The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Gladly.”

  As the chairman gave a description of the man, Jonathan Bale memorised every detail. The constable was a big, solid, serious man in his late thirties with an ugly face that was puckered in concentration. He and Christopher Redmayne had been thrown together in an unlikely friendship, and they had solved a number of crimes together. When the request from Christopher came, Bale had responded at once. Other constables had combed the scene of the crime for witnesses. Bale was the only one to wander off into the side streets. His encounter with Reuben Hopkiss had been productive. He now had a clear description of one of the attackers. He also knew where the man lodged and in which tavern he preferred to drink.

  Jonathan Bale walked swiftly off to the Black Bull, hoping to catch the Swede – if not his two confederates – at the place. He was out of luck. Stern was not there and neither were any friends of his. Bale therefore retraced his steps and made for the man’s lodging. Once again, he was thwarted. The landlord told him that Stern had left early that morning and not been seen since. That worried the constable. He feared that the Swede might have quit London altogether after the crime.

  The booming of a bell reminded him that he had been asked to meet Christopher Redmayne at two o’clock. Hastening to Tuthill Street, he found his friend waiting impatiently at the corner. After an exchange of greetings, Bale told him what had been gleaned so far. Christopher was impressed with his diligence.

  “I’ve just come from my brother,” he said, noting the look of disapproval in Bale’s eye at the mention of his sibling. “Henry spoke to the steward at Mr Thynne’s house. It appears that his master used to dine at the Golden Fleece at least four times a week. Those who lurked in ambush must have known that he would come that way sooner or later.”

  “Can you tell me why Mr Thynne was killed?” asked Bale.

  “Henry believes that it may be linked to his support of the Duke of Monmouth’s cause.”

  Bale frowned. “Yet another of the King’s many bastard sons.”

  “The duke is claiming to be the legitimate heir to His Majesty, insisting that he has written proof that the King was legally married to his mother, Lucy Walter, at the time of his birth.” Bale said nothing. Having fought against the Royalists at the Battle of Worcester, he remained an unrepentant Roundhead. “It provoked the Exclusion crisis,” Christopher went on. “Monmouth is resolved to exclude the King’s brother, James, Duke of York, from the succession because he is an ardent Roman Catholic.”

  “Then you believe this murder to be a Catholic conspiracy?”

  “Henry does, certainly.”

  “What of you, Mr Redmayne?”

  “I think that we should look to the lady.”

  “What lady?”

  “Mr Thynne’s wife,” said Christopher. “No sooner did she marry him than she took to her heels and fled to Holland. Now, why should any wife do such a thing?”

  Bale shook his head. “It’s beyond my comprehension.”

  “I can’t imagine your wife behaving so recklessly.”

  “Sarah would never let me down – nor I, her.”

  “Yours is a real marriage. Mr Thynne’s, alas, was a sham. I think that it behoves us to find out why.”

  “How can we do that?”

  “We begin with the Swedish gentleman, Lieutenant Stern.”

  “But we have no idea where he is, Mr Redmayne.”

  “Oh, I think I can hazard a guess,” said Christopher. “Let’s go to the Black Bull. He may not be there but I’ll wager that someone will know where to find him. A few coins will soon loosen a tongue. If he is a hired killer, he’ll have collected his payment by now.”

  “That was my reasoning,” said Bale. “I thought that he would be spending his blood money with his accomplices.”

  “Perhaps he sought choicer company.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Christopher smiled grimly. “Look to the lady,” he repeated, “though this particular one may not merit that title.”

  Her name was Jenny Teale and she picked up most of her trade at the Black Bull. The majority of her clients were eager sailors who took their pleasure quickly in a dark alley before moving on. Lieutenant Stern was different. He bought her favours for a whole night. In this instance, he had come to her at midday and adjourned to her lodging. They had spent frantic hours in bed before falling asleep in a drunken stupor. Jenny Teale lay naked across his body. When someone pounded on her door, she did not even hear the noise at first. It was only when Christopher Redmayne’s shoulder was put to the timber that she was hauled unceremoniously out of her slumber.

  There was a loud crash, the lock burst apart and the door was flung wide open. Christopher stood framed in the doorway. Jumping off the bed, Jenny Teale confronted him.

  “You’ll have to wait your turn, young sir,” she said, angrily.

  “I’m here for Lieutenant Stern,” declared Christopher, averting his gaze from her naked body. His eye fell on the rapier lying beside the bed and he snatched it up at once, using it to prod the sleeping foreigner. “Wake up!” he demanded. “You’re coming with me.”

  The Swede let out a yelp of pain then swore volubly in his own language. Sitting up in bed, he saw Christopher standing over him and tried to retrieve his sword from the floor.

  “I have your weapon, lieutenant,” said Christopher, “and I daresay that I’ll find your pistol in here somewhere as well. I’m arresting you for your part in the murder of Thomas Thynne.”

  “Ze devil you are!” roared Stern.

  “Get dressed and come with me.”

  “No!”

  Grabbing a pillow, Stern leapt out of bed and used it to beat back Christopher. The Swede then hurled the pillow in his face and, clad only in his shirt, opened the window and dropped to the ground below. Christopher had no need to pursue him. He had taken the precaution of stationing Jonathan Bale in the garden. When he glanced through the window, he saw that the constable had easily overpowered the suspect. Christopher gathered up the rest of the man’s clothing together with the pistol that had been used in the shooting. He turned to leave but found that Jenny Teale was blocking his way.

  Naked and unashamed, she gave him a bewitching smile.

  “Do you have to leave so soon?” she asked.

  “I fear so.”

  She spread her arms. “Don’t you like what you see?”

  “The only person I’m interested in is the man we just apprehended. He’s a vicious killer,” Christopher told her. “Try to choose your clients with more care in future.”

  Moving her politely aside, he went out of the room.

  Henry Redmayne had repaired to a coffee-house near Temple Bar. He was deep in conversation with his friends when he saw his brother enter the room. Excusing himself from the table, he took Christopher aside.

  “Really, sir!” he complained. “Must you always come between me and my pleasures?”

  “Count yourself lucky that you are not Lieutenant Stern.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the men who attacked Thomas Thynne,” said Christopher. “I caught him in bed with his whore. He is now in safe custody. You might pass on that intelligence to His Majesty, and you can assure him that this crime did not arise from political intrigue.”

  “It must have done.”

  “No, Henry.”

  “The Duke of Monmouth has grown bold. The King exiled him yet he insists on returning to this country to press his absurd claims to the throne. Tom Thynne endorsed those claims to the hilt. He paid for his folly with his life.”

  “I think not.”

  Henry was petulant. “That’s only because you are so ignorant about affairs of state. I move among the great and the good, and know how corrupt their greatness and goodness really is. What prompts them in the main,” he said, airily, “is envy, malice and perverse ambition. There are hundreds of people who seek to pull Monmouth down. What better way to do it than by having his chief paymaster assassinated?”


  “Lieutenant Stern has never heard of the Duke of Monmouth

  “Has he confessed who suborned him?”

  “No,” said Christopher. “He admits that he was one of the three men who shot at Mr Thynne but it’s all he will tell us. That’s why I must turn to you again.”

  “But I’m enjoying a coffee with my friends.”

  “Thomas Thynne was a friend of yours once.”

  “Yes,” said Henry, blithely, “and I mourn his death.”

  “By carousing in here?”

  “I gave you help. You can’t ask any more of me than that.”

  “I can,” returned Christopher. “Your aid is crucial. You can provide information that is way beyond the reach of Jonathan and myself. We must learn more about Mr Thynne’s wife.”

  “Elizabeth, the former Lady Ogle? A pretty little thing.”

  “Why did she betray her marriage vows and flee the country? Had her husband been unkind to her? Was any violence involved?”

  “Tom Thynne would not harm a fly.”

  “Then what made his wife desert him?”

  “Covetousness,” said Henry, knowledgeably. “The fault that mars all women. She left one man because another one must have offered her more than he could. Tom of Ten Thousand was outbid by someone with even more money and, most probably, with a title to dangle before her.”

  “We need his name.”

  Henry tried to move away. “I need my cup of coffee.”

  “No,” said Christopher, restraining him. “It will have to wait, Henry. You are part of a murder hunt. Something is missing and only you can track it down.”

  “Am I to be allowed no leisure?”

  “Not until this case is solved. We have one villain behind bars but two others remain at liberty. Additional people may yet be involved but the person who interests me most is the wife.”

  “Any man with red blood in his veins would be interested in her,” said Henry with a lewd grin. “A most bed-worthy lady in every sense. Tom Thynne was by no means her only suitor.”

  “She must have preferred someone else.”

  “I told you – she covets wealth and position.”

  “Then give us the name of the man who offered it to her.”

  The second arrest was made early that evening. Bribed by Christopher Redmayne, the landlord of the Black Bull had not merely supplied the name and whereabouts of Lieutenant’s Stern’s favourite prostitute. He had told them that the Swede’s closest friend was a Polish sailor called Borosky. Jonathan Bale went in search of him but not in the guise of a constable. He first returned to his house on Addle Hill to change into the clothing he had worn in his former life as a shipwright. Bale then worked his way through the various taverns frequented by sailors.

  He was at ease in their company. Bale talked their language and shared their interest in a seafaring life. He met more than one man who had sailed with Stern and Borosky, but it was not until he called at the Blue Anchor, the fifth tavern on his list, that he actually came face to face with the Pole. Borosky was a sturdy man of middle height with a flat face and high cheekbones. He had clearly been drinking heavily and was off guard. Bale had no difficulty getting into conversation with him.

  “Where do you sail next, my friend?” he asked.

  “To the Baltic,” replied Borosky.

  “Under which captain?”

  “Captain Vrats of the Adventure.”

  “I helped to build a ship of that name once,” confided Bale. “She was a frigate of thirty-two guns with a crew of a hundred and twenty. But your Adventure is just a merchant ship, I daresay. What do you carry?”

  Borosky talked freely about the vessel and mentioned that it would be sailing in a few days. Bale acted promptly. He enticed his new acquaintance out of the Blue Anchor with the promise of a meal at another tavern. As soon as they stepped into the fresh air, however, Bale arrested him. There was a brief scuffle but Borosky was too drunk to offer much resistance. He was marched off to join Lieutenant Stern in a dank cell.

  Buoyed up by his success, Bale went immediately to Christopher Redmayne’s house in Fetter Lane to tell him what had transpired. The architect was delighted to hear of the second arrest and, like Bale, guessed the name of the third suspect.

  “Captain Vrats of the Adventure,” he said.

  “The Polander talked of him with affection.”

  “Did he say that the captain instigated the crime?”

  “No,” admitted Bale, shaking his head, “he swore that the man had nothing to do with it. He told me over and over again that Captain Vrats was innocent.”

  “What conclusion did you reach?”

  “He was hiding something.”

  “I think we should pay Captain Vrats a visit.”

  “But he’s aboard his ship in the Thames.”

  “So? You know how to row a boat, don’t you?”

  “Of course, Mr Redmayne.”

  “Then let’s go out to the Adventure,” said Christopher, reaching for his sword. “My instinct tells me that we’re getting closer to solving this crime. We are entitled to congratulate ourselves – all three of us.”

  Bale was mystified. “All three?”

  “Do not forget my brother.”

  “What has he done to help us?”

  “Henry discovered that Mr Thynne was a regular visitor to the Golden Fleece in Westminster. All that the villains had to do was to lie in wait nearby, knowing that he would eventually turn up there.”

  “Reuben Hopkiss was far more use to us than that,” contended Bale. “He guided us towards Lieutenant Stern. With respect to your brother, sir, he has not pointed us towards any of the suspects.”

  “But he has,” said Christopher, holding up a letter.

  “What’s that?”

  “A message from Henry. It arrived minutes before you did.”

  “What does the letter contain?”

  “The one thing that I wanted above all else.”

  “And what was that, Mr Redmayne?”

  “A name.”

  The Adventure was anchored in the middle of the river, its masts pointing up into the clear night sky like giant fingers. Two watchmen had been left aboard but they were too busy playing dice by the light of a lantern to see the boat that was being rowed out to them. A call from below alerted them to the fact that their ship had visitors.

  “Ahoy, there!” yelled a voice.

  “Who’s below?” asked one of the men, leaning over the bulwark to peer at the boat. “Give me your name.”

  “Christopher Redmayne.”

  “What’s your business?”

  “I wish to see Captain Vrats,” said Christopher. “I have news for him about a member of your crew – Lieutenant Stern.”

  “Has something happened to him?”

  “He’s been badly injured and cannot be moved. But he’s calling for your captain. We promised him that we’d convey the message.”

  The watchman pondered. “You’d best come aboard,” he said at length. “The captain is in his cabin.”

  Jonathan Bale secured the rowing boat then, in spite of his bulk, shinned up the rope ladder with consummate ease. Christopher found the ascent much more difficult and he was grateful that the ship was so stable. He clambered over the bulwark and stood on the deck. One of the watchmen held up a lantern so that he could study them carefully. Satisfied that they presented no danger, he led them to the captain’s cabin and introduced them. The watchman returned to his post.

  Two lanterns burned in the cabin, illumining a room that was small, cluttered and filled with curling tobacco smoke. Captain Vrats took one more puff on his pipe before setting it aside. He appraised the visitors shrewdly.

  “What’s this about Lieutenant Stern?” he asked.

  “He was stabbed in a fight at the Black Bull,” replied Christopher. “It seems that he was drinking with a young woman named Jenny Teale when another man tried to take her away from him. There was a brawl and the lieutenant cam
e off worst.”

  “You don’t look like the sort of man who’d deign to enter the Black Bull,” said Vrats, suspiciously, looking at Christopher’s fine apparel. “It’s not for the likes of you, Mr Redmayne.”

  “Too true, captain,” Bale put in, “but I drink there from time to time. And I saw the fight with my own eyes. I helped to carry the wounded man to Mr Redmayne’s house nearby and he sent for a surgeon. There was not much that could be done, sir.”

  “Stern is dying?”

  “He’ll not live through the night.”

  “And he’s calling for me?”

  “He has something important to tell you,” said Christopher. “He begged me to fetch you so I asked Mr Bale to row me out to your ship.”

  “I see.”

  Captain Vrats sat down behind a table that was littered with documents and maps. He watched them through narrowed lids. He was a handsome man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His command of English was good though he spoke with a strong German accent. He pretended to search for something on the table.

  “Lieutenant Stern and I are old shipmates,” he observed.

  “That’s what he told us,” said Christopher.

  “And he’s no stranger to tavern brawls.”

  “He fought well,” claimed Bale. “Then a knife was pulled on him. He was stabbed in the stomach. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “You’ll lose some of your own if you tell me any more lies,” said Vrats, seizing a pistol from beneath a pile of papers. “I don’t believe that Stern is injured at all. This story is just a device to get me ashore.”

  “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t come with us?”

  “I’m holding it in my hand.”

  Captain Vrats stood up and pointed the pistol at each of them in turn. Their ruse had failed. Bale bided his time, hoping for the opportunity to disable the man. Christopher took over.

  “That weapon is a confession of guilt,” he decided.

  “I confess nothing.”

  “You ambushed Thomas Thynne with the aid of two others.”

  “I spent the whole day aboard,” asserted Vrats, “and I have members of my crew who will vouch for me.”

  “Then they’ll be committing perjury,” said Christopher. “You are right about one thing. Lieutenant Stern was not injured in a brawl. He and Borosky have been arrested. They will hang for their crime and you will take your place on the gallows beside them.”