by Michael Ward
Approaching the end of Poor Jewry Lane, High Street ahead looked busy. Aldgate was close, and he joined the throng shuffling towards the gatehouse. He crouched a little as the crowd streamed through the gate house entrance. The guards surveyed them as they passed. One looked straight at Tom, who steeled himself for flight. The guard lifted his hand. Tom tried not to stare. The soldier stifled a yawn before turning his gaze towards the river of people behind. Tom continued with his head down until he was twenty yards past Aldgate and into Whitechapel. He ducked into a passage and leaned against a wall to steady his nerve. Looking at the sky, he calculated it was an hour past noon. There was only one place he could go for help. He set off left along Houndsditch to put distance between himself and Aldgate before seeking food and drink; then the dangerous walk to Clerkenwell, in the open for anyone to see.
Chapter 23
Later that day
Bolton Hall
Tom sat on a milestone near the entrance to his parents’ house and removed his left boot. He held it upside down, shook out a stone and rubbed his aching foot. It was late afternoon and the gathering grey cloud overhead was slowly darkening. He had walked without break from Houndsditch and was bone weary. His single thought had been to reach safe haven; but now, with sanctuary in sight, Tom was reluctant to enter. If Franklin was looking for him, he did not want to get his parents involved. Worse, he would have to give his mother the shattering news of Matty’s murder.
A carriage approached. Tom quickly replaced his boot and ducked behind a bush. He doubted Franklin would stray so far beyond his City jurisdiction but he couldn’t be too careful. The carriage came to a halt and a door opened. It was Elizabeth. He stepped out from his hiding place.
‘Tom! I was coming to see you but you have saved me a journey into London. Are you staying at Bolton Hall?’
Sitting on the edge of the carriage seat, Elizabeth's face radiated vitality and he drew strength from her presence.
‘Get inside, Tom. I have something important to tell you.’
‘And I, you,’ Tom answered, as he hauled himself in.
‘What is wrong? You look completely worn out. But tell me later. I need to speak to you about the death of Sir Joseph Venell.’
Joseph Venell. A name from a different time given the events now overwhelming him. He shook his head. Elizabeth looked puzzled and Tom reached over and held her hand.
‘Elizabeth, so much has happened since we last met. I am on my way to explain it all to my parents.’
‘Yes, but let me give you my news first,’ Elizabeth pressed him. ‘Tom, it’s important.’
Elizabeth leaned forward and lowered her voice.
‘I have gone through your account of Sir Joseph’s death again and again in my mind, searching for a loose thread to follow, some sort of clue. Then, the other day, I was in the garden when it struck me. Where was the hat?’
‘The hat?’
‘Yes, the hat, Tom. When you saw Sir Joseph in the cellar of his home he was wearing a new beekeeper’s outfit. However, you did not mention his beekeeper’s hat and veil. Did you see it?’
Tom sat back and tried to recall his visit to Venell’s house with Petty. It was almost a year ago. He remembered the room in the cellar containing Sir Joseph’s body and the dreadful injuries to his head, but that was all.
‘I do not think I saw a hat, but it was dark in the cellar. It could have been in another room or upstairs in the house, but what does it matter—’
‘It was not in the house, I will wager that,’ Elizabeth interrupted.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because yesterday I visited Venell’s house in Kensington and spoke to the stockman who had discovered him dying in the field. He is absolutely certain Venell was still wearing his hat when he found him. He remembers drawing its net back to help his master breathe more easily. It was still on Venell’s head when he picked his body up to return to the manor house but, when he arrived at the front door, the stockman noticed the hat was missing. He had slung Sir Joseph’s body over his shoulder to carry him home and believes the hat must have fallen off as he was climbing up the field. He went back to the field immediately but the hat was not there. He had not mentioned it to anyone because he did not want to get into trouble.’
‘But, Elizabeth, I still do not see why this is so important. It’s only a beekeeper’s hat.’
She squeezed his hand and spoke softly.
‘Tom, you said falcons would not attack humans. But what if they were trained to attack a mark or a certain symbol, such as a black cross, or two circles, one inside the other, or something similar? Symbols that could be embroidered onto the crown of a hat?’
The mist began to clear for Tom.
‘You mean wearing the hat would make Venell, or rather the top of his head, a target for the hunting falcons?’
Tom winced, imagining the swooping birds grabbing at the hat with their talons. He had felt their lethal grip through a leather glove on many occasions.
‘Falcons can be trained to hit a mark. But this is merely surmise, Elizabeth. It could equally be that the hat was plain fabric.’
‘Then why did it go missing? I asked the stockman if it was windy on the day of Sir Joseph’s death. He said there was a light breeze but no more. I got him to show me the field and exactly where he found his master. Tom, the meadow is large, a good half-acre, and sloping downhill. The hat would have to travel a long distance to disappear. The grass was long at the time and its netting would have snagged on the grass or a stone, and remember he had gone back immediately to look for it. No, I think someone was watching the field and removed the hat from where it fell when the stockman left with Sir Joseph’s body.’
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘But there’s more. If there was a target on the hat, it must have been there when Sir Joseph bought it. If it had been added later, he would have noticed. Two black circles inside each other could have looked like decoration, like the stripes around a bee’s body, don’t you see?’
Tom’s mist was replaced by a bright light.
‘So if we discover where Sir Joseph bought it and the beekeeping suit, it could provide our first link to the owner of the peregrines?’
‘Yes, exactly,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘It’s not much, but it is something to investigate further.’
Tom hugged her.
‘It is the first thing I have heard in this whole affair which makes any sort of sense and I thank you for it.’
Another carriage appeared in the distance, this time on the road from London. Tom pressed himself back into his seat.
‘Elizabeth, I need to get out of public view and reach the safety of my parents’ house. I can explain all when we get inside.’
Ten minutes later, Tom was by a wood fire in Bolton Hall, sipping a tankard of hot grog. His father, mother, sister and Elizabeth sat in a half circle around him. Ellen was holding her mother’s hand. Lady Beatrix looked devastated.
‘So you think this radical printer is responsible?’ his father asked, giving Tom a searching look.
‘He swore revenge on me, Father, that night at Moorgate, and he had access to any blocks we left behind in our haste to escape Grub Street. He must have paid Matty to hide some in our warehouse, planning then to send an anonymous message to the Stationers’ Company suggesting they search the building. That way I would be implicated in the Scottish press, diverting suspicion from him. When Matty was caught, he became a danger to the printer because of what he knew. He must have decided to… to kill him,’ here he looked at the red face of his mother, stained with tears, ‘and hit on the idea of implicating me, both in the murder and the ownership of the Scottish press, by laying the trap in Shovel Alley, using Matty’s body and more of the type. Then he will have sent the anonymous note, but this time to the magistrate.’
Elizabeth looked troubled, but said nothing. There was a gentle knock on the hall door. Ellen answered it and talked quietly to one of the servants before le
aving the room.
‘And you are sure no one saw you arriving or leaving Shovel Alley,’ his father continued.
Tom nodded.
‘As sure as I can be. I could hear Franklin talking to the constables most of the time and he did not mention my name once.’
Tom heard voices in the hall and the door opened. Ellen stood in the doorway.
‘Father, there is a man here who insists on being—’
Ellen stopped mid-sentence as a small figure pushed past her into the room. Nathaniel Franklin.
‘Enough of this delay… ah, there is the man I seek, Thomas Tallant.’
Franklin pointed a bony finger at Tom who jerked upright, gripping the arms of his chair. He recoiled at the sight of this odious creature, the bane of his life, standing in his family home. The two constables from Shovel Alley followed Franklin into the room, followed by another man with billowing white hair and bushy side whiskers who turned to Tom’s father.
‘I regret this intrusion, Sir Ralph, but Mr Franklin does have a warrant for young Tom’s arrest. The paperwork appears to be in order and, given the magnitude of the charge, as the magistrate for Clerkenwell I am duty bound to cooperate.’
Ralph Tallant nodded.
‘I understand, Septimus. And what is the charge, Mr Franklin?’
The magistrate sneered at Tom.
‘Why, murder of course, Sir Ralph. Your son is charged with the foul murder of one Matthew Morris. There will be other charges in due course, but I think that gives us enough to be going on with for the time being, don’t you?’
Sir Ralph's anger was stirring. ‘Where is your evidence, man?’
The magistrate looked around the room and Tom could see his mind working. Franklin had spent his life in the shadow of people like the Tallants. Finally he had an opportunity to wield power over them and he intended to savour it. He stalked the room, leering at the family and Elizabeth.
‘Well, where do I start? Perhaps by observing that it is strangely apt you should be brought to justice in this house. I told you once before I smelled the Devil’s work around you, Thomas Tallant. It was outside this very room Sir Hugh Swofford met his untimely end, overwhelmed by a vision of flying demons shown to him by Sir Ralph Tallant. Now I have in my possession a statement from Ned Smithers, signed with his mark, declaring the boy Morris described himself as the Devil’s spawn when they shared a cell in New Prison prior to Morris’s trial, and that Thomas Tallant did visit said Matthew Morris and consort with him in lengthy and mysterious conversations.’
Sir Ralph flashed a questioning look at Tom. Franklin was getting into his stride.
‘And the day after your visit, Morris was moved to another cell where he was treated most royally, according to Smithers. Why should that be? Let me paint the picture for you, Tallant. You and Morris first consorted as the Devil’s disciples. Intent on all kinds of wickedness, you joined in a pact to invoke demonic forces against Sir Joseph Venell, a God-fearing member of the City community, and a rival merchant to you. Following Venell’s death, his partner Swofford confronted you at his house party accusing you of involvement in Venell’s death. Fearing he had stumbled on the truth, you arrange for him to be invited to your parents’ house where again your sorcery, combined with Morris’s powers, invade Swofford’s body. He falls to his death seeing the demons you have conjured.’
‘Oh this is ridiculous.’ It was the voice of Tom’s mother, her tears replaced with a look of steely resolve.
Sir Ralph placed a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Let the magistrate say his piece, Bea.’
Franklin paused, sniffed and started pacing again.
‘The Devil’s kind are not to be trusted, even among their own. You started thinking, didn’t you Tallant, that Morris knew too much? He had too much on you. So you decided to get him out of the way, accusing him of stealing from your warehouse. As soon as I heard your account I knew it was a fairy tale. Who in their right mind would walk into a busy merchants in the middle of the day and try to walk out with a valuable bag of spice under their arm? Cock and bull, the whole of it. But it would be enough to get him into court where you intended to sink him good and proper when the trial came up. You would be called as a witness. You meant to lay it on right thick, didn’t you? Would have told the court Morris was stealing a bag of gold, not pepper, if necessary. There’d be no benefit of the clergy then, would there? So you visit him in New Prison. He’s angry, fit to tell the world about you, so you keep him sweet by saying it’s all a misunderstanding and you’ll get him sorted with a cosy cell. You’ll tell the judge you’d made a mistake and it wasn’t Morris after all. Anything to keep him quiet until the court case. But that’s when things started to go wrong, didn’t they, Tallant? You got called away to Amsterdam and, blow me, when you got back, the trial was over and Morris free. You panic, but then your man Ufford tells you he knows where Morris is living because it was read out in court. The rest is simple. You drop by one night. “Hello Matthew Morris, me old cock. Didn’t expect to see me again, did you?” Ten minutes later the deed is done. He didn’t have a prayer… Lord forgive me for saying so of such a blasphemer.’
Franklin paused for breath, his eyes wild with excitement.
‘We found a piece of printer’s type under the body that puzzled us at first. So I visited my old friend Josiah Wilmot from the Stationers’ Company. He said you had been busy doing Mr Henry Jermyn a favour breaking up an illegal print house, using your contacts in Amsterdam. And I could see then how clever you are Tallant. You must have retained one of the blocks and left it at the scene to shift the blame onto the radical printers. But that don’t fool me. I know too much about you.’
A shocked silence hung over the room, which was soon broken by a gentle tapping on the door. Ellen hurried out again.
Sir Ralph cleared his throat. ‘Magistrate Franklin, I have listened carefully to what you have to say. You clearly believe you have a case but I cannot see a single piece of solid evidence against my son. You pin this Faustian connection between my son and this boy on the word of another man in prison. What, pray, did Mr Ned Smithers get in return for his statement?’ Sir Ralph held up his hand. ‘No, do not tell me. I would much prefer my lawyers to find this out; and they will, by God, Mr Franklin, they will. You also say my son was undone by the speedy trial of Morris. But that’s the point, is it not? The trial was brought forward by months to take place when my son was away. I wonder who might have arranged that, Mr Franklin? A magistrate’s influence is extensive in the courts. But again, my lawyers will get to the bottom of that. No. I suggest you leave us this instant before I throw you out personally, if base accusations and wild fancy is all you have to offer.’
The door clicked open and Ellen stepped back into the room.
There was another silence and a smile on Franklin’s face that Tom did not like.
‘Constable. Pass me the bag, will you?’
Constable Gilbert, recovered from his trip to the privy, stepped forward and produced a linen sack from behind his back. Franklin opened the top, fished inside and smiled again before pulling out an object. It took Tom several seconds to realise what it was. His heart lurched.
Franklin addressed Sir Ralph. ‘Before you do that, Tallant, I suggest you look at this and tell me what it is. Be careful, it is rather dirty. I retrieved it this very morning from inside the broken skull of Matthew Morris.’
Tom’s mother moaned and put her hands to her face.
Sir Ralph’s voice was flat. ‘It’s a wooden hammer.’
‘Yes, but what kind of hammer?’
‘It’s a beetle hammer used for caulking joints in ships. There are hundreds in the London dockyards.’
‘Yes, but how many have this on the shaft?’
Franklin moved his grip to reveal a carving. Sir Ralph visibly buckled. He looked at Tom and back at Franklin. He cleared his throat and spoke.
‘It’s a letter “T”, and before you ask, Franklin, yes it does stand for Tallant
. It is carved on all our tools at the warehouse. But anyone could have stolen it.’
‘Oh, like young Morris “stole" the bag of pepper?’ Franklin sneered. ‘Enough of this.’ He turned to Tom. ‘Thomas Tallant, I am charging you with the murder of Matthew Morris and causing the deaths of Sir Joseph Venell and Sir Hugh Swofford through diabolical means. You will be taken to Newgate prison to await trial at the Old Bailey, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.’
Pandemonium erupted. Lady Beatrix stood up, shouting, ‘No, No, No.’ The constables stepped forward to apprehend Tom but were blocked by Sir Ralph. In the midst of this, Ellen calmly embraced her brother. Holding him tight, she whispered, ‘Edmund at front of the house—with a horse.’
He nodded and pressed something into her hand.
‘Ellen, give this to Elizabeth. On no account let anyone else see it.’ They broke from their embrace. ‘Don’t worry, dear sister. I will survive this.’
Elizabeth called out, ‘God keep you, Tom, and remember May still my love descend… May still my love descend.’
Tom held her gaze before turning to see the magistrate pushing past the constables.
He looked to Lady Beatrix. ‘Sorry mother, I will build you another.’
The momentary confusion cleared on her face, then she nodded vigorously.
‘Yes, yes!’
Tom spun on his heel and sprinted out of the room, pursued by Franklin.
‘Stop, Tallant. This confirms your guilt.’
Tom ran through the next room towards the back of the house, pursued by both constables who had forced their way past Sir Ralph.
He tipped a tall wooden chair onto the floor behind him. There was a yelp of pain and a crash, and, when he looked back, one of the constables and Franklin lay in a tangle on the floor, but the other was still in pursuit. He charged through the back room, past shelves of potted plants. Bending down, Tom covered his head and crashed with all his weight through the end of his mother’s new glass house.