Death Comes Hot

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Some people can forget,’ I said. ‘Some may choose to forget an unhappy marriage.’

  ‘Some might. I haven’t.’

  That was a hard one to counter, but it was not my place to wonder. ‘So, you will not allow your boy to be taken back to his father.’

  ‘He is with his father often enough,’ she said tartly. ‘I told you: Westmecott is not his father.’

  ‘I will tell him.’

  ‘And what else will you tell him?’

  ‘Me?’ I shrugged. ‘Nothing. I have no wish to be involved in anything further to do with you or him. This is all the result of a misunderstanding between him and me, and now I learn he misunderstood the situation between himself and you. And the boy. I have no desire to be caught between you all.’

  And I did not. I pulled on my shirt – stained and befouled with my blood, and with a new slash in the shoulder where the lash had cut – with some difficulty, tucking the tails under my buttocks, and pulling the jack on, binding the points to my hosen. The lady was kind enough to tie those at the rear for me, and soon I was dressed once more. I searched about the room for my sword and baldric, the pistol and my pouch of powder and balls, but I was told that they were not here. I could see that.

  ‘Where are they? I cannot walk the streets without protection!’

  ‘My friends did not want you to wake here in my house with weapons.’

  ‘This is intolerable! I want my pistol,’ I said. Without the damned thing, I felt quite naked.

  She clapped her hands, and a man walked in. It was the same brute who had stood at the wall with Peggy. ‘Walter, please fetch this fellow’s weapons. When he leaves the house, you may give them back to him. I don’t want him inside with them.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  ‘And, Walter, make sure that he leaves.’

  I bowed to the woman, because while she might have been a prostitute, she had more class than a number of well-born women I could think of. While the man called Walter waited, I took my leave and strode from the room with a haughtily uplifted chin that, I think, demonstrated my status compared with his own. I heard, I think, a snigger as I passed him, but I treated that with the contempt it deserved, and continued out through the door and down a steep flight of steps. There, I stood and waited while Walter followed after me.

  A door opened a little way ahead of me, and I saw a tousled head appear. A boy with a distinctive face peered out at me, a face that was perfectly symmetrical and triangular in shape, with dark eyes that took in my appearance without any great demonstration of pleasure or of being overly impressed by my appearance. He merely took in the sight of me and then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Well, that answered one question. If the woman had given birth to her lover’s child, the father was the nobleman who had interrogated me. His face was remarkably similar to that of the boy.

  ‘Outside,’ Walter said brusquely.

  I would have cavilled, but the man was young and healthy, and I was injured and unarmed. When he pointed to the door to the front parlour, I walked on, but with a reserved calmness, ignoring him as arrogantly as any duke. At the door to the street, he reintroduced me to my weaponry, and I pulled my baldric over my head with an effort, then hefted my bag of balls and powder to my good shoulder, and last of all thrust my pistol into my belt.

  ‘Don’t come back,’ he said.

  The comment was unnecessary as far as I was concerned. I had been knocked down, whipped and insulted.

  It was between Westmecott and this woman, and I wanted nothing more to do with the affair or with them.

  The rooms where Westmecott had his lodgings were in a poorer part of Ludgate, south of the cathedral, in the maze of alleys. On all sides were thriving businesses of every kind, with the constant shouts of people selling pamphlets, printers hawking their wares, tradesmen trundling handcarts with flapping sheets of paper to the printers. It was between a low alehouse and a printer’s that I found the dark, noisome passage that led to his house.

  I may be from the underworld of London’s rougher parts, but that doesn’t make me immune to the dangers of a place like this. The darker the alleyway, the more my hackles rise, and I could not remember such a dim, unpleasant corridor as this. Usually, some vestige of light would tentatively creep down from the sky overhead to give a glimmer to the cobbles underfoot, but here there was nothing, only a twenty-foot black maw into which I must step. I can say now that I didn’t like to enter.

  It was like slipping into treacle. The light was sucked from the place, and without a candle or spark of light to show the way, I had to rely on the vague patches of paleness which showed where a clean cobble stood. Those that didn’t show themselves were hidden beneath other things which I preferred not to speculate on. The concealing articles were unlikely to be pleasant.

  His lodging, as I was told, was the last door in this grim passageway. I moved on down to the last door, which was more a rough accumulation of planks of wood haphazardly nailed together, and knocked. There was a hollow ring to the place, and no answer. I knocked again, and this time I noticed that the door moved.

  It struck me that it was likely that the man was in a stupor, or still in a tavern somewhere, but in case he was inside, I pushed the door wide and called for him.

  Inside, it was as dark as the passageway, and my eyes could make out little. I stumbled over something, and then barged into a stool and struck the corner of a table with my thigh, which made my leg go dead, and I all but fell. There was a faint lightness in a wall, and I made my way to it. Over a grimy window was a scrap of cloth serving as a curtain. I drew it aside and rubbed at a pane or two of glass with the material. It felt greasy and rank in my hand, but gradually it began to clear a path through the grime of the window, and when I turned around, I could make out the furniture in the room.

  And the body on the floor.

  Many people, I suppose, on finding themselves in the presence of death, would perform one of two or three functions.

  They might instantly search for money or valuables – but that was hardly worthwhile in a chamber so bereft of decoration. Anything this executioner managed to filch from his victims he sent to a pawn shop instantly, and drank the proceeds the same night. A man might also search about for someone to blame for the death – but in the case of an executioner, what would be the point? The man had slain so many people, trying to find one specific person with the desire to murder him would be pointless. And finally, of course, many people would hurry from the chamber to find a bailiff or other officer, to begin the process of the law, fetching a coroner to record the death and establish the fines for deodand and all the other little details that could cost the parish dear.

  Not I. No, I walked to the stool, picked it up from where I had knocked it over, set it straight and sat upon it.

  I suppose, in the months since Wyatt’s rebellion, I have seen death in so many forms that to see an executioner lying in a pool of blood was less of a shock, and more of an irritant that must be dealt with. If there was one thing I had learned in the last twelvemonth, it was that hurrying from a place of murder would be unlikely to do anything other than cause people to comment. Better by far to walk away from here quietly, without rushing, with a cheery whistle. No one would notice me in such a manner.

  Someone had entered here and slain the man while he was at his table, perhaps, or waited until he opened the door, then struck him down as he turned away. It was plain that the man had bled a great deal. Blood was all over the floor, and now I could smell it, too. I swallowed as my gorge rose, keeping it at bay. As my eyes grew more used to the light, I could see that the man’s head had been struck with a weapon and was crushed. There was a great dint in the back of his skull, which was facing me now. His left shoulder lay on the floor, his back to me, and his legs were at the wall. One hand was reaching forward towards his bed, as if to grab a post and pull himself up – but it was too late for him to do that.

  I cou
ld imagine the scene. Westmecott, hearing a knock, went to open his door. He would invite his guest inside, standing aside and waving the fellow in … but no. This figure was lying so close. Perhaps he was less courteous and merely turned around, expecting the guest to close the door, and as soon as he showed his back, his killer struck him on the head with a stout cudgel, or a hammer. Something heavy would be needed to make that kind of injury.

  There was nothing for me here. The only thing I was aware of was that at least I didn’t have to worry about explaining that his son didn’t want to return to him because, well, it wasn’t his son. And, of course, I wouldn’t have to worry about reimbursing him for the cost of the powder.

  All in all, I considered as I stood, settling my sword and pistol and wincing at the pain still in my shoulder, although it was sad that the fellow had died, his death did remove several difficulties for me. I could not mourn him. Any responsibility for finding his ‘wife’ and ‘son’ died along with him. Yes, it was a relieved Jack who prepared to leave that unpleasant environment.

  I was about to cross to the door when I heard paces in the passageway outside. They were slow, burdened paces, the paces of a heavy man who was stumbling. Suddenly, it occurred to me that the man before me could, possibly, have struck out at a man, turned to fetch a fresh weapon and then himself been struck. Perhaps the killer was on his way back now, even as I stood there. Perhaps he had seen me enter the alley and was ready to assassinate me to keep his bloody murder secret?

  It was intolerable. I listened to the slow scrap and shuffle on the cobbles, and then a shape appeared in the doorway, as gross as a bear, enormous in the darkness, with a great lump on his shoulder. With a squeak of terror, I pulled out my pistol and held it up. ‘Don’t come in!’ I said in a falsetto that would have done service to a eunuch.

  ‘Go and piss yourself!’ came the response. ‘What are you doing here?’

  And I gaped and lowered my pistol, for all my problems had just returned, renewed and invigorated, to haunt me. Because in the doorway stood Westmecott.

  Which rather begged the urgent question of who lay on the ground before me?

  ‘Christ’s cods! Damme eyes! What ’ave you done?’

  His words were not those I wished to hear. He was carrying a rug over his shoulder, and he slung this on the floor at my feet.

  ‘What have I done? What have you done?’ I spluttered. ‘I came here to find you to tell you about the boy, and found this fellow here, as you see him. Who is he? Why did you kill him?’

  ‘Me? Kill ’im?’ he demanded with vigour.

  That was the beginning of one of those ‘I didn’t do it, you must have’ and ‘No, I didn’t do it, you must have’ conversations which are always essentially fruitless, and tedious to repeat. Suffice it to say that when we had run out of mutual accusations, we both set to staring at the corpse with confusion in our hearts.

  ‘Is he someone you know?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. He went to the body and rolled him over. It made me catch my breath, because the man had wide, staring eyes and an expression of hideous pain.

  He was – well, had been – a man of about five feet eight inches, and broad in the shoulder. He’d been a labouring fellow, or a street rough, from the look of him. His knuckles were all calloused and thickened, like a man who was used to using his fists. His face was simian, with a scar that ran under his left eye and away towards his ear, and I could imagine that someone had taken a knife to him and had the weapon knocked away. I pitied the man who had dared to draw a blade against him. Apart from that, he had a shock of thinning, sandy hair, and was missing the last joint of his left forefinger. He was not a man I would have liked as an acquaintance.

  ‘You know him?’ Westmecott said, hearing my intake of breath.

  ‘No. Never seen him before,’ I said.

  He was gazing at me in what I could only think was a suspicious manner, but on hearing the evident sincerity in my voice, he nodded, and his manner appeared to grow more emollient. ‘What are you doing ’ere, anyway?’

  ‘Me?’ For a moment I was at a loss. ‘Oh, I came to tell you, I have spoken to Moll,’ I said without thinking.

  ‘You found ’im, then? You found my boy? Good. When will you bring ’im to me?’

  ‘Eh?’ I hesitated. Moll’s denial of his claim upon her was ringing in my ears still, but I reckoned that informing the executioner that his wife denied their marriage could lead to a buffet about my ears that would set them ringing like the bells at St Paul’s. ‘No, I spoke to his mother, and she … well, she said no. But what about this fellow?’

  Westmecott shrugged unconcernedly. ‘I dispose of bodies every day. One more or less won’t make a lot of difference. I can remove him. But my boy – what do you mean, she won’t let ’im come?’

  This was tricky. I could see that his suspicions were aroused, but then again so were my own. Moll had been quite definite that she was not this man’s wife, and that the boy was not his. Perhaps she had been lying to persuade me to leave her alone? But why, then, would Westmecott want the boy? Purely for a ransom, as the nobleman had suggested? It was possible, I supposed. All I was sure of right now was that Westmecott was a large, strong fellow who could unscrew my head with ease to peer inside, and the nobleman with Mistress Moll was more than capable of ordering my death as well. I wanted no further part to play in this nasty little dispute. Leave it to the parties involved, was my view.

  ‘I have spoken to her, as you asked,’ I said with some hauteur, and then a spark of resentment flared. Why should I worry about him and his reaction, when he had asked me to perform a task, I had done so and she refused to comply? It was all one to me.

  I stiffened my back. This may hurt, but it was better that he came to terms with things sooner rather than later. ‘I am sorry, but she said she would not return. Nor would she send your boy to you. She …’ I swallowed. ‘She said he was not your son anyway. She said she was not your wife, and she didn’t know you.’

  ‘Did she?’ he said, and a terrible calmness came over him. ‘She said that?’

  ‘Yes. She said that she left you and conceived the boy after leaving you. She said you never had the boy living here with you.’

  Looking about the place, there was scarce space for a man, woman and child.

  ‘Did she?’ he said again, and I was suddenly aware of just how large the man truly was. He loomed over me, even though our heights must have been roughly similar. Still, from where I was standing, he loomed. He definitely loomed. And I felt myself shrinking.

  ‘She weren’t lying,’ he said, and sighed.

  I confess, for an assumed assassin, a mercenary who was happy to kill those who stood in his path, or who stood in the way of his master’s enemies, I always disliked the smell and sight of a dead body. It took little effort to persuade my companion that we should perhaps remove ourselves to a more comfortable house where a fire was already alight, and where there was a possibility of warmth and ale. Yes, it was May, but that chamber felt cold with the soul of the corpse sucking the life and vitality from the room.

  We walked up the foul little alley to the top of the road, and there Hal Westmecott led me to the back room of the alehouse I had seen before.

  It was a cheery enough little place. There was a good fire in the hearth, and the smoke rose to the middle of the bay – this was a house built before the advent of chimneys – and the place felt cheery and warm.

  We walked with our ales to a rear table, where we seated ourselves on a bench. I accosted him with all the seriousness I could muster. ‘Come, Hal. No more prevarication and dissembling. What is happening?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘No. You told me your wife was a runaway with your son. Now she tells me she was not your wife, and you admit she isn’t lying!’

  ‘Perhaps our marriage weren’t formal,’ he said, abashed.

  ‘So you weren’t married to her. You beat her, she ran away, and, while
away, she conceived and gave birth. So this is not your son, is it? It is the son of another man. So what do you want with the boy, and what do you intend with her?’

  He glowered and seemed to inflate to twice his normal size, leaning towards me and glaring like a bear who has seen his favourite berries stolen, but then he subsided. He sank back in his seat and leaned against the wall behind the bench. ‘Very well. Yes, I admit it. She weren’t my legal wife, but her and me, we lived like husband and wife. That man took her from me. I don’t know ’ow.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘She left me for him in 1548 or so, I suppose.’

  ‘That is eight years ago!’

  ‘You think I don’t realize?’ he snapped.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sorry.’

  ‘She was got with child, so I hear. When she came back to London—’

  ‘She had left?’

  ‘Do you want me to finish?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am sorry. Continue.’

  ‘She came back, yes. I don’t know ’ow long she were away, nor where she were gone to, but she weren’t here. She came back with her pimp, and lived with him, I think.’

  ‘You mean the nobleman who lived with her?’

  ‘No, I mean the man who’d tooken her from me. He was selling her body all over London.’

  ‘You have proof of this?’

  He looked at me from beetling brows and sank a good half pint of ale in a draught. ‘I’m her husband. Do I need proof?’

  He was not her husband, and he had no proof, I noted. ‘So she returned with a baby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you know it was not your boy?’

  ‘It might not have been,’ he said, his eyes sidling away from mine.

  No. The boy wasn’t his, and he knew it. ‘And then she set herself up in a new home, and you didn’t see her.’

  ‘Not until a week ago. I was ’angin’ two thieves – ’ad them up on the dancing tree for their last jig – and as the younger was kicking his heels up, I saw her between his legs. She was walking as bold as a knight on his mount through the crowds. I saw her, though; oh, yes, I saw her. She was looking over at me as though she wanted to run and hide, but I saw her, and I knew then that I would never have a moment’s peace until I had her back.’