by Michael Ward
He left the parlour to examine the staircase. It was oak, wide and straight, running up the left side of the hall. Pausing to look at the spot where Sir Hugh’s body landed, he climbed the broad steps to the top, where his father had stood with Swofford. His tired legs ached as the oak steps creaked and groaned under his weight. He stopped in front of the Schongauer print. In the candlelight Tom could not make out every detail, but he saw enough. The Temptation of St Anthony pictured the saint in mid-air, surrounded and tormented by flying demons. One of them was about to club him on his exposed head.
The room began to sway. The image of Sir Joseph’s lacerated scalp in Kensington flashed into Tom’s mind. What had Petty said… ‘Venell had spoken of the “wings of demons”.’ He grasped the top of the stair rail to keep his balance. His breath was coming in short, sharp bursts as he sank onto the top step of the Tallant’s fine oak staircase and huddled against its curved bannisters.
Elizabeth was studying the stars through her telescope. From a distance Tom watched her silently for a time, then another figure approached in the gloom. He recognised the muscular features of Robert Petty. What was he doing here? Elizabeth moved her head away from the telescope to talk to Petty. Tom couldn’t hear them but she was laughing. Petty moved closer. Was he whispering something in her ear or was that an embrace? Damn this gloom, I cannot see clearly. Petty turned away from Elizabeth’s upturned face and, his smile disappearing, stared at Tom. His eyes hardened as he lifted his arm and pointed. Elizabeth slowly swivelled the lens towards him. She bent down to look through the eyepiece as Petty continued to stare, pointing silently in his direction…
His body began to shake.
‘Tom… Tom.’ Someone was calling his name.
‘Tom, can you hear me?’
With a start, Tom opened his eyes and saw Edmund Dalloway’s concerned face, his hand shaking Tom’s shoulder.
‘Tom, are you, all right? I have had the devil of a job waking you.’
Tom blinked and took in the familiar surroundings of his old bedroom at Bolton Hall. Was he dreaming? Had he returned to his childhood? No. Edmund was looking very adult, so why was he here, why was…? The memory of the night before crashed into his consciousness and filled him with sickly fear. The reality of Swofford’s death and the implications for his father invaded his mind. He closed his eyes tight.
‘No, you don’t. You cannot go back to sleep, Tom. That investigator Petty is downstairs.’
Tom sat bolt upright. The memory of Elizabeth and Petty returned from his vivid dream. So did I dream meeting her and giving her the box? No, no, that was real. He cursed the tired, hot confusion in his head. His eyes ached with fatigue. He had crawled to bed last night but could not sleep, his final memory hearing the birdsong at daybreak. He must have finally drifted off less than an hour before Edmund woke him.
Tom swung his legs out of bed and sat slumped forward, desperately needing to clear his head.
‘Edmund. What are you doing here?’
‘I heard about Swofford as soon as I awoke this morning. Beesley told me. Usually a bad sign when he feels the need to share news before I break my fast. I left as soon as I could and… well, I’m afraid the Exchange is full of it. Tom, the City is scandalised. They can scarcely believe Sir Joseph Vennel’s partner is also dead.
It’s a bloody outrage what’s being said by some of the traders. I boxed the ears of one gossip who was connecting you with Sir Joseph and Sir Hugh’s death. It was really too much. I mean, it’s simply a coincidence that Sir Hugh has died here in the Tallant house, and I told them so.’
Tom remembered his father’s warning from the previous evening. It’s not what happens that matters, it’s what the City believes has happened that is important. Thank God Edmund’s mind was not poisoned by this sea of innuendo, and he grasped his friend’s arm in gratitude.
‘As soon as I sensed the mood in the City, I rode out to warn your father,’ Edmund continued, ‘but I never expected to find you here as well. That makes everything much more complicated… and Petty has arrived. What will he make of this? Your father says you were not here when Sir Hugh died, so your presence should not interest Petty. But it is the most damnable luck, Tom, given the current rumours. You could have done with being tucked up in bed at the warehouse last night. Perhaps you should stay in your bedroom until Petty has gone. I will find out if your father or mother has mentioned your presence to him yet.’
Reluctantly, Tom found himself agreeing with Edmund. He could not cope with Petty’s piercing eyes and forensic questions at the moment. His brain throbbed with exhaustion. He could not get the image of Petty and Elizabeth out of his head. In addition, his own presence at Bolton Hall could put his father at greater risk, suggesting Sir Ralph’s involvement in some form of conspiracy. If only he had not been nearby at Elizabeth’s house.
But that is what families do at times of crisis; they come together. Tom’s fear turned to anger. Damn this poisonous atmosphere of intrigue and suspicion, where a son’s natural instinct can be twisted into proof of a foul conspiracy. Everywhere Tom sensed suspicion and unrest. On the street. In the churches. Even among the merchant community.
What was happening to his beloved England?
Chapter 8
A week later
The Tallant warehouse
Jonah Dibdin was the most foul-mouthed, chiseling, mean-spirited individual Tom had ever met, but no one could handle a pair of sculls better.
He was the third generation of Dibdins to row the Thames and had an unrivalled knowledge of its tides and dangerous currents. Hundreds of watermen worked the river, taking passengers up, down and across the busy waterway in their clinker-built wherries. Jonah’s boat would dart across its surface like quicksilver and Tom hailed him whenever possible, his impressive speed compensating for the lack of cultured discourse.
Tom preferred the river wherries to the broken roads of the city. For any journey east of London Bridge, he would look for Old Jonah at the wharf steps. For his part, Jonah would keep a keen eye on the landing by the Tallant warehouse. Tom was a valuable customer, a lightweight often travelling alone, and a generous tipper. Mind you, that didn’t mean Jonah had to be civil, and today was no exception.
It was six in the morning and the river was coming to life. Deckhands swarmed up and down the ratlines on anchored merchantmen as crowds formed around the Customs House. Cries of ‘Oars’ and ‘Sculls’ echoed across the glassy water as the watermen took to the Thames seeking business.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Jonah grunted, as he pulled up to the wharf steps. ‘Abroad early aren’t you? Not been to bed, or to sleep, more like?’
Tom ignored the implication of the question and stepped carefully into the wooden boat. He settled himself in the stern seat, facing Jonah. He had the perfect build for a waterman. Smaller than average, not too heavy but with strong, powerful shoulders and a wide chest. Jonah’s breathing at full tilt on a long run remained slow, deep and even. He made a difficult job look effortless. His muscular arms stretched his red jerkin with its gleaming waterman’s badge.
‘Where to, then?’
Jonah’s grizzled face was covered in grey stubble and his lank brown hair tied back. He looked like he was recovering from a heavy night in the tavern.
‘I am happy to sit here and take your money at my leisure,’ he continued. ‘But life is not so sweet. You’ll be wanting me to haul you somewhere?’
‘Yes I do, Jonah, somewhere quiet.’
‘Ah, something on your mind, eh? No, don’t look so surprised, I’ve had every kind of fare over the years. Can usually tell pretty quick why they’re on the river. Usually one of three reasons: business, a lovers’ meeting or for thinking time.’
Jonah kept his grip on the mooring post while he appraised Tom
‘If it’s quiet you want, why don’t we sidle down to the Executioner’s Dock in Wapping? Don’t think the fellow tied to the wharf there will be too chatty. He’s had the rough of th
e hemp tight round his neck, then been strung to a post two tides past. One more ducking and they’ll cut the poor bugger down. Strong price for thieving from a coal barge, if you ask me. Does that take your fancy?’ Jonah asked with a sly grin. ‘No? Well maybe we could park up and watch some fool try to shoot the bridge. That’s usually good sport.’
The Thames had a strong tide which, when in flood, could produce a six-foot drop in height from one side of London Bridge to the other, caused by the surging water pushing through the bridge arches. Over the years many had perished attempting to ride these rapids and shoot the bridge. A number had survived, prompting others to try, but experienced oarsmen like Jonah knew you didn’t row under London Bridge unless you had to, and then it had to be at the right time on the tide.
‘Have you ever shot the bridge on the flood, Jonah?’
Tom expected a swift denial and a curse for such a stupid question. Instead there was silence. Eventually Jonah spoke.
‘Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t,’ he grunted. ‘Not something to boast about—or talk about.’
Tom was intrigued by Jonah’s answer but let the matter drop.
‘Jonah, take me along the middle please, as far away from dry land as possible.’
Jonah pushed away from the wharf grumbling under his breath about the hard work ahead, maintaining his position in the strong currents at the centre of the river. Tom ignored his complaints. Jonah would have moaned if he had suggested they rowed to the nearest tavern and broke their fast at Tom’s expense. It was just his way and, sure enough, as the wherry picked up speed and skimmed across the water, the waterman’s grumbles tailed off, replaced by his deep, rhythmic breathing.
Tom eased back, closed his eyes and tried to fill his mind with the calming sensation of surging through water. He enjoyed the pause at the end of each stroke before the blades bit into the river and the wherry pushed on once more, pinning Tom gently back in his seat. Soon the familiar sounds of splashing water, oars creaking and Jonah’s rhythmic breathing had the desired effect. Tom felt his fevered thinking start to subside. Since Sir Hugh’s death, he had not slept for more than two hours at a time. His days were full, either at the Exchange or in the warehouse. He would arrive home exhausted but, once in bed, questions would invade his thoughts.
Who killed Vennel and Swofford, and why? What was the force seeking to entangle the Tallants in this deathly business? Staring at the timbered ceiling of his bedroom this morning, as the sky outside lightened, Tom decided he needed water beneath him to calm his spirits. Sitting now in the wherry, his anguish was easing but still the faces of Robert Petty, Franklin and Sir Hugh Swofford returned. As his thoughts drifted, the memory of Joseph Venell’s lacerated skull transformed into the pained face of Isaac Ufford warning Tom about Petty.
Opening his eyes, Tom dipped his hand in the river and splashed his face with the cold Thames water. He must concentrate. He was under suspicion for two deaths he had nothing to do with. Yet there were connections. The two victims were merchants and business partners. Both their deaths were unusual and, most startling of all, when they died, both appeared to believe they were under attack from a demonic force. Was it all coincidence? Venell may have been hit by a rogue falcon and Swofford, given his drinking, could have fallen down stairs in a hundred London houses. Tom dismissed this instantly. If Venell had been struck by falcons, it must have been a hunting pair, given his injuries. One rogue falcon was rare, but two? And Swofford had been clawing at the air around his head before he fell. It wasn’t simply a drunken stumble. He clearly believed he was under attack.
Tom’s desperate mind travelled back and forth through recent events, desperately seeking an explanation. Maybe it was witchcraft. Had the Tallants unwittingly angered a business client who now sought revenge through the dark arts? Or perhaps it was another spice merchant who would benefit from their downfall? No better way to create trouble than stir up existing tensions between wool traders like Venell and Swofford and the new breed of spice merchants. A distant memory returned of a Russian merchant Tom met in a Danzig tavern who said he had been cursed by a shaman, a Mongol healer from a remote part of north Asia called Siberia. Ever since, he’d been haunted by dreams of demons. At the time, Tom noted how much ale he had drunk and was not convinced. But perhaps he had been wrong. Could a merchant have hired a shaman to curse Venell, Swofford and the Tallants? Thames Street was bursting with sailors of every nationality. Surely it was possible to find someone with spirit powers in the Port of London.
Jonah paused and they began drifting downriver with the tide. He was staring at something behind Tom and, without shifting his gaze, he slowly rowed with the tide, picking up speed away from London Bridge.
Tom returned to his thoughts, which now embarrassed him. How could he really believe someone was dabbling in the spirit world? Imagine what Elizabeth would make of it, with her scientific methods? But why were Venell, Swofford and the Tallants being targeted? What was the connection between his family and the other two? Tom sighed. He reflected on the turmoil in his head and how it matched the world around him. Tom’s mind wandered again… Andrew Lamkin’s bruised face, Isaac’s alarm at the talk of popery and the cold fury in Henry Jermyn’s eyes as his wishes were thwarted. A storm was approaching.
Old Jonah had stopped again. They were now nearer the river’s northern bank, between the Customs House and the Tower of London.
‘Hmm, thought as much,’ Jonah muttered. ‘Well, there’s one way to be sure.’
Without warning he pivoted the boat in a half circle and heaved on the oars, rowing hard towards London Bridge.
Tom was pitched backwards by the thrust of Jonah’s sweeping strokes. Within seconds they were skimming across the water, travelling faster than Tom imagined possible in a two-oar wherry.
‘Jonah. What are you doing?’ he shouted.
‘Keep your eyes to the front,’ Jonah snapped between lungfuls of air. ‘See a wherry straight ahead of us?’
Tom raised himself gingerly in his seat and peered over Jonah’s bobbing head and hunched shoulders as he maintained a cripplingly fast stroke. Even he could not keep this going for long. Tom saw a wherry closer to the shore that was also building speed, heading for a landing near the Customs House.
‘I see it, Jonah!’ he shouted above the creaking oars, rushing water and Jonah, grunting with the effort of maintaining his speed. ‘They’re heading for the Customs House.’
Jonah glanced over his shoulder, adjusted his stroke and the wherry turned. Tom marvelled at how the waterman steered his craft while maintaining uncanny speed. Even so, he had lost precious seconds. Jonah was a picture of concentration, his eyes unseeing, his face turning the colour of his waterman’s jacket as the muscles on his neck bulged, straining with the effort.
It was clear Jonah was determined to catch the other boat but Tom had no idea why. Perhaps he’d spotted someone who’d skipped a fare. They were gaining on the other wherry but gradually Jonah’s breathing became more ragged. His oars still flashed in and out of the water—in-pull-out, in-pull-out—but the stroke was now less measured and the forward surge was weakening. Slowly, inch by inch, Tom could see the other boat making headway and would reach the landing before them.
‘You’re gaining on him, Jonah,’ Tom said, willing the boatman on.
Jonah glanced over his shoulder as the other wherry approached the Custom House steps and eased up.
‘I will not kill myself on your account, good fare or not,’ Jonah gasped. He stilled his oars and hunched over them, breathing deeply but steadily.
‘On my account?’ Tom cried. ‘What do you mean? I didn’t ask you to chase that wherry. I assumed you had unfinished business with the boatman or his passenger.’
Tom watched a small, stocky man with a beard leap out of the boat and up the steps. Within seconds he was lost among the crowd on the dockside. Jonah straightened, turned his head to one side and spat into the river.
‘He’s been following u
s since you took to the water. I don’t owe anyone money and my lady wife makes sure I don’t stray, so it stands to reason the bearded cove in the other wherry was interested in you. Means nothing to me but I don’t like being followed, especially on the river. This is my patch. I tried to get between him and the shore, but he wasn’t having it and changed position. In the end I got bored and took a run at him even though I was too far away. Still. Got close.’
Jonah chuckled before launching into a racking cough.
Tom studied the other wherry moving away from the quayside and again the crowd milling around the Customs House. The head of the bearded man appeared briefly before vanishing among the crush of people, cargo and handcarts on the quay.
‘Jonah, why don’t you speak to the waterman who was transporting him? He’s still nearby.’
Jonah smiled, enjoying Tom’s discomfort.
‘Watermen treat their fares as private. Like I told you, there can be all sorts of reasons a man takes to the river. If a waterman got known as a blab-mouth, he wouldn’t stay working long, would he? How would you like me telling my next fare what your business was?’
Tom frowned and Old Jonah grinned mischievously.
‘Anyway, what could he tell me that we don’t know? That a bearded gent got in his barky and told him to follow us, but not get too close?’ Jonah’s smile faded. ‘Mind you, he wanted to keep out of your clutches pretty bad. He’ll have put good money down to get that much speed out of his wherry. Watermen as a rule don’t like to break sweat.’
‘But what about you Jonah? You were going full speed!’
‘That’s different. A man has a position to maintain. I am not having people trailing my boat. Anyway, you don’t know what my full speed is.’
Jonah was about to looking offended, but instead turned on his sweetest smile.