by Michael Ward
A hand shot out of the bushes, aiming for his mare’s reins. The horse veered to her left with a loud whinny and Tom instinctively continued her movement, bringing his mount around in a single turn. He felt strong fingers scrabbling to grip his right leg and then heard a grunt as the mare’s heavy rump pushed his attacker to the floor. Tom dug his heels into her flanks and the horse, now facing away from the house, jumped forward towards the road. Tom glanced over his shoulder in time to see a bearded man scramble off the ground and come running after him.
‘Stop, stop,’ he shouted but Tom was away.
The man abandoned the chase at the front gate and slapped his thigh in frustration.
‘That man again. Perhaps he’s not a Puritan. I was a fool to think Franklin would not post a guard.’ He patted the mare on her neck. ‘Well done, lady.’
Tom maintained a brisk canter down the road to London. He did not slow to a trot until he was certain they were not being followed. His early morning optimism was fading with the last stars. He needed his father’s help to catch the killer, but now he could not reach his family or go to Isaac while the warehouse was being watched.
But there was still one person he could turn to. The only one left that he could trust.
Chapter 26
23rd October 1640
London Bridge
Tom looked through the enormous window and once again marvelled at Edmund’s view. The Pool of London was alive with ships and he scrutinised the Tallant warehouse for activity. He turned back to Edmund’s room and eyed the fine furniture. It looked French and expensive. Edmund was out when Tom arrived but Beesley had invited him to wait. Tom wondered if the manservant knew why he did not wish to linger on the street. No matter, he was glad to be out of sight.
There was a noise below. He heard Edmund’s voice rise. ‘Here? He’s here?’ before footsteps bounded up the stairs.
The door flew open. ‘Tom, thank God you are safe. Your hand, is it mended?’
‘No, Edmund, it will take a little while yet.’
In truth it felt no better for Elizabeth’s care, swollen and too painful to grip anything.
‘Franklin’s men are crawling all over the city, searching for you. There’s been a watch on the warehouse.’
‘I know. On my parents’ house too.’
Edmund looked surprised. ‘Really? Franklin is determined. What a bloody mess, Tom. I heard the detail of the charges from your father. Franklin is insane to think you could do such things.’
Edmund sat at his writing table in the centre of the room, reached over to a glass decanter and held it aloft.
‘Refreshment? No?’
He poured a goblet of wine for himself and leaned back in his chair.
‘So, what will you do? You are safe here but it is only a matter of time before Franklin searches my house and posts guards. Maybe you could slip out of the country for a few months until matters cool down? Go and visit your Dutch relatives?’
‘It is something I have considered a number of times in the past weeks, Edmund, but thankfully it is not necessary now.’
‘But Tom, I beg you to see sense. You will be caught if you remain in London. Your face is too well known. Perhaps Amsterdam is a little obvious. I could smuggle you to France in one of our boats. You could stay with good friends of mine near Paris. Live to fight another day.’
‘Edmund, my old friend. As ever, that is very generous of you but there really is no need. I now know who the killer is but I need help to trap him.’
Edmund leaned forward in his chair, his face animated.
‘Tom, you know who it is? Thank God! How can I assist? Simply say and it will be done.’
Tom paced from the window to study a sumptuous wall hanging in the corner of the room, a silk embroidered hunting scene rendered in exquisite detail.
‘I have been putting all the pieces together for several days but none of it made sense. However, when I awoke this morning, the answer was there, clear in my head as this picture.’ Tom touched the hanging.
‘Gracious,’ Edmund replied. ‘How impressive.’
Tom smiled and turned to face Edmund.
‘I say all the pieces are in place but there is still one question left unanswered… and that is “Why?”’
‘Why?’
‘Yes, why on earth would you do such a thing?’
Edmund looked blankly, glass in hand.
‘I would do what, Tom? I have said I will help you.’
‘Yes. But that’s the strange thing, Edmund. Why have you constantly helped me out of these scrapes when it is you who placed me in them in the first place? You who caused the deaths of Sir Joseph Venell and Sir Hugh Swofford and murdered Matthew Morris.’
Edmund lowered his glass to the desk.
‘Tom, have you lost your senses? It is your wound. You have a fever. You do not know what you are saying.’
‘At first, I found it impossible to believe, but I now know it must be you, Edmund. However, I simply do not know why.’
Tom reached into his pocket and placed the silver snuff box on the table in front of him.
‘This was owned by Sir Hugh Swofford. It was with him the night he died at my parents’ house. It contained a powerful mixture of ground nutmeg and tobacco, sufficient, if taken in the amounts Sir Hugh enjoyed, to cause delusions. I knew I had seen the box before, it was such an unusual design, and it finally came to me. It had been in the window of the silversmith’s shop below your house, here on the bridge. A coincidence perhaps? So many people shop on London Bridge, after all. But then I considered Venell’s death. When I saw his wounds it looked like a falcon attack but how could that happen? Falcons do not attack humans. But maybe they weren’t attacking Venell, just something he was wearing? They can be taught to fly and grip any mark. Why not embroider a target, such as a series of darks bands like the body of a bee, onto the crown of his beekeeper’s hat, the same hat that couldn’t be found after the attack? And why was Venell wearing such an ornate hat and costume anyway? The man was a miser. He never spent a penny on himself if he could help it? Maybe someone bought it for him, as a gift. But who would do him such a thing? Then I remembered your father’s leg ulcer. He had been so grateful for the honey cure, no doubt he wanted to thank Venell. What does he buy a man who appears to have only one interest other than making money? Why, of course, a beekeeping suit! The very best! And what an opportunity for his son to make Venell a marked man.’
Edmund poured himself another glass of wine, his face now dark with anger.
‘Why have you concocted such monstrous ideas, Tom? It is outrageous to accuse me, of all people, of such things. I am the one who helped you in Grub Street and assisted your escape from Franklin. You have gone mad.’
‘Ah yes, Grub Street… the Scottish press. When Matty was paid to hide the print blocks in my warehouse, I assumed it was Overton, getting his revenge. Who else had access to the blocks? Why, only me… and you, of course. But why would you do such a thing when you’d risked your neck helping me to recover them from the cellar in the first place? Then the trial was held while I was away. I believed changing the date was the work of Jermyn. Overton could not influence such a matter. But the only connection between Jermyn and Overton is mutual enmity. Why would they work in league against me? However, a generous bribe from a man of your wealth would be enough to move the date, letting you attend the court in my absence and manage proceedings. It also allowed you to tell everyone where Matty would be living, which was a brilliant idea. You could lay a trap for me for which anyone could be suspected because his address was read out in court. And it was a trap. Franklin was expecting to find me there. None of this was clear until last night, when I received the conclusive evidence that will hang you, Edmund, although it grieves me to think of such a thing. The irony is that the same words saved another neck from the rope.’
Tom put his hand into his shirt and withdrew the piece of frayed fabric containing the neck verse. He held it out in front
of his old friend.
‘This is the work of a genius, Edmund. Not a twisted mind like yours which has designed such a labyrinthine plot to ruin your oldest friend. No, a young, unfulfilled genius, who has left us a message to thwart you, using only his wits and life blood. Matthew Morris hid a code in this verse that spelled out a single word in Latin… yes, Latin. I lay in bed all night wrestling with this word. Where had I seen it?’
Tom reached into his cloak pocket and produced a sheet of paper. He pushed it over the table to Edmund who read it out in a flat voice.
‘Notandi… hmm… notandi,’ then looked past Tom to the Thames beyond. He moved back in his chair and reached into the table drawer in front of him. The next moment Tom was looking down the barrel of Edmund’s pistol.
Edmund shook his head. ‘Notandi sunt tibi mores. Observe the manners. The Dalloway family crest.’
‘Yes, but I read enough Latin to know it can also mean "Watch the behaviour”,’ Tom replied. ‘That was the message. Watch this man’s behaviour. Matthew Morris could not know that, of course; he did not understand the meaning of the word, but he knew it was connected to you. He wanted to send a message in Latin because it would be easier to conceal, and the only Latin he knew that was linked to you—’
‘Is on the family crest over the entrance to my house. But how did he know that? I never brought him here, it was too dangerous.’
‘Matty Morris survived on the waterfront by living off his wits and being careful. I suspect he followed you home after your first meeting to know more about you, and read the crest then.
‘So, the toerag had more sense than I gave him credit for. You know, Tom, it is such a pity you have spoiled my little arrangement. It was working perfectly. After the confounded bad luck I suffered with the two merchants, I believed I was finally on a winning streak.
‘What do you mean, Edmund? And may I have that drink now?’
‘Of course, my dear fellow, but you won’t mind pouring it yourself, will you? Probably not a good idea to put this pistol down. Oh, and don’t be fooled by all my play-acting, firing the gun in Grub Street and almost falling over. I am a crack shot and swordsman. Trained by the best in France.’
With his uninjured right hand, Tom filled a glass with wine and sat on a chair near the window. Edmund remained seated, his pistol aimed at Tom’s chest.
‘The wool trade has declined in recent years. To maintain a good living, one must secure licenses from the King to operate a monopoly in important markets. A lucrative contract became available last year and Father and I worked assiduously at court to ensure it would come to us. Imagine our horror when we discovered Venell and Swofford had the King’s chief advisor in their pocket! I decided to weight the odds in our favour. I knew the King took a personal interest in granting licenses and was extremely fastidious in his dealings. He would tolerate Swofford’s appalling vulgarity if it guaranteed a handsome return for the royal coffers. But what if something more… unsavoury came to light? Then your mother showed me her birthday present. Yes, Tom, this whole sequence of events started with that Schongauer print. I was fascinated by the picture and an idea formed in my mind. Venell was a recluse, and a godly sort, forever talking about sin, God and Satan. What if I could re-enact that scene from the print, and persuade Venell it was happening to him? It would affect him deeply, and that would not go down well at court. Who wants to deal with a man ranting that he has been attacked by flying demons? Not the simplest scheme, I know, but the theatricality appealed. And the challenge, well… it was interesting. It would be fun to try!’
Tom frowned at the memory of Venell’s savaged head.
Edmund noticed his expression.
‘Tom, try to understand. Killing Venell was the last thing in my mind. I only wanted to scare him and, more importantly, scare the King away from him. In France I had seen how these birds could be trained to fly to any mark and so I made contact with a falconry school near Versailles. I flattered Sir Joseph into accepting the beekeeping suit, made sure the right mark—a cross in a circle—was stitched on the hat and paid a small fortune for a hunting pair and their trainer to be shipped to London. On the day, we hid in the woods beside the field in Kensington to wait for Sir Joseph who, I knew, would follow his daily habit of checking his bees. After two hours he finally appeared and the man released the birds.’
Edmund paused to take a drink from his glass, his pistol still aimed steadily at Tom’s heart.
‘I had not seen falcons at such close quarters and it was terrifying. Venell did not stand a chance. I told the trainer he was only meant to scare the old man and should stop. But Sir Joseph was already on the ground. When he saw Venell was not moving, the man panicked, called back his birds and fled. Never seen him since. I did not know what to do. I had not intended to injure Venell, simply make him believe he’d received a demonic visitation. I had miscalculated the speed and strength of the birds and did not know about the rocks in the grass.’
Edmund paused again and, looking at Tom, shook his head slighty.
‘I sat in those damned woods for over an hour, petrified. Venell did not move once. I feared the worst but what could I do? If I went to check Sir Joseph I could be discovered. How would I explain that? But I could not leave without knowing his fate. If he was dead I had to get the suit, or the hat at least, to remove any link to me. Eventually the stockman arrived, but then sat with Sir Joseph for another hour! I was getting desperate when he finally slung the body over his shoulder and started walking up the field. Then my luck changed. I saw the hat swinging on Venell’s head before sliding to the ground. The stockman carried on walking. He had not noticed. I waited until he left the field and ran out of the woods up to the drive. Keeping to the trees, I went past the house to the rear paddock where the stockman had entered the field. This route was well trodden so I did not leave fresh tracks in the grass. I ran down, retrieved the hat and rode hard for home.’
‘And then you pointed Petty in my direction?’
‘I thought it would help if I showed willing, so when Petty mentioned falcons I thought of you. I had no idea you would become involved. I was simply trying to ensure that I did not.’
‘Sir Hugh Swofford. What about him?’
‘More damnable luck. Venell’s death, even under mysterious circumstances, produced royal sympathy, not approbation. His partner Swofford benefitted and once again looked favourite to win the King’s license. I was forced to act again. I got the nutmeg idea from Isaac while at the warehouse. I asked him why the men were taking turns to unload the hold of a ship. He said it was a cargo of nutmeg which could make them feel queer if they did not take a break for air. A number of apothecaries confirmed that nutmeg, particularly when freshly ground and inhaled in large quantities, could induce light headedness and even visions. So I set about befriending Swofford, an arduous task, I can tell you. I told the old goat that, as a mark of respect to his late partner, I wished to put aside our rivalries, and so we went out on the town. I saw the prodigious quantities of snuff he consumed and one night presented him with this amusing silver box full of the stuff, heavily adulterated with fresh ground nutmeg. When he finished the contents he asked for more and I insisted he retained the box as a keepsake and let me keep him supplied with the disgusting blend. My God, Tom. I have no idea how he could have it near him, but he couldn’t get enough of it.’
‘But if you’d made his acquaintance,’ Tom interrupted, 'why didn’t Swofford recognise you at his party in Lincoln’s Inn Fields?’
‘He did!,’ Edmund replied. ‘But thankfully only from the other side of the crowded salon. I managed to slip away, then later I heard him bellowing at Ellen. I was terrified he was going to call me out of the crowd to support his accusations. That’s why I intervened and marched us out of the house before he could say another word. He wasn’t best pleased when he saw me next, but soon cheered up when I gave him more of his odious snuff. After several more weeks I could see it was affecting his faculties and I ch
ose my moment to make use of Mr Schongauer again. I let it be known to your father that Swofford might wish to make peace after the altercation at the masque ball and suggested a dinner invitation. I knew your father would show off his pride and joy, the Schongauer. But I did not know it had been moved to a more prominent position, at the top of the stairs. I had last seen it in the dining room. Swofford was meant to make a fool of himself swinging at imaginary flying demons among the dinner guests, not fall down twenty steps and break his neck. When I found out the following morning, I galloped to your parents to retrieve the snuff box but good fortune had deserted me again. It was not in his pockets. I searched the hall when no one was looking. But it had gone. Where did you get it?’
Tom said nothing.
‘Oh well, never mind. It does not matter because I have it back and it will go to the bottom of the Thames. That was stupid of me to buy the box from the silversmith’s below. Very careless.’
Edmund lapsed into silence and refilled his glass. The pistol in his other hand never left its aim for Tom’s heart.
‘I could see at once I had involved your family in a second death which was not what I had intended. However it deflected attention from me, which gave me another idea. With Swofford gone, the way was clear for father and I to claim the King’s license. It was now even more important that not a whiff of suspicion should attach to the Dalloways in this matter because we were the obvious people to benefit from the deaths of Venell and Swofford. Such suspicion would not gather as long as the blame remained with you. But I had not reckoned on Franklin’s lack of intelligence, or the cleverness of Petty. He was hard work. Petty was very thorough and became convinced it was not you. On the other hand, Franklin was such a lunatic he tried to accuse you of everything, and also implicate your father. The Aldermanic Court knew they could not take on Sir Ralph Tallant merely on Franklin’s hearsay. So I needed to keep the pot boiling and when you told me about the Perfumed Press the opportunity was too good to miss. If I could get hold of the type I could implicate you and draw more suspicion towards the Tallants. So I removed a number of blocks from my bag before dumping it in the river. But my goodness, Tom, it was fun that night in Grub Street. Just like the old times. I recruited young Morris to place the type in the warehouse but the tiresome boy managed to get himself caught. He could reveal my plan at any moment, so I crossed the palm of the court clerk with enough silver to bring the trial date forward, while you were away. If the boy failed the neck verse, he would hang and my troubles would be over. But in case he passed, I paid a few lads to pick him up when he left the court by the front entrance, while I told your mother and Isaac he was coming out the side gate. They hid Morris, locked away, until you returned and people had got tired of searching for him. It was then a simple matter of laying the trap for you and informing Franklin, anonymously of course.’