Rags of Time

by Michael Ward

  ‘What about his death. The death of Matty Morris.’

  ‘Oh, that? Well, as I say, he knew too much and I thought surely the Tallant beetle hammer was a clue not even Franklin could muck up, so I stole it from your yard. The hammer didn’t kill him by the way. Too light. No I used a piece of lead pipe. It’s in the yard. Under the dog. I stuck the hammer into what remained of the back of his head. I knew Franklin would be too stupid to see it was not large enough to do that much damage.’

  Tom was in a daze. His head ached with hatred for Edmund’s callousness.

  ‘Matty’s hand… did you—?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you cut it off while he was—’

  ‘While he was alive? Good God no, Tom. What do you take me for? A barbarian?’

  ‘And the dog. Why the dog?’

  ‘Ah. As I said, I can be guilty of a little theatricality. I was at one of our old haunts, the bear baiting in Southwark. An old bruin was in the pit, on his last legs but full of cunning. He lowered his arms and tempted a young mastiff in closer, then ripped it down the flank from neck to tail with a fearsome swipe. They dragged the dog off, half dead. I bought the carcass from the dog master who delivered it to Shovel Alley. Said I was a medical man and wanted it for dissection. In truth I needed something to deter any street sleepers from breaking in overnight and spoiling the surprise prepared for you in the house. Also, the mutt would provide a bit of a flourish, so I dragged it into the yard and, when the time came, propped it against the door before hopping over the wall and away.

  ‘So you killed Matty Morris, simply to stir the pot and point the finger once again at me?’

  ‘Well, yes. But Tom, you are my oldest friend. I would never wish to see you imprisoned or worse, hung, for murder. So whenever danger approached, I helped you escape and did so again at your parents’ house.’

  ‘You knew Franklin was there?’

  ‘Oh yes, I had been following him. Waited ten minutes after he went in before knocking on the door as if I had just arrived.’

  ‘You are mad. You kept getting me into trouble, so you could rescue me?’

  ‘But Tom. Don’t you see. It’s perfect. I don’t want Franklin to catch you, just think it is you. It would have worked forever as long as no one, including you, suspected anything. The more I rescued you, the more innocent I appeared to you and the more guilty you became to everyone else.’

  ‘But this perfect plan has made me a fugitive, running and hiding from something I did not do.’

  ‘Well, yes, I thought of that. Hence my offer of lodgings in Paris. To me, exile is the ideal solution—you remaining the accused yet completely safe. But you have spoiled that with your cleverness, Tom. I can see Elizabeth Seymour’s hand in this. You are not astute enough to work this all out yourself. And now our game must end, and this breaks my heart, Tom, it truly does. The adventures we had together… I wanted more!’

  Edmund’s chair scraped as he stood, pistol in his right hand. He cocked the gun. The sound echoed through the room.

  ‘I will tell Franklin you came to see me in a deranged state, saying I knew too much, and tried to make me your next victim, but I shot you in self-defence. Goodbye, Tom. I will miss you terribly.’

  The moment had arrived, suddenly. After all Edmund had done, the peremptory, almost casual nature of his impending execution still surprised Tom. He flinched and closed his eyes.

  ‘I would not do that if I was you, Mr Dalloway.’

  Edmund spun around. Robert Petty was standing in the corner of the room.

  ‘Petty, how in God’s name did you get here? But thank the heavens you have. I caught Thomas Tallant breaking in. He intended to attack me because he believed I knew—’

  ‘You can stop that. I have heard all you have said. Edmund Dalloway, you will hang for the murder of Matthew Morris and for causing the deaths of Sir Joseph Venell and Sir Hugh Swofford.’

  For once, Edmund was speechless. Tom stepped forward.

  ‘Edmund, earlier I said I needed your help to trap the killer, and I did. I needed you to admit your deeds and provide the missing information. But I also required someone I could trust to be my witness. I couldn’t get near Father or Isaac, then I realised the one man who had always judged me on the evidence, or lack of it, was Robert Petty. He was not influenced by religion, politics, rumour or superstition—rare in this city. I knew where to find him—watching my warehouse—and when I explained my suspicions, I thanked God he agreed to accompany me. We arrived on London Bridge early and watched your house until you went out. I knocked on the door alone. Beesley let me in and, once upstairs, I went through the secret passage to let Mr Petty in through the side entrance. He hid behind this wall hanging to wait for your return.’

  Edmund laughed. ‘So, there are two of you. Excellent, Tom! I would rather shoot this man than you. You can take your chances with the sword. Much more sporting, although I will win, of course.’

  Tom moved forward a step. Edmund’s pistol swivelled towards him. Petty responded with a step of his own. The muzzle switched to him.

  ‘Gentlemen. Interesting tactics but they will not work.’

  Keeping his aim, Edmund reached behind his back with his left hand and produced a long duelling dagger from his belt, which he lay on the table.

  ‘Another foot forward from either of you and I will discharge both pistol and dagger.’

  Tom slowly reached towards his belt and pulled out his leather gloves. Without comment, he placed the right glove on his hand, stretching his fingers into place. He reached across his body and withdrew his sword from its scabbard.

  ‘Bravo, Tom. The sword. I agree. But first, let me dispatch our Mr Petty here.’

  Tom stepped back and raised his sword. Edmund took aim at Petty.

  ‘Now!’ Tom shouted, and, reaching back, hit Edmund’s window hard with the pommel of his blade. A pane shattered and another, then another, as Tom moved along the window, striking it again and again. Distracted, Edmund roared in anger as his prized possession was destroyed, large shards of glass crashing to the floor and out of the window into the river below. Tom swung again as Petty threw himself forward. Edmund twisted and fired his pistol and the agent slumped to the floor. With a shout of triumph, Edmund threw his dagger at Tom who dived to his left as the blade flashed past his head. Blood gushed down his face and he felt for the wound. The knife had sliced the top of his right ear. Another half inch and his life would have been over.

  Petty’s lifeless form lay on the floor and Edmund had gone. If Petty was dead, Tom’s only chance of proving his innocence was to capture Edmund alive. He could hear footsteps clattering down the stairs as he ran out of the room in pursuit.

  He reached the open front door and pushed past Beesley standing in the entrance. His hands and right shoulder were covered in blood from his ear wound. The bridge was busy in both directions with travellers and shoppers. Sword in hand, he looked both ways and saw a commotion to his left. A woman was on the floor screaming and, beyond, the back of Edmund’s head was disappearing into the crowd, heading north. He chased Edmund into the swarm of people. They were both pushing their way through the throng, leaving a trail of complaints and curses in their wake.

  Occasionally Edmund turned back to check on Tom's progress and then pushed on even harder. Slowly Tom gained on him, but soon he felt a searing pain in his left hand. It had become trapped between two people and an old man had hit it with his walking stick. Tom's fingers were turning purple. Something was seriously wrong.

  The press of people thinned as they approached the abandoned Sir Thomas Chapel. Tom broke away from the crowd’s edge as, further ahead, Edmund stopped to open a small wooden door in the chapel wall.

  He grinned, cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, ‘See, see the Papist! That man. He’s a filthy Papist. Papist! That man.’

  Tom looked around.

  ‘See!’ shouted Edmund, pointing at Tom. ‘He has the blood of the godly on his hands.
He is a killer. Save me. Save me.’

  Edmund disappeared through the chapel door as people turned towards Tom—blood on his hands, arm and shoulder; sword in hand. Two heavy-set Apprentices ran at him.

  ‘Papist scum. Kill him!’

  If he didn’t reach the chapel door in the next ten seconds he would be torn apart. He put his head down and sprinted. He was halfway to the door and losing the pursuing Apprentices when a young boy carrying a stave hesitantly stepped into his path. Tom was on him in a second, clubbing him to the floor with the hilt of his sword. He hurdled the boy’s body in the wake of a howl of protest from the people around him.

  ‘Stop him, the Papist devil,’ a woman screamed.

  A stone bounced off Tom’s shoulder as he threw himself against the door, wrenched it open and dived into the darkness of the chapel. He slammed the door shut and rammed its bolt home. Was this another of Edmund’s cat and mouse games? Why had he not locked Tom out and left him to the mercy of the mob? The door was being pummelled by a dozen fists on the other side. The bolt would hold for a while but would not take the force of a ram.

  The chapel was gloomy, lit by a single small window high on one wall. He could see wooden cases, rope and barrels but little else. He pushed the barrels against the door and turned to look for Edmund. He heard a loud crack and the edge of the stone column next to Tom’s shoulder shattered. Edmund had brought his powder and shot with him.

  Tom estimated how long it would take Edmund to reload and decided to take his chance. He stepped quietly forward and heard a door slam. He edged around a pile of barrels and saw the door, set in a stone wall in front of him. He cautiously pushed it open. Five stone steps led down into a dark room. The air was damp. Using the faint light from the chapel behind him, inside he could see the outline of a vaulted ceiling and the stone altar of a crypt. The inky black was broken by a shaft of bright light from the far end of the chamber. He briefly saw the silhouette of a figure before the light disappeared as a door was shut.

  Tom tried to still his breathing as he carefully felt his way down the stairs into the crypt. His left arm was now throbbing as the burning pain spread. Behind him the hammering on the door had turned into a rhythmic banging. Ahead, it was pitch dark and silent. Was Edmund lying in wait, recharged pistol in hand? What was that light he had seen? How could it appear in an underground crypt? Behind him came the sound of splintering wood and a loud cheer. The mob would be through the outer door at any moment. He must keep moving forward. He tried to pick out and memorise the dim features of the crypt, then shut the door to the chapel behind him.

  Complete and final blackness. Tom could see no shapes. Nothing. The cheering was now quieter but more constant. He edged forward and headed for where he had seen the light. Every three feet he stopped and listened for Edmund. All he could hear was a distant rumble, seeming to come from beneath his feet. What was that sound? Of course, the river. St Thomas Chapel was a church for watermen who would tether their boats under the middle of London Bridge and enter the chapel through a door at river level. So this was Edmund’s escape route. Tom moved as quickly as he could. He was now certain Edmund had left the crypt. There was no danger in front. Only behind.

  Tom stumbled in the dark towards the end wall. He desperately felt along its length until he found what he was seeking, an iron handle. He pulled and felt it turn stiffly. Cautiously he pushed the heavy door ajar and was stunned by bright light pouring through the gap and a deafening noise.

  The River Thames was on floodtide, roaring under the bridge just yards below. The sight and sound of the pounding water were overwhelming. He pushed on the door and peered through the gap. To his right, a stone arch support; in front, a dozen stone steps ran down to a narrow platform at the base of the arch. Beyond the platform, a torrent of brown water crashed past.

  Tom opened the door and walked carefully down the steps, which were awash with river water and weed. The air was wet with flecks of foam and when he reached the platform the pummeling noise and brute force of the rushing water made him gasp. To his left, upriver, he could see Whitehall and Parliament; in front, the rushing water, and beyond that another platform carrying the next arch of the bridge. Edmund was nowhere to be seen.

  Tom noticed a mooring rope attached to the stone wall. Surely Edmund had not tried to launch a boat and shoot the bridge? Tom considered the water rushing past his feet and shook his head. For no reason he could fathom he suddenly felt a pain like a red-hot iron sear through his good, right hand. He dropped to his knees and clutched it with his bandaged left hand, but could not stop the blood flowing onto his legs.

  ‘There, you have a matching pair. Your stigmata!’

  It was Edmund, shouting from the corner of the platform to Tom’s right. He lowered his pistol. Tom had not even heard the discharge in the roar of the water which Edmund was now studying.

  ‘A little faster than I am accustomed to. But our friends upstairs will be with us soon, so I must bid you goodbye, Thomas. Remember me to your family, won’t you?’

  He faced downriver and walked across the platform, turning around the back of the arch and disappearing from view.

  Tom knelt. The pain, now in both hands, was agonising. He gritted his teeth and clambered to his feet, shouting as he took his weight on his bandaged left hand, a scream lost in the endless, roar of the churning water. He staggered around the corner to see Edmund climbing into a small wherry on the east side of the bridge. It was tethered to the platform at both ends, bobbing nervously on the edge of the water where it gathered to rush through the arches.

  With a roar like a wounded bull, Tom launched himself off the platform onto Edmund’s back, sending them both sprawling into the bottom of the wherry. Tom howled in pain as his left hand became trapped under Edmund’s body, staggering onto his knees as Edmund threw his head back and struck Tom across the bridge of his nose. Edmund pushed himself up but fell again as a clubbing right fist from Tom caught him on the base of his neck. Tom almost passed out as the pain from his injured right hand lanced through his arm. Momentarily dazed, he remained kneeling in the bucking boat as Edmund rose and twisted around. He got hold of Thomas by his jerkin and headbutted him twice. Tom swayed in the boat, half conscious, held by Edmund’s tight grip.

  ‘Sorry, Tom, but I really must go. Au revoir, old friend.’

  With a twist of his arm he threw Tom over the side of the wherry. He hit the freezing water and immediately came to as the strong current pulled him towards the torrent passing under the bridge. He reached out for the wherry’s side, crying again as his crippled hands gripped the edge of the boat. Edmund ignored him and sawed through the mooring rope on the right with his sword. Tom tried to shuffle to the stern as the prow of the boat swung in an arc away from the platform towards the mouth of the water disappearing under London Bridge.

  Edmund reached towards the stern mooring rope and cursed when he saw Tom clinging on. He slammed the pommel of his sword onto Tom’s fingers then slashed repeatedly at the rope. The stern of the boat shuddered and jerked away from the platform as the rope snapped. Tom lunged with one hand for the rope and hung on to the stern with the other. He bellowed in pain as he took the strain as the prow of the boat was dragged towards the torrent.

  The wherry was now half in the powerful current pulling the water under the bridge and half out, held to the platform by Tom’s bare and battered hands, one gripping the mooring rope and the other holding the stern. The boat was starting to kick and buck as it struggled to make headway in the flow. Twice Edmund tried to stand and swing his sword at Tom but each time the boat veered violently and he was forced to sit. Tom was starting to lose consciousness as the pain in both hands went beyond measure. He noticed in a detached way that it was his shoulders where he could now feel the real agony. One thought remained. He could not let go.

  He must not… but he knew that was not possible… he could feel his strength ebbing… he stared at Edmund through misty eyes. The boat was taking in wat
er as its submerged stern was overcome by the flow. Its prow was kicking and shying from side to side like a stallion. Edmund stood and leaned forward to balance the boat and Tom knew this was his last chance. He pulled on the stern with his left hand, and, harnessing the shaft of searing pain and the desperate jolt of consciousness it provided, pushed down with all his might. The wherry’s stern dipped alarmingly, throwing Edmund backwards. Tom then let go. The stern shot up as the wherry flew into the middle of the torrent. Edmund was suspended in the centre of the boat like a marionette, poised between falling forwards and backwards. A surge of water hit the wherry, tipping it to the left. With a scream he disappeared over the side. In a moment the boat had gone, and Tom was alone in the endless rush and crash of the water. He twisted and grabbed the mooring rope with both hands. Could he find the strength to pull himself out? He doubted it. His clothes were heavy with water and he could not feel his legs or arms. His hands still screamed with pain but they no longer felt connected to his body.