Death Comes Hot Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Michael Jecks

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Also by Michael Jecks

  The Jack Blackjack mysteries

  REBELLION’S MESSAGE *

  A MURDER TOO SOON *

  A MISSED MURDER *

  THE DEAD DON’T WAIT *

  The Templar mysteries

  NO LAW IN THE LAND

  THE BISHOP MUST DIE

  THE OATH

  KING’S GOLD

  CITY OF FIENDS

  TEMPLAR’S ACRE

  Vintener trilogy

  FIELDS OF GLORY

  BLOOD ON THE SAND

  BLOOD OF THE INNOCENTS

  * available from Severn House

  Visit www.michaeljecks.co.uk for a full list of titles

  DEATH COMES HOT

  Michael Jecks

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2020

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  Crème de la Crime an imprint of

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2021 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2020 by Michael Jecks.

  All rights reserved including the right of

  reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  The right of Michael Jecks to be identified

  as the author of this work has been asserted

  in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-131-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-735-4 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0457-8 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Jane, Katie and Billy for their patience during the writing of this latest. With all my love.

  ONE

  There are times when life seems to drift along placidly, like a twig floating on the Thames, happy and carefree, just ambling downriver with nothing but an occasional area of turbulence to disturb the calm.

  That morning, I knew, was not one of those times.

  On those glorious days, a man wakes up and just knows the sun will continue shining all day, that the pie he eats will contain at least mostly beef, and that when he trips, a friendly hand will appear and keep him upright. But there are other days, days when the sky is leaden, when his first mouthful of pie demonstrates the cook’s imaginative use of sawdust, gristle and dogs’ tails, and when every unwary step is apparently placed on a sheet of ice. And no one is there to catch him.

  This, I knew, was to be one of those days.

  I have had my share of days of excitement, and I can assure you that I greatly prefer the days of tedium, when the most exciting thing is stepping in a dog’s turd on the way home. I can cope with boredom. Today, when I heard the knocking at the door, I knew immediately that this would be one of those days on which it was better not to remain in my bed. No, this was a day to be up and about – urgently!

  ‘Blackjack! You black-hearted, black-souled, black …’ At this point my visitor appeared to run out of relevant epithets and instead bawled his command: ‘Open this door!’

  The banging was like the thunder of Satan’s hammers, great leaden mauls striking at sinners’ flesh to torment them, and I was awake in an instant.

  ‘Sweet merciful …’ I began.

  Yes, this was not a day to lie abed. This was a day to make use of my carefully thought-through escape.

  Why had I a well-thought-through escape plan?

  Well, you see, I had experienced a swift rise in popularity in recent years. Since the appalling shock of the rebellion of Wyatt and his merry men of Kent, I had become a professional man, a fellow of some authority and importance. I served my master, John Blount, which meant that I had been elevated from the ranks of the poor and dispossessed into a position of wealth. All was based on the mistaken assumption that I was a cold-hearted assassin whose skills might assist Master Blount’s master, the sleek Welshman Thomas Parry. I would have disabused them of the notion, were it not for one fact that struck me: if they were looking for an assassin, and had told a man (me) that they wanted to hire him, for him (me) to refuse them might lead to his (my) becoming their first victim. If you take my meaning.

  No. If I had learned one thing over the last years living in London, it was that life was cheapest at the bottom, and at that time, as a failed cut-purse who was already implicated in a murder or two, being adopted as an assassin might well be an advantage. After all, if I was put in a difficult situation, I reasoned, I could always run away. And in the meantime, I was being offered a fresh suit of clothes every year, a good income and a house in a fashionable part of London. There were significant advantages.

  However, there was also one disadvantage. While the money and house were appealing, there was always the risk that others might get to hear of my new career. The profession of assassin has its detractors, after all – especially among those who choose to deplore my function. Those, say, who feel I might have made an attempt on their life, or believe I might at any moment be persuaded to do so, or those who believed I had been paid to remove a relative. Or others who believed I had been instructed to remove a relative and I had not complied – there were several wives who would have appreciated a new husband, for example. These ingrates could appear at any moment, and it now sounded, from the thunder at my front door – which would be seriously marking my new oaken timbers, I feared – that such a moment had arrived.

  It was time to leave.

  Leaping from the bedclothes, I pulled on my hosen, slipped a shirt over my head, grabbed at my jack, caught hold of my belt and rushed to the window, donning the jack and tugging on boots.

  My chamber was in the top floor of my house. It was jettied, as were all the other properties there, and from my window I could see the upper chamber of the house opposite. At the noise below, and the shouting of ‘Open in the name of the Queen!’ from beneath me, I saw my neighbour and his wife suddenly jerk awake and sit upright, he looking comical with his nightshirt and hair all bristled beneath his sleeping coif,
staring about him blearily like a stunned sheep. She was less amusing, but thoroughly interesting, for in the warmth of the summery evening she was wearing only a thin chemise that gaped at the front. Seeing my attentive leer, she grabbed at it instinctively, and then shot a look of pure venom at her husband and let it gape once more, looking at me in what I could only describe as a speculative manner.

  But I had no time. I smiled and saluted them, tying up the points attaching my hosen to my jack before grabbing my wheel-lock pistol, a bag of balls and flask of powder, slipping their straps over my head, pulling on my baldric, thrusting the pistol’s long barrel into my belt, and then carefully pulling on my hat. I studied my appearance in the mirror. There was no denying, I looked rakish but superb.

  My preparations complete, I clambered out on to my window’s ledge.

  It is no secret that I have no head for heights. Not for me the excitement of the fool who disdains to grip a rope at thirty feet of loitering death. If death is waiting for me in a hard-packed roadway, I would prefer the security of a hempen rope. The distance to the ground from this vantage point was enough to make the sweat pour. I clung to the window’s frame and tried not to think about the ground and how very hard it was. Visions of my body, broken and bloody, flooded my mind, and it was a cautious and thoughtful Jack who reached up, over the roof of the jettied chamber, to the rope hanging overhead.

  Rope? Well, yes. From the moment I had taken on my new position under the instruction of Master John Blount, I had determined that I would ensure that, no matter what, I would always have an escape route planned. Last year, a loose tile from my roof had slid down and almost struck a woman in the street. It was deeply irritating, since she had struck up such a fuss that I had felt bound to pay her to silence her howls, and at the same time I knew that losing such a tile must mean I had a leak in the roof, so I instructed a fellow to come and replace it. Apart from anything else, I didn’t want to have to open my door to another complaining harpy like her. I had thought she would scratch my eyes out, so demented did she appear. It had not even struck her.

  Thus, I had a man come. He pitched his ladder against my wall at the rear, and clambered on to the roof, probably breaking more tiles than he replaced, in the natural manner of a London workman. However, while he was there, he gave me his considered opinion that many more tiles would have to be replaced soon.

  Then it was that I had my moment of genius. ‘Good fellow,’ I called. ‘I cannot have this work done at present, but soon. Why don’t you leave a coil of rope fixed to the chimney, so that next time you come, it will be easier to ascend?’

  In short order, a good hempen rope was attached and I had my escape route. All I had to do was grab the rope, use it to pull myself to the roof, and then run lightly across to the next building, or the one after that, and make good my escape.

  It was simple, I reasoned. What could possibly go wrong?

  I was about to discover.

  The rope dangled just to one side of the window, and I carefully climbed from the window, grasping the hemp. It uncoiled easily enough, and with a little effort I swung out over the roadway, with many a clatter of gun and sword and dagger. A glance around, and I saw that my neighbour was glaring short-sightedly at the noise. It was well enough for him, I considered, with his buxom wife at his side. She was peering at me with a look that was much more interested, and I was loath to depart from that view so soon, but a renewed battering on my door beneath was enough to persuade me. I hauled on the rope and made my way to the roof. She would have to wait until later.

  Below me, I could hear the bellows of the fool at my door, and I cast a glance down with amusement as I coiled the rope and left it beside the chimney breast. Then, gaily enough, being assured of my safety, I followed the ridge of the roof to the next building.

  My useless manservant, Raphe, who knew more ways to avoid work than there were days in a twelvemonth, would not rise for such a row. The lazy fool was never an early riser, and would deprecate leaving his warm bed for any man, let alone one who bellowed so loudly. He would think, and rightly, that the first person to open a door to such as was making his temper so clear would be a fool. A man so choleric was surely either consumed by a rage so intense that a flashing glance from his eyes would likely blast a Queen’s navy ship to splinters and fragments of kindling, or in the grip of an excess of rum. Whichever was the case, the man opening the door would likely receive a buffet on his pate that would rattle his brains till the next Easter. Raphe would stay in his cot behind the chimney in the kitchen, warm and snug with his hound curled up beside him. Except …

  A sudden sharp barking removed whatever shreds of peace might have endured the savage thundering on my door, and I heard voices from other houses raised in remonstration.

  ‘What in the name of the Saints …’

  ‘Keep the noise down, you whoresons …’

  ‘If you don’t stop this row, I’ll come and knock you so hard you’ll …’

  Alas, I would have enjoyed remaining and listening to some of the more inventive comments made by my neighbours, but it occurred to me that I would be better employed putting as much distance between the owner of those fists and myself as quickly as possible. Still, I heard doors slam wide and men protesting strongly, their voices raised in angry demonstration of the true Londoners’ respect for their own rights. Such a dispute could have continued for many a long hour, but already I could hear blows exchanged.

  Thus reassured that pursuit was unlikely, I strolled along the pitch of my roof to the next, which was a full foot lower, so no great challenge to a man with my skills, and made my way by degrees over the various angles of a number of roofs, until I came to a long, sloping pitch of tiles. Here I half slid, half trotted to the lowest point, and from there sprang down lightly. It was only a short drop, and I landed with the agility of a cat.

  Although I am not one to boast, I must admit that it was a leap to make a tumbler jealous.

  However, as I stood and began to saunter towards the gate which stood wide, there were two matters that struck me as odd.

  The first was the fact that the gate was open this early in the morning. I had leapt from a low roof into a neighbour’s rear yard. This place, like any other, should have been kept enclosed. No one would want strangers wandering about their yard in the dead of night, so since curfew the gate should have been held shut and locked until the household was awake. It was peculiar, I thought.

  This, I admit, was soon forced from my mind by the second consideration: the sudden feeling of cold, sharp steel against my neck.

  I don’t know whether you have ever experienced such a sensation. There is something particularly unpleasant about being brought up short by a length of steel at the Adam’s apple. I was once, when young, shown how to skate on a frozen pool. It was a wonderful experience, and I thoroughly enjoyed the feeling, right up to the moment when a skate came loose and I was sent whirling into an area of weaker ice that suddenly broke up under my weight. That feeling – of joy swiftly turned to despair as the ice shattered and I was propelled beneath into the fiercely chill waters – was rather similar to my current experience. It was a bafflingly horrible situation, made all the worse by the fact that I did not know who wielded the steel.

  Yes, there is something quite hideously repellent about a razor-sharp sword held at one’s throat. Somehow, no matter what the actual environment, a sharp edge will always feel truly cold, like a shard of ice. This blade felt sharp enough to cut the air in two. I had a conviction that it could cleave waters. If Moses had wished to part the Red Sea with ease, he could have flourished this sword and the waters would have retreated from that horrible blade with speed, giving soggy apologies for any delays. This was a highly unpleasant-feeling weapon.

  There was a voice at my ear, and it was little improvement on the blade. ‘Master Blackjack. Now, this is a strange thing, ain’t it? What would you be doing running down the roof like that, eh? Not trying to test your tiles, was y
ou? See if there was any broken ones, like?’

  He put a hand on my shoulder and persuaded me to turn and face him, the weapon resting at the side of my neck. My artery seemed to shrivel like a salted slug as I felt the keen edge rest there.

  The brute holding it was a repellent fellow with thick, lank, dark hair. His eyes gazed at me from below his cap, and his mouth was a wound in the beating heart of the English language. He was not as well made as me, with my upright carriage and honest face, but he made up for that in animal cunning and sheer cruelty. His was not a face to inspire confidence or a sense of fellow feeling.

  ‘You have injured my reputation,’ he added with a snarl.

  Which was a hard accusation to accept.

  After all, how does a man injure the reputation of an executioner?

  Hal Westmecott was a man in his middle years, I would have guessed. It was said that he had been a butcher, and that he offered his services after his predecessor finally revolted at the task of tearing the hearts from living men, cutting off their limbs or private parts, or making them dance a hempen jig – but I doubted that. I have known several butchers, and even the worst of them would have made a better job of killing their victims than Hal Westmecott. To call him a butcher was to slander all those who hacked at dead animals for a living.

  His headsman’s axe may have been blunt, but this blade was not from the same mould. Perhaps it was because he needed to defend himself often that he kept his sword blade true; whatever the reason, this was a weapon in much better condition.

  ‘Oh, hello, Hal,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t squeak. I s’pose you thought I’d be at your door, waiting for you to open it, eh?’ he said, and grinned.

  It was an appalling sight. Blackened stumps were displayed like ancient gravestones in a haunted cemetery. I almost thought I could see tiny ravens flying about them, but then a gust of his foul breath struck me, and I was forced to avert my head quickly before I retched. An unfortunate reaction, I realized, when I felt a line of fire burn my throat.