this effort foundered.
‘Come, William. What troubles you?’ Thomas asked. ‘Surely, my friend, tonight you should be the merriest fellow in all England.’
William forced a smile. ‘You are right, Thomas. But I am melancholy, and on my life I cannot account for it. If you will excuse me, I think maybe I need to take the air. Perhaps that will jolt me from my ill humour.’
The inn stood on the banks of a stream, a wide wooden balcony overhanging the water to the rear of the main building. It was said that old King Henry, the Queen’s father, had hunted in the fields beside this stream and had stayed at the Grey Traveller with his favourite mistresses.
William leaned against the railing and stared out across the stream. Directly ahead, he could see the drain that led to a cesspit beneath the inn. Beyond that lay black fields. He knew the source of his misery. It was Ann. He could not shake off that last glimpse of her face, ripped apart and desecrated. The hollow black spaces where her lovely green eyes had once been seemed to draw him in, dragging him into the very pits of Hell.
Throughout the ride from London, he had paid little heed to the foul road, the treacly mud or the cold. His mind had been filled with memories of dead faces. He had tried losing himself in false merriment and alcohol, but it had not worked. Over and over again he had asked himself the same question. Would God forgive him? Would God excuse the horrors he had allowed to befall someone who had trusted and loved him? He knew the three traitors had also been heretics and deserved to be doubly punished. And he knew that God forgave the killing of heretics … but Ann, dear Ann.
He turned and saw two men walking towards him. They were shrouded in shadow, and for a fleeting moment he thought it was Thomas and Nicholas come to try and console him once more. But it was not. As the men emerged into the faint light cast by the inn, he saw faces he did not recognise. Instinctively, he reached for his dagger.
The two men stepped up to the railing nearby. ‘A chilly night,’ one of them said, his voice strongly tinged with the local accent.
‘It is,’ William replied.
‘Travelled far?’ the other man asked.
William felt a spasm of anxiety in his guts. He had been born into a world of privilege, but had learned much about acting and deceit. Had he not lived by his wits, playing that duplicitous game in Southwark for an interminable year? He started to reply to the second man, to alleviate any suspicion of his own intent, and then darted quickly sideways and made for the door to the inn.
But the other men had lightning reflexes. One of them stuck out his foot and William was sent flying. Before he could right himself, the man was upon him. William twisted and rolled about, managing to unbalance his attacker and send him sprawling along the wooden boards. Propelled by sheer terror, William sprang to his feet and dodged a blow aimed straight at him by the second man. He swiftly drew his dagger, its blade glinting in the light. He brandished the dagger threateningly, slashing the air in front of him.
The man William had floored was on his feet again now. He drew his own blade and edged round behind his quarry. The other man jumped forward, and William lashed out. His elbow landed in the man’s abdomen, making him groan and
tumble backwards, landing heavily against the wall of the inn. William saw his chance and dashed for the end of the balcony. He could see a small door leading off it, just a few paces before the railings ended.
He grabbed the handle, but it took him only an instant to realise the door was locked. The effort had cost him dear. The man with the dagger was incredibly quick on his feet. Anticipating William’s move, he sprinted to the end of the balcony. Out of the corner of his eye William could see the other man had clambered to his feet and was running towards him. He had pulled something large and heavy-looking from inside his tunic, a cosh.
William stood with his back to the door, the dagger in his right hand, his left hand close to the blade, just as he had learned on the streets of Southwark. The man with the knife took a step forward, thrusting at him with startling speed. The tip caught William’s left hand, making him cry out. Before he could recover, the man with the cosh threw himself forward. William felt a sharp pain at the side of his head as the leather-covered club hit him hard. He slashed with his dagger. The man with the cosh sidestepped the blow and brought his weapon down again, hard, knocking the blade from William’s hand and shattering three fingers.
It was only then, through his pain and the terror, that William remembered the ring. He fell back against the door, sweat running into his eyes. Raising his shattered hand, he flipped open the top of the ring and waved it in front of him.
For a moment, the other men seemed confused and then one of them broke into a smile. ‘Oh, what new terror is this?’ he mocked.
William thrust his arm forward into the face of the man with the dagger. Some strange intuition or superstition made the attacker step back. But he quickly found new courage. He glanced at his friend and they both rushed forward together. William lashed out and somehow managed to pass between the two of them without further injury. But his foot found a loose board and he lost balance. Falling badly, his arm went under him and he felt a stab of pain as the spike of the ring slid through the fabric of his hose and drove into the flesh of his thigh.
He pulled himself to his feet and backed towards the balcony’s railing. The two men watched him retreat, then froze.
William had slumped against the railing. His assailants watched as he raised his injured hand slowly through the air towards his face and then stopped, paralysed. He began to shake violently. A hideous sound came from deep within his body and his mouth hung open. He convulsed, spewing a stream of blood and vomit. The force of the eruption pushed his head back and he pivoted over the railing like a wax effigy, tumbling backwards into the stream.
The two men rushed to the railing, just as Thomas Marchmaine and Nicholas Makepeace emerged from the door to the inn. In shocked silence, they watched as William Anthony hit the bank of the stream head first. He bumped along among the reeds half-submerged, his blank, white face paralysed, mouth agape, eyes staring. Then he was gone, sucked down into the drain that led under the building where the stream flushed out the cesspit of the Grey Traveller.
Stepney, Saturday 11 June, 8.35 p.m.
Nellie’s was a new restaurant in Bethnal Green, a kilometre or so north of Mile End Road. It had received a rave review in Time Out and had quickly become the place to eat locally. Pendragon was lucky to get a table for two on a Friday night. The owners had designed the restaurant to suit the modern and moneyed East Londoner. It reminded Pendragon of a reception space in an office building: white and grey walls, huge post-modernist paintings, stone floor, spindly chairs that looked like they would collapse if you shifted about on them too much. He hated it.
‘Isn’t this gorgeous?’ Sue said as a very skinny and almost bald waitress dressed in black took their coats.
‘Impressive,’ he replied, looking around.
At their table they were given enormous menus, single pieces of thick black card with a very small block of grey writing, just off-centre. Pendragon looked at his, slightly bewildered. The restaurant resonated to the hubbub of dozens of conversations, and just audible behind this was the sound of ambient electronic music, Brian Eno or perhaps it was Moby.
Pendragon was about to ask for the wine list when, from behind his chair, he heard a male voice he recognised.
‘Well, well, well,’ the man said.
Pendragon turned to see Fred Taylor, the Gazette journalist. As usual, he had a photographer in tow. Pendragon glanced back at Sue, and sighed.
‘DCI Pendragon,’ said Taylor ingratiatingly. ‘Well, this is cosy, isn’t it? And who is your lady friend?’
Pendragon was about to speak when Sue intervened. ‘I find it extraordinarily rude when someone doesn’t address me directly,’ she said. ‘I am Dr Sue Latimer. And you are?’
Taylor looked momentarily stunned, but recovered very well. With a sickly smile, he stepped forward and offered his hand to her. ‘Fred Taylor, from the Gazette.’
‘Oh,’ she said quietly. ‘You wrote that tawdry little piece the other day.’
‘Sue … it’s okay,’ Pendragon told her.
To their surprise, Taylor was giggling. ‘You do pick the feisty ones, don’t you, Jack, old boy?’ he said, eyes darting from Sue to Pendragon and back again. ‘Gaz?’ He turned to his photographer friend. ‘Could you get a snap or two of the happy couple?’
‘Now hold on!’ Pendragon exclaimed. But it was too late, the flash had gone off. He took a deep breath and managed to control his mounting anger, but Sue was out of her chair and reaching for the camera slung around the photographer’s neck.
‘Don’t touch the gear, lady,’ Gaz squealed, and took a step back, colliding with the table behind him.
Taylor was laughing out loud. ‘Fantastic!’ he said, turning to go. ‘I have the headline already, Jack. DCI OUT ON THE TOWN: KILLER STILL AT LARGE.’ And with that he strode out, still chuckling to himself, Gaz trotting after him.
‘Jack, you’re not letting them get away with that, are you?’ Sue challenged.
Pendragon was gritting his teeth and mentally counting to ten. When he spoke, he sounded so calm he surprised himself. ‘Retaliating plays into their hands,’ he explained. ‘Believe me, getting angry makes everything ten times worse.’
‘But it’s not fair! You’re allowed to have some time out, like everyone else.’
‘Yes, but that man has had it in for me from the moment he first set eyes on me. There’s nothing I could say to him that would make any difference. He’s on a witch hunt. The best thing I can do is break the case. Success is the sweetest revenge.’
Sue took a deep breath. ‘You’re right,’ she conceded, and broke into a smile. ‘Forget about the stupid little man.’
‘What stupid little man?’ he retorted.
Despite the bad start, Jack found himself quickly relaxing. Sue seemed to have a calming effect on him. He had noticed that when he had gone for dinner at her flat a few days before. There was also the fact that he had chosen a good wine, a five-year-old Saint Emilion, and the crusty French bread served from a wicker basket was delicious.
‘It’s good to see you outside the police station and away from the flats,’ she said. ‘And I do like your tie.’
‘Oh,’ he said, looking down. ‘Thanks. I’ve had it for years.’
She rearranged the napkin on her lap. ‘You must be exhausted. Hardly a normal week, I imagine.’
‘Never a dull moment, though. Now, you have to promise me – no police talk and no psychology. Is that a deal?’
She smiled. ‘A deal.’
He gazed around the room for a second. The place wasn’t actually that bad, he thought. At least it had a good ambience. Most of the tables were for two, with a few small groups and the odd solo diner. To either side of them were other couples, engrossed in conversation. Perhaps they were on first dates too. He surprised himself by the thought. He hadn’t been on a date for … what? Twenty years? He glanced away from the couples. A few tables ahead of him a woman sat alone, her back to them, long black hair draped over the back of her chair. Nearby
sat a party of four. They seemed to be a little merry already and were laughing loudly.
‘Jack, excuse me a moment. I just need to powder my nose,’ Sue said, snapping him out of his reverie.
‘Of course.’ He stood up and helped her with her chair. She looked into his eyes and smiled as she left him.
Sue was at the hand basin when the door to the Ladies opened. She took no notice as a woman with long black hair and wearing a dark blue dress came in. Sue pulled a lipstick from her clutch bag and leaned forward to apply it. The flush sounded in one of the cubicles. Sue was fishing through her bag looking for eyeliner when the black-haired woman came out and walked slowly towards the mirror. Sue looked up and glanced at the woman properly for the first time.
She was unusually big, with broad shoulders and what looked to be thick arms under the sleeves of the dress. The woman caught Sue staring and smiled briefly before leaning forward to wash her hands at the adjacent basin. Sue put away her lipstick, checked her hair and closed the clutch bag. The woman glanced up from the basin, catching Sue’s eye in the mirror, sending a shudder of anxiety through her. Turning to face her, she took a step towards Sue. She was just about to say something when the door crashed open and two women stumbled in, laughing drunkenly.
‘Did you hear what he said to me?’ one of them guffawed.
‘Yeah, I did, Sal. Dirty bugger!’
Sue sidestepped the new arrivals and slipped out of the Ladies into the narrow corridor leading back to the dining-room.
At the table, Jack was trying to make sense of the menu once again when Sue dropped into her chair. ‘If I’ve translated this correctly,’ he said, ‘I think I might go for the beef carpaccio.’ He looked up at her. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
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