A Murder too Soon

by Michael Jecks

  The other voice was silky smooth and very calm. It sounded like a razor being stropped to hair-halving perfection. ‘I don’t threaten, Matthew. I make statements of fact. If you speak to anyone of seeing me just before Lady Margery died, I will cut out your liver and make you eat it.’

  I wanted to learn who this new man was, and was about to peer past the curtain when he said this, and I swear the tone of his voice would have frozen the fires of hell. All at once my desire to see his face retreated.

  ‘Don’t threaten me!’ One-Eye said, but there was a lack of conviction in his voice.

  ‘I’m not threatening anyone. But if you say you saw someone leaving a room, what will that benefit you? Whereas if you find her little seal, I will pay you richly. It’s more likely to work to your advantage.’

  ‘Yes … well, I looked soon as I could. She didn’t have it, I swear. Not about her neck. No necklace, nothing.’

  ‘Her necklace was gone? Then the man you found in there – this “Blackjack”. He was at her body, you said?’

  ‘Him? He’s just a fool from London. A useless wastrel with fewer wits than a beaten cur. He squeaked like a pig when I caught him.’

  I bridled on hearing that. It has been said that a man should never listen at doors in case he learns something of how others view him, but to hear One-Eye speaking so disparagingly of me, shortly after hearing the same from Lady Anne and Sir Henry, was enough to make me grind my teeth.

  ‘He must be the man responsible,’ Razor-Voice said. ‘Follow him. Learn all you can of him and tell me. Perhaps he stole it. If he did … Hush!’

  There was a scraping of a door, and steps approached.

  If this was a man’s voice rather than his feet, he would be slurring like a peasant after the harvest feast. He sounded as though he had been drowned in a barrel of brandy. The feet dragged and slid, and I heard a crunch, as of a man stumbling into a table and knocking it against the panels. There was a loud giggle, then a snort, and the man belched.

  ‘Oh! ’Scuse me, friends! Just need a … need a refill of my pot. Lemme push pasht … past you, sir.’

  ‘We were just leaving.’

  ‘Z’right. Good, good evening, then … Jusht … just need a quick … Think I need … You know.’

  The two pairs of feet rapidly disappeared along the passageway, and I stood and peered after them. It was easy to recognize One-Eye, but the other man with the dangerous voice was not someone I knew. I watched as they reached the door to the hall. There, the second man turned and glanced back, and I recognized the sallow features of the man who liked to prod young squires in the chest. I hoped his finger was still painful.

  The two passed through the doorway. As they did so, I saw a man lean through the buttery’s doorway. A man clad all in black.

  I didn’t need to see his face to know this was my master. Quietly, so he wouldn’t hear me, I drew back into my little chamber and sat down.

  What was Master Blount doing in here? Plainly, he was spying on those two because there was one thing quite certain to me: he was no more drunk than a nun at her initiation. But also, what was it they were looking for? A seal, Razor-Voice had said, and mentioned a necklace too, although that was of less interest. What sort of seal, and why was it worth killing the woman for it? It must be worth a lot of money, surely.

  Then the ice formed in my bowels again. It was a familiar, horrible sensation. Razor-Voice had told the man to watch me, and then there was a significant ‘if’ about whether I’d taken it. I didn’t like that ‘if’. It sounded as if there would be consequences, were they to suspect me.

  I really, really wanted to get away from this cold, damp palace.

  DAY TWO

  The Coroner, Sir Richard of Cowley, was a tall, rangy man with a cold, haughty manner. His mouth was pursed and twisted in permanent pain, as if he had just spent a long journey on horseback with only a bad collection of piles to keep him company. His face was greying like his hair, and he wore a permanent scowl as though blaming the world for his being summoned to this Godforsaken spot. For all that he had a paunch like a cardinal, he rode with a straight enough back – no slouching there.

  No matter what he personally looked like, when he arrived, bellowing for assistance at the gate, he brought with him a small cavalcade of men. While the Coroner sat on his beast, his eyes searching about him with permanent suspicion, the others bustled. There were clerks, servants, guards and some men-at-arms who were to remain at the palace for the better protection, so it was said, of the Lady Elizabeth.

  ‘Come on, you flat-footed, flat-arsed apple-squires! Get your belongings from the carts and form up!’

  This was all from a short, barrel-chested sergeant who strode about like a game-cock, organizing his troops. They were a mixed bag. One was as tall as me with a boy on my shoulders, but most were short, clumsy-looking peasant types. Some were young, but most, I saw, were older and experienced.

  Their sergeant marched along their front, eyeing his men without pleasure. ‘We’ve been called here because a lady has been cruelly murdered. She was in Lady Elizabeth’s retinue, and the man who did it is likely not to be bothered about hurting others too. So we’re here to protect people. The man stabbed her, and the gates were shut immediately, so the killer remains on the premises. That means he’s still a threat to Lady Elizabeth. Your job is to make sure that the Lady Elizabeth is safe, no matter what. You understand me?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant!’ the men chorused. They sounded bored.

  The sergeant dismissed them and stood shaking his head. Seeing me, he pulled a twisted grin. ‘What can you do with stock like that, eh?’

  ‘They’ll do their duty, I’m sure,’ I said.

  ‘As long as they aren’t too wasted with ale. I’ll have to speak with the bottler and make sure they get no more than their ration,’ he muttered, and hurried off to the hall.

  It made me wonder, watching the men as they milled about. Lady Elizabeth did not have many people with her. According to Blount, she was allowed three ladies and three manservants for all her needs, and with the death of Lady Margery, that number had reduced to only two ladies-in-waiting. Not ideal for a lady of such power, but Queen Mary had at least allocated all these men to help guard her. Or were they only to ensure that Lady Elizabeth did not escape?

  The Coroner and his men dismounted at the gate, and I saw him turn and look up at the gatehouse where Lady Elizabeth was held. He stood staring for a long time before making his way across the court to the main hall, his clerks and guards hurrying along behind him while the servants began breaking into the wagons and carts of essentials.

  I had nothing to occupy me, so I remained there, idling my time away as the porter and his men went to the gates to bar them. They were swinging the ancient timbers shut when a shout came, and a final cart entered, a smiling, scruffy tranter kneeling on the board. He waved a hand happily at the porter and doffed his cap.

  The porter smiled back, but asked this last carter to go and set his goods with all the rest before busying himself with the bars and bolts.

  To my surprise, the carter took his pony behind the other beasts of the Coroner’s party and carried on. He caught my eye and smiled broadly, and a horrible feeling of having been there before struck me like a wet frog in the face.

  It was Dick Atwood.

  I am well aware that men like Atwood do not appear for no reason. He is like one of those mares that come to a man in his dreams, bringing lunacy and mayhem in their wake. I last saw Atwood as the rebellion was collapsing, and while all the others involved were captured or surrendered themselves to their fate, this one man managed somehow to avoid the gallows that he so richly deserved.

  If I was a little more innocent, it is likely Atwood would have killed me earlier in the year. Luckily, I am not as innocent as my face seems and I lived to tell the tale.

  However, seeing him there was as pleasant as sitting in a bath tub and finding the last occupant left behind a turd. I stirre
d myself and hurried after him as he clattered his way over the mud and cobbles towards the kitchens, before I was fully alive to the dangers of my position. He was already down from the cart and pulling a heavy canvas from the back of the wagon when I caught up with him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, my friend!’ he said, holding up both hands in a sign of peace. ‘What do you think I’m here for? After the rebellion was quashed, there was nothing for me in London, was there? I had to escape and find a new life. So, here I am!’

  ‘I don’t believe you! You’re a soldier of fortune – anyone’s fortune, if you can snatch it,’ I declared hotly. I was in no good mood with this fellow, as you can tell.

  He looked hurt. ‘That is a vile calumny, Jack. I’ve always been a friend to you.’

  I was so astonished by the untruth of his words that I could not speak for a moment, and he continued unabashed. ‘You see before you a poor victim of circumstance, Jack. I have been reduced to this: the job of a simple carter. It is the only occupation left to me.’

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive, man! You were a traitor to the Queen and would have seen Wyatt’s rebels oust her from the throne, wouldn’t you?’

  He smiled amiably. ‘You wouldn’t want to talk about that, now, would you, Jack? After all, if we were to begin to discuss our positions, your own would interest people strangely, wouldn’t it?’

  I did not want to pursue that. During the rebellion, you see, I had been unfortunate enough to acquire a message that had been destined for others. The Queen would have liked to get hold of it, as would the Princess Elizabeth. It was intended for the rebels, and I was told that it assured them of support from someone well-born. Atwood knew all about the message, and looking into his eyes now, I saw that the affable light was being drenched by sharp calculation.

  ‘You tell people of that, and I won’t be the only man arrested,’ I blurted. Even to my own ears, I sounded like a petulant infant.

  Atwood stepped closer to me. I retreated. He wore a smile on his face, but that didn’t fool me. I knew him. Violence was always to be preferred in his world. ‘Do you mean to threaten me?’ he said.

  ‘I was only trying to explain that—’

  ‘Because if you try to threaten me, just remember that I have a long memory, and a lot of friends who would take pleasure in pulling apart a man who helped thwart the rebellion.’

  He drew back, and this time his smile looked almost genuine. He clapped me across the back and nodded to me, like an uncle who’s just given sweetmeats to a cherished nephew.

  ‘So we both have an interest in keeping our mouths closed, don’t we, Jack?’ he said, and then, certain of my compliance, he turned back to the cart and began to unload it.

  I stood behind him, thinking that if I were a real assassin, I would strike now. If I were as bold and courageous as Blount thought, I would pull out my knife swiftly and stab him there, in the middle of the left side of his torso, a couple of inches from his spine. He would be dead before he hit the ground.

  One stab and at least some of my problems would be over. Unless he realized and got his blow in first. And he was quick. I knew that.

  I left him to it.

  Atwood made a poor situation worse. I repaired to the buttery and had a scruffy knave draw me a quart of the strong ale. He was reluctant, muttering that it was early in the day for the strongest ales to be served, but I ignored him. I had need of it.

  I carried my leather pot outside and took my ease on an old bench.

  Why was I here? This was no place for me. I grumpily sank my first half blackjack and stared at the leatherwork glumly. I should be back at home, in Whitstable, with my father, the miserable old pizzle. He wanted me to follow him into the trade, becoming his apprentice so that I could take on the business and become a leatherworker like him. But as a young lad, that was the last thing I wanted. Any man who has lived with the odour of leathers tanned in dogshit and piss will understand why I was reluctant. No, he wasn’t a tanner, but the leather arrived with the stink of the tannery. I hated it.

  After that, he had advised me to join an army, but that was little better to my way of thinking. The idea of standing in a rank of men while other men shot at me or tried to dissect me alive was less than enticing. So I left him and home, and went to London to try my luck. There, I thought, I would soon make myself a fortune. Instead, I found myself lured into ever more dubious activities, until my swiftness at taking purses and dipping into their contents brought me to this present pass.

  It was not fair.

  I saw a woman walk past. She caught sight of me at the same time and a broad smile spread over her features. It was Sal, one of the maids with whom I had been talking, impressing them with my knowledge of London and fashion, while Lady Margery died one door away. I patted the bench beside me, but she lifted an eyebrow and indicated that she had been sent on a duty. She disappeared through a door near the kitchens, and I settled back to grimly enumerate the many injustices I had suffered, including this latest rejection, but before I could set her among the many disappointments in my life, she was back. She took my ale from me and drank deeply, wiping her hand over her mouth.

  ‘You want a cup of your own?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I’m happy to share yours,’ she said. There was a cheeky gleam in her eye. She was a comely little wench, with big hips, big bosom and trim little waist. Her hair was mostly confined in a linen coif, but the strands that had strayed were a delightful auburn that went with her pale hazel eyes perfectly.

  ‘Last time I saw you was when the lady was murdered,’ I said.

  ‘And then the one-eyed fool accused you of killing her,’ she said with a giggle. ‘You didn’t need to hit him, though. Not that hard. You nearly knocked his brains out through his ears, so I heard.’

  I shrugged. ‘You think he has brains to lose?’ There was no need to mention Lady Anne at that point. Especially since Sal seemed to think that my courage in besting One-Eye was admirable. ‘He was a dolt.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He always tries to pinch our backsides when we go past him. Last time I had to kick his shin hard to stop him.’

  ‘Has he been here long?’

  ‘No. He’s only come since the Lady Elizabeth arrived.’

  ‘Really? I assumed he was a long-standing member of the household.’

  ‘Nah! He got here only two weeks before Lady Throcklehampton.’

  I feigned disinterest. ‘No one seems to know much about her.’

  ‘There are many could tell a tale about her,’ she said.

  ‘What sort of tale?’

  ‘Well, her husband is here now, but before he arrived, she was friendly with many of the servants. She has had to cool her ardour since he got here.’

  I pretended to be shocked. ‘You don’t mean that she was waggling her buttocks at other men? Who?’

  She told me of a number of men about whom suspicions had circled, but refused to give any details. It was interesting that I had heard the same about her with the squire, but I didn’t see that it would aid me in finding the way to Sal’s bedchamber.

  ‘Did you see her with any of these other men?’ I asked, leading the conversation back towards that subject. I was being subtle, you see.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ I leaned a little closer to her. ‘I’ve heard that doors on the women’s chambers are very strong. They have to be barred because of the attractiveness of the servants.’

  ‘Some of us have no locks at all,’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘It makes us feel very fearful at night. I need to have a strong man to protect me.’

  ‘I would be honoured to serve you,’ I said, and grinned.

  ‘Stop leering! You look like my father when he eyed the wench at the alehouse,’ she said, punching my arm. She must have been as strong as an ox. That blow hurt like a buffet from a hammer. I tried to rub it surreptitiously as she continued, ‘Or more, you look like Sir Walter when he eye
s us maids.’

  ‘How could a man not admire such beauty?’ I said, my hand on my thigh.

  ‘He doesn’t admire us; he just takes what he wants,’ she said, standing quickly before my hand strayed far, sadly. ‘He’s one of those knights who thinks that any woman is his by right. If he tried that with me, he’d regret it!’

  ‘Tried what?’

  She looked at me, then said, ‘A week ago he tried to get Meg into his bed. His wife was with Lady Elizabeth and he wanted a woman to warm his bed, he said. He offered her a penny or two. Well, she told him where he could shove his pennies, and he tried to hit her. She’s fast, luckily, but he tried to catch her, and she thought he’d rape her for sure. He’s not a nice man.’

  She had given me something to think about. A man who was desperate and wanted to pick a maid from the palace’s staff was not rare, but it was odd, I thought, when his wife was so near. Why didn’t he demand his conjugal rights from her if he was after some? From what I had seen and heard, Lady Margery was not a quiet, meek woman. She had been flirting with other men – perhaps he was scared of her? If he was, he would be wary of trying his wandering hands with Meg or the other girls in case he was discovered. More likely he thought that his wife would refuse him. I don’t know many of the rich or famous, but they do have some strange ideas. Could it be that while she was in the service of the Princess, Lady Margery was not supposed to lie even with her own husband? That did not match the story I had heard of her flirting with other men either, though.

  No, I thought that it more likely that he was a forceful man who had his wife terrified. That would explain why she sought affection elsewhere, and why he dared to seek out servants who would see to his natural desires.

  Another thought came to me: the groom had said that Sir Walter Throcklehampton had been outside the chamber when his wife was murdered. If he was a bullying, cruel husband, he might have decided that he had endured his wife’s company long enough. Or he had demanded that she should let him into her bedchamber, she had refused, and he had killed her from some misguided passion.