A Murder too Soon Page 11

  ‘Truly? Then, if he speaks the truth, he can be discounted.’

  ‘And the killer is still on the loose somewhere about this palace,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. What could his motives have been? Money, or to further some other whim? Perhaps it was in order to win the favour of Lady Elizabeth?’

  ‘Could she have hired a professional?’ I almost added ‘like me’ but I lacked both the courage and the dishonesty.

  ‘We must hope not!’ Harvey said with bluff heartiness. ‘If that were so, and there was a professional murderer in the palace, who could tell who might be his next victim? It could even be you!’

  I was still for a moment. For what seemed like an age, he eyed me, and my mouth fell open, thinking he was accusing me, but then he chuckled and I realized he was joking.

  ‘Why, he may decide to remove you just because you have spoken too much, and the man might think you his competitor,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Ha ha!’

  I tried to grin, but it’s hard to look happy when your eyes are flitting all over in case a maddened fool could appear to stab you with a convenient weapon.

  ‘Ha ha,’ I said.

  I had another ale.

  Harvey finished his second pot and smacked his lips, eyeing me speculatively. ‘Bedingfield’s daughter might be useful. She goes all over the place, and she knows the way into the Princess’s chambers, as well as all about her father’s business.’

  ‘Fine, you can go and question her, then,’ I said as we entered.

  ‘No, not me: you.’

  ‘Me?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t squeak. You can’t have missed how she was making sheep’s eyes at you during the inquest. I was relieved when she left the room. In God’s name, she looked as though she was going to whip your codpiece off and demand your services there and then on the floor before the whole congregation!’

  Now, you can call me a dishonest fellow or even fool, if you wish, but I swear that I had not the faintest notion that the woman looked upon me with any feelings other than mild revulsion. Admittedly, that itself was considerably better than the first moment I met her, when I had thought she would run me through. Mild revulsion was a great improvement on a stab wound, from my perspective, so, hearing him say that, I preened. ‘You think so?’

  ‘She was at your side and fondling your brow with the care of an ancient whore who thinks her last patron’s expiring,’ he said unfeelingly. This Harvey was a callous fellow after the mould of Blount. I think he did not have enough affection as a child.

  ‘Nay, I think you see more than is before you,’ I said. But I was intrigued to hear his conviction so soon after the squire had intimated the same.

  ‘What designs have you with her?’

  ‘Me? None!’

  ‘Tell that to her father. You may think Bedingfield is an old fool who has just enough intellect to take himself to a pot before his hosen are beshitten, but that man has survived keeping Queen Mary’s mother prisoner to become gaoler to Lady Elizabeth. The man who can remain on the better side of Queen Mary even after that is one to be wary of. If you try to get inside Lady Anne’s skirts, you had best be prepared to fight him. And Bedingfield is an old man who has survived many fights because he has great prowess with sword and dagger. You should guard yourself against him … and his servants,’ he added thoughtfully.

  I suddenly felt sick again. This was terrible. The room began to spin about me as he told me of the perils of upsetting a Norfolk countryman. He spoke of stabbings, bludgeonings, decapitations and even one case of a man skinned alive.

  Thomas Falkes would have been keen to hear more. These people were soulmates to him. They were barbarians, from all he told me – almost as bad as the Scottish. And all Bedingfield’s men were from Norfolk.

  I was glad when, after further warnings to be more cautious, Harvey walked from the chamber, whistling happily to himself.

  I had a need of open air. My head was splitting again, and my belly was queasy.

  There was a stool near the stables and I sat. I know some folks say that the smell of horses and shit is not settling to a stomach, but all I can say is that it smells cleaner than some odours I’ve experienced in London: the rotting fishes at the riverbank when the hauls have been cleaned and gutted; the smell at the shambles when the apprentices have voided the bowels of the pigs and bulls; the odour from the tanneries … all have their own repellent qualities. However, sitting here, near the stables, all I got was a waft or two of warm grass and the scent of damp fur. It was restful.

  The thought of seeking out Lady Anne and asking her whether she knew who could be guilty of killing Lady Margery was unappealing. I kept seeing in my mind’s eye the way she had knocked down One-Eye with such competence. She reminded me of an Amazon and brought to life all the horrible thoughts that Harvey’s words had inspired. Still, he was right in saying that she had unrivalled access to the whole palace. She would be a most useful ally.

  I stood and made my way unsteadily to the hall’s front door, thinking I might as well try to find her and speak with her. If she had been walking about the palace with her father before the murder as Bedingfield had said, she might have seen someone. It was worth asking, anyway. I shoved the front door wide, resolved to seek her out; however, as the door swung against the wall, there was a loud squeak, and I feared that I must have crushed a maidservant behind it. I pulled the door towards me and peered round, to find myself confronted by two terrified eyes at about the level of my breast. It was the boy who had been howling the place down at the inquest.

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘Hiding,’ he said simply.

  Well, as far as hiding places went, it was not the worst I have seen. ‘But you would be seen by anyone walking down the screens passage.’

  ‘But Father’s outside. Don’t tell him I’m here – please, sir!’

  I peered at him. If his parent sought to make his backside glow like a firefly’s, I saw no need to dispute his right. This lad had given me enough pain with his caterwauling. It was tempting to call his father immediately.

  ‘Please, sir? He’s so distressed since my mother’s death, and he has beaten me so already.’

  It’s a strange thing. I have been raised by a father who saw little need to spare the birch, since my mother died long ago (so the old man tells me, although I always wondered whether she fled from his tempers and took up a new life in a fresh village). While a muling brat gets on my nerves, a boy who has been forced to attend his own mother’s inquest, who has seen her stripped bare and rolled over and over for the jury to see her injuries, well … I suppose I felt a sympathy for him.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘I am Gilbert Throcklehampton. My father is Sir Walter—’

  ‘Yes, I know who he is. He was with you at the inquest.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What will you do now? Stay here hiding?’

  ‘His black mood will leave him soon, I think. It usually dies out after an hour of the clock.’

  I studied the lad. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  I took him through to the buttery and plied him with wine. He held it well, I’ll grant, but he was smiling, slurring and snoozing by the time I’d had my quart, and I was belching with the satisfaction of a full belly and the feeling that I’d done a good thing in releasing the lad from his fears.

  He came from the far north originally, but now lived at Throcklehampton, in some manor near a town called Evesham, apparently. His mother had spent most of her time away from home, because she was a favourite of our Queen. I may have seen her in London, because the boy told me that she was there with Queen Mary when the rebels had tried to storm Whitehall Palace, where the Queen had fled when the rebels approached the city. I remembered those days with a shudder, which wasn’t helped by young Gilbert telling me that all the guards must have been wondrously brave to defend the place against the foul men of Kent.


  I didn’t tell him that most of us were terrified, and those who weren’t were so sodden in drink that they could scarce hold a sword straight. The memory came back to me of Sir John Gage, the Lord Chamberlain and Captain of the Guard, roaring drunk as he was, confronted by the first of the rebels. His face! He bolted, or tried to, falling flat on his face in the mud and horseshit of the roadway, and I and his servant had to haul him up and push him through the great gates to the palace. I’ll never forget his great goggling eyes as he took in the sight of the approaching army. Mind you, I still have dreams in which I find myself in that road again, with the appalling horde of rebels running at me, while I fear feeling a knife at my back at every moment from my other enemy. But that’s a different story.

  His father had been growing more and more bitter in the last months, Gilbert told me. It was perhaps just the effect on the man of having his wife taken from him to dance attendance on the Princess, when she should have been at home with her son.

  ‘Do you have brothers? Sisters?’ I asked.

  ‘No. I had two sisters, but they died,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  I nodded. I’d had a similar lonely childhood. It increased the bond between us. ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘My mother died when I was young, too.’

  ‘It’s hard,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Your father has much to think of,’ I said.

  ‘So do I!’

  His emphasis was so pronounced, it was quite shocking. I nodded quickly, ‘Yes, yes, of course you do! I was only trying to say that he will perhaps come to cope with his grief again soon.’

  Gilbert shrugged and looked doubtful. When I prompted him, he pulled a grimace. ‘He was angry before mother died. He was always angry. This just made him worse. He hates me!’

  I was tempted to gather the boy up and comfort him, but it would not have been seemly and he wouldn’t appreciate my display, I was sure. I wouldn’t have wanted a stranger to smother me, were I his age. But then, I wouldn’t have wanted to talk about my father either.

  ‘I doubt he hates you, Gilbert. He’s just sad that he’s lost his wife.’

  The boy did not look convinced.

  ‘You heard them talk of the necklace. You have not seen it, I suppose?’

  ‘Not since she died, no.’ He looked away suddenly, and I knew he was concealing something. It took only a little prompting to have him confess.

  ‘My father said it was not valuable,’ he said, ‘but it was to her. The necklace was always about her neck because she bore a seal of her father’s on it. She was proud of it. Then it was broken, and she wore a necklace of the Princess’s instead, the one with the crucifix.’

  I wasn’t interested in the necklaces. ‘Her father’s seal?’

  ‘Of the Nevilles, her family. It was important to her.’ His eyes grew sad once more. ‘I should have been with her. I could have saved her.’

  ‘The seal was an old decoration, I was told.’

  ‘Yes. My grandfather used it when he had to sign documents or seal messages. My mother was proud of it, and kept it after his death.’

  ‘I see.’ Except I didn’t. Why someone would take a defunct piece of decoration like that was beyond me. Yet they had; someone had ripped it from her neck.

  Another half pint of wine soothed him enough to set him snoring. I left him there, propped on a barrel with his head against a wall, and left the chamber.

  I had made precisely three steps into the yard when a great ham-like hand descended on my shoulder, and I was thrust protesting into the wall, my ravaged nose thudding painfully into the rocks, and I swore loudly as the blood began to flow once more.

  ‘Master Jack, I want to speak with you!’ the one-eyed man hissed in my ear.

  There have been times in my life when I’ve been thankful of rescue from unpleasant experiences. Lady Anne’s intervention only recently was a good example of my being glad to welcome the interruption of an otherwise difficult interview, and I cast about now for any guards who might be able to rescue me, or Master Blount, Will, Harvey, or anyone. But before I could even gather a breath to scream for help, I felt the prick of his knife at my ribs. It was a highly effective means of silencing me. I have never enjoyed the feel of steel on my skin, and would be most reluctant to feel it in my flesh. He took hold of my jack and shoved me before him into the alley between kitchen and hall.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ I demanded, trying to stem the flow from my nose.

  ‘You were there, and I don’t believe you had nothing to do with Lady Throcklehampton’s murder.’

  ‘So go and tell the Coroner.’

  ‘I prefer to talk it through with you here,’ he said, and punched me again.

  The pain was intense, as if a bolt of lightning had struck me full in the face.

  ‘You’ve broken my nose, you craven apple-squire!’ I said. The blood was running like a thick Bordeaux wine. I stuck my chin out, so the blood could not drench my jack, but that only tempted him to punch me again, this time below the ribs. I gasped, desperate to breathe in, while he irritably tried to evade the shower of bloody spray that I’d blown towards him. Not that it mattered. Whole and hale, I could have pushed past him and fled, but after that blow to my belly, there was no possibility of making an escape. I couldn’t even stand up straight.

  He had picked a good place in which to attack me. It was a narrow space here, with gravel and pebbles underfoot, and the angle of the walls meant that a man had to be right at the entrance to see far along the way. None of the guards at the gatehouse or the walls would be able to see anything in the darkness of that grim passage. Meanwhile, escape would be hindered by the trash and garbage lying all about. I stumbled on a pig’s skull and a collection of ribs from a cow. Clearly, bones were casually tossed in here rather than being taken to the midden when it rained.

  One-Eye had me by the shoulder, and now he pushed me back against the kitchen’s wall. My head slammed back and I saw some sparkling stars ignite in the air close by. They whirled and danced before my eyes, red sparks in purple spheres, and I watched them with fascination for a while, bemused, until he jerked me again. ‘Listen!’

  ‘What?’ I mumbled. A star seemed to land on my nose and I flapped with a hand until it disappeared. Then the others all twinkled out and I could concentrate once more.

  The bridge of my nose, where he had broken it earlier, felt as though it had swollen to the size of my fist. The blood was trickling now, rather than pouring, but I could feel its viscous heat and tasted the iron in my mouth as I tried to breathe. Still, although I was bruised and beslubbered in blood, my anger was not diminished. He pulled at my shoulder, and I brought my arm up, knocking his away. But then I felt his knife’s point again, and was persuaded to stop further attempts at escape.

  ‘You know what I want,’ he said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It wasn’t on her. Someone took it.’

  ‘Took what?’ I said. I could feel his knife twisting slightly. It felt as if he was going to shove it into my guts to emphasize his irritation. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  ‘The signet! She always carried it, but it was taken before I could!’

  ‘What? You were trying to rob her?’

  I felt the knife press harder. This fellow would have no compunction about opening my belly there and then. It seemed to me that, with him and Thomas Falkes, too many people wanted to investigate my internals. I began to gabble.

  ‘I didn’t have time to take anything. You found me only a moment or two after I fell over her!’

  ‘I want that seal,’ he said, and pushed his knife further.

  ‘What seal?’ I felt my new jack’s material part, and the point was in my flank now. I could imagine that the moisture I could feel was more of my blood. This fellow clearly meant to drain me dry. However, one thing I was certain of was, he did not know that the man who told him to find the seal had himself already taken it, according to the boy. So, why was Sir Walter dem
anding One-Eye should find it for him? Was the little brat lying to me?

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  I thought quickly. ‘If it’s not on her, then it must have fallen from her where she lay.’

  ‘I’ve looked. Nothing.’

  The blade pressed deeper. ‘Then it fell beneath the sideboard, perhaps?’

  At last the vile pressure reduced. I could see doubts in his eye. ‘Did you see no one else near the body?’

  ‘Do you think I’d have stood here for you to prick holes in my body if I could direct you towards some other victim?’

  He pushed me to the wall. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  That was when he intended to stab me, I had no doubt. This time he could not miss his mark. I froze like a statue. It was terrifying. I felt as though every muscle had turned to marble, and I could only stare. Then my mouth began to move, and I chattered some fine nonsense, utterly incoherent, I daresay, searching for words that could save me from his evil blade.

  So when I saw his eye narrow, and I was convinced this was his moment, that I had only a finger’s snap before he thrust his knife into my guts, I reacted like a cornered rat. I kicked his shin, grabbed for the wrist holding his knife, pushing it away, whimpering with fear all the while, and tried to knee him in the cods – but sadly missed so small a target. He fell back with a grunt, his hand on his thigh, and while he swore foul oaths about my parents and lifestyle, I scrabbled desperately, trying to find a weapon of any sort, my hands rifling quickly through the filth. I found the pig’s skull and snatched it up, bringing it down on his head with a satisfying crunch.

  He roared with pain.

  I fled. The passage in which I found myself was an alley, and alleys tend to lead somewhere. That meant there was a place to run to. I flung the skull at him and ran and ran as I have never run before. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw he was recovering. His good eye narrowed into a glare, and he clambered to his feet, knife still gripped in his hand.

  Running is easy. When I was a youngster, I learned to run from my father to avoid his beatings; when I grew, I learned to snatch a pie or apple and bolt from the market. If I claim it myself, I have the right to be proud of my ability to disappear with alacrity. I have been told that I have an impressive turn of speed for such a scrawny wretch, and that day I put every ounce of strength into my legs and fairly flew up the way. I did not pause to look behind me, but hurtled along, paying no heed to anything but the urgent need to be somewhere else. I heard him grunt once, and thought he must have turned an ankle on a loose stone, but didn’t bother to turn and look. Instead, I made it round a corner, and found that in front of me was a wall, with a door on the left. I snatched at the handle as I reached it, flung it wide, and was in through it like a rat into a sewer. As soon as I was inside, I slammed the door with full force. There was a bellow of rage and pain, and I saw his hand, caught between the door and the frame. I barged into the door with my shoulder, putting the full weight of my body into it, and heard a cracking noise just before the knife fell to the floor. I put my foot on it and kicked it away, and as I did so, the hand was withdrawn. I pushed the door shut quickly. There was a bolt, and I shoved it across before setting my eye to a crack in the timbers.