On Tuesday, I had to try to work out what was happening. Who had killed Alice? What had happened to Vanderstilt?
The idea that someone could have killed both just to get at me was so shocking that I was half tempted to put it from my mind. But you see, I have a great clarity of vision and can often see through other men’s machinations and stratagems.
Oh, I know that some consider me dull-witted, but that is merely my ploy, to allow them to think of me as a dolt who is of no real threat, whereas in actual fact I have a sharp, keen brain that is like a razor at cutting through nonsense. As soon as I put my mind to it, I realized that I must be the real target of these deaths. Poor Alice had died as a means of upsetting me, perhaps – or could it be jealousy? A man who saw that I was so popular with women, and Alice in particular, and who decided to punish me by removing her? Vanderstilt, obviously, was targeted because he had money or something. But wait – the killer may have known he owed me money. I would be the assumed guilty party because of the overheard threat. That meant the murderer could escape and leave me to dance the Tyburn jig in his place. So someone had a desire to see Vanderstilt dead and out of the way, and I was a mere clot thrown to the constable to distract justice!
Thinking through all the possibilities gave me a sore head.
After Sunday’s excitement, and my interview with Mark, I made my way down to the river, crossing in a wherry that looked and smelled as though it had spent the last ten years at the bottom of the river or some similar sewer.
Yes, I was going to the south side of the Thames again. It was not a view that gave me any pleasure or inspiration, but I was in need of some protection. My pistol was in Sir Edmund’s hands, and I needed it back. I could, of course, have tried to acquire another gun, but that would have been expensive, and not terribly easy. There are not that many gunmakers of renown in London. The mechanical device of a wheel-lock pistol is complex and prone to failure. I needed a weapon that would be reliable.
Besides, I knew my own gun. And I was annoyed that this man dared to steal it from me.
I was going to go and fetch it back. Not on the day he stole it, and not on the Monday, but today. I felt sure that he would have been lulled into a conviction that his theft had succeeded, and he need not fear retaliation. I intended to show him he was wrong.
At the same time, I wanted to find the man responsible for murdering Alice. She was much in my mind. And I wanted to learn who could have killed Vanderstilt and left me to carry the weight of justice’s incompetence.
But first I needed to rest and plan.
I know what you are thinking. Yes, you are rolling your eyes and gazing heavenwards because you think I was nothing more than a fool, that I had been duped by Sir Edmund de Vere, and that I was walking back into his trap.
Ah, but you have not thought this through. Of course, in the first place, he had shown himself to be a dangerous man who would be prepared to remove an innocent fellow’s firearm without compunction or offer of compensation. But there, you see, that is the point! I realized that while sitting in the parlour of the Hat with one of the tarts and Piers, enjoying the warmth of the fire all that long Monday.
This is why I was in the post I enjoyed. I could reason through things, and from all this, it was clear to me: de Vere was a thief.
If he had been a murderer – if he had killed, for example, Vanderstilt – he would have wanted to silence me for harbouring suspicions against him. He would have had his men tie a weight about my waist, bind my hands, and throw me into the Thames. That is the sort of thing a madman with power would do. Instead, he had purloined my gun and released me. That might have been because he saw before him a tatterdemalion in foul clothing, a wastrel who could not realistically be a threat to him. He did not consider that I could bring any harm to him – even if I had a posse and pointed to him. No, not even if I had seen blood on his shirt, or Vanderstilt’s feet poking out from beneath a cupboard. I was nothing, a nobody. Certainly not someone who could inspire fear and concern in the heart of a knight. Especially a knight who was at the height of his power and authority, as this fellow appeared to be.
No, I was convinced the fact that I was alive now meant that he was no murderer. And if he was no murderer, he could not have killed Vanderstilt.
But he did still hold my handgun, and I wanted it back.
The house was bright with lamplight when I stood there in the darkness and considered the best way to enter.
It was a perplexing question, of course. Where was my gun? Was it in the room where I had seen him, the room converted to an armoury? Or was he carrying it on his person? Not many would bother, admittedly. The handgun was a massive piece of metalwork, and must have weighed over four pounds. It would spoil the look of most suits of clothes, and from all I had seen of Sir Edmund, he was a man who cared about his appearance. On the whole, I felt it most likely that my gun was in that same room still, with all the other weapons.
The question was, how best should I enter, and how should I escape once more, considering the number of men in the building? I had seen four at least when I was borne in, as well as Sir Edmund himself, and I was sure that there would be many more about the place. It would be a hazardous place to enter unwanted.
I stood there a long while, staring at the building, wondering what would be the best way to gain access, while farther up the lane three scruffy urchins played with hoops, knocking them along the roadway with sticks, watched by a loafer squatting idly on a box and drinking from a flask. The cobbles proved seriously disinclined to allow the hoops to go far, and the jeering and laughter gradually began to annoy me, until I suddenly had a brilliant idea.
I accosted the largest of the three. He and his confederates eyed me suspiciously as I approached, allowing their hoop to roll to a rock, where it bounced and fell to the ground, whirling around and around until it settled with a rattle.
‘Would you like to earn a penny?’ I asked.
The middle-height lad to the left stepped forward in front of the other two. This one had a face sharp as a weasel’s, and he peered at me, head tilted, like a sergeant eyeing a new recruit and not liking what he saw. ‘Why?’
‘I have a need of help.’
‘What you want ’s t’ do?’
I explained my needs, and on the payment of tuppence – an exorbitant sum, but better than the cost of replacing my pistol – I contracted the three to my task.
Soon, I was hidden in the dark outside the house, waiting. Suddenly there was a flash of light, and I saw a small column of smoke begin to rise from an empty building over the road.
Fire is one of those dangers that no man can ignore. In a city like London, in which all the properties tend to be built of oak and wattles, a small fire can easily lead to a conflagration, and all residents know that their primary duty is to go and assist those attempting to put out the flames. Thus it was tonight.
Suddenly the front door burst open, and three men darted out bearing buckets. There was a horse trough just along the lane, and the three filled their vessels with that, running to throw the water on the flames.
I did not wait to see more, but made my way swiftly to the open front door. Inside, I recognized the screens passage, and crossed to the chamber where I had seen Sir Edmund. I could hear nothing. There was not a breath of air, and the whole house was still and silent. When I put my hand to the door’s latch, it opened without difficulty, and I slipped inside.
There was no light in there, and I stood still until my eyes started to make out the shadowy outlines of weapon racks, tables and chairs. As soon as I could, I began to make my way forward to the desk where I had last seen my powder and shot and pistol. Here I patted the table, hoping that my search would soon be rewarded, but came across nothing but pieces of paper. I continued on, tapping at the desktop in my increasingly urgent search, but could find no sign of them. Frustrated, I fell into the seat behind the desk and struck something with my shoulder. Feeling for it, I found the strap of my shot wallet and powder flask. I pulled them on.
If they were here still, then surely so was my gun. I renewed my efforts, hunting all about me, until suddenly my fingers found a shelf behind me and, running my hand along it, praise the Lord, suddenly I found it.
And just as my fingers settled on it, the door opened and light from a horn lamp filled the room.
What? You expect me to say that I dropped to the floor and concealed myself? Or that I should have darted beneath the desk and hidden myself there? Or maybe I should have brazenly pointed my gun and threatened him?
I confess, each of these thoughts did occur to me later, when I was at my ease and could reflect on my situation with time on my hands. As it was, I did all that I could: I froze.
Sir Edmund appeared unsurprised to see me. His moustache was twisted up at one side as if in wry amusement, and he set his lamp on the nearest cupboard. ‘So, you are a thief as well as an accuser?’
‘I am concerned to retrieve what is mine,’ I said hotly.
‘Don’t squeak, little sewer rat. You have no one to help you here.’
Shaking rather, I grasped my pistol firmly. I think he saw, because his eyes opened a little. ‘So, you found it?’
I saw little point in responding to that, but shivered slightly as I set the dog on the wheel. If I pulled the trigger, the wheel would spin, striking sparks from the chip of stone in the dog’s teeth, and as soon as a spark hit the pan where the powder lay, it would erupt in smoke and flame, and likely give de Vere an injury he would regret. His face told me that he was aware of the danger of such devices.
He grimaced, and walked to a chair, where he continued, sitting, ‘What shall we do now, then? Your three friends in the lane told us you set fire to the building over the road and came in here as soon as the alarm was raised, so I came straight back, as you can see. Perhaps you should seek more reliable accomplices? In any case, you are here, in my house, so I am within my rights to defend myself. I think I should have you executed here. I dislike the thought that you might return here another evening. Put the gun down.’
‘Not if you’re going to kill me,’ I said, I think quite reasonably.
‘What is your name, little rat?’ he asked, I think more than a little rudely.
‘You can call me Jack Blackjack,’ I said proudly.
He shook his head, tutting a fair bit, and then called out to someone called Will. In no time at all, a scrawny, greyhound-like, miserable character appeared in the doorway. His watery grey eyes took in the scene at a glance, and then he stood staring at his master with a troubled expression on his face.
‘This fellow is Jack Blackjack, so he says. Go and get my gun from him,’ Sir Edmund said.
Will looked at me, which seemed to involve staring for quite a long period at the gun’s muzzle, before saying, ‘But he’s pointing it at us.’
‘So, take it from him,’ de Vere said with heavy patience.
Will looked at the gun again. I began to develop a liking for Will. He had his heart in the right place, and he plainly wanted to keep it there, unpunctured by a large ball fired from a weapon like mine.
‘Go, fetch!’ Sir Edmund said more sharply.
He may have looked like a hound, but Will disliked being commanded like one. ‘He’ll shoot me!’
‘Then move quickly!’
He took a step forward, his face twisted like an old man’s clenched fist. ‘Would you give it to me?’ he asked plaintively.
‘No.’
‘He won’t give it me,’ Will said to his master.
‘In God’s name!’ Sir Edmund burst out, and started towards me. I lifted the gun to aim along the barrel, and Sir Edmund subsided, scowling. ‘What will you do, you dunghill rat? I have twenty men at my beck and call, and I can have you trussed and thrown into the river in a trice!’
‘Then I might as well shoot you now,’ I said with, I think, elegant logic.
This appeared to strike Sir Edmund for the first time, with all the force of a lead hammer. ‘Me? You can’t shoot me! I’m a knight, you knave! I have the ear of the queen herself! Do you realize who you’re dealing with?’
‘No,’ I said, and I think my honesty was transparent, because suddenly Sir Edmund looked still more anxious.
I stepped forward, towards Will, who remained in my path, until I motioned with the gun for him to step aside, and then I was past him and making my way to the front door at some speed, which was fine until Sir Edmund bellowed from the doorway behind me, calling for his men. I put on a fresh burst of speed, and went through the door.
At least, I entered the doorway, and would have continued through it, had not a large figure appeared in the way. I hit him in the lower breast with my head as I hurtled through, and he retreated with a loud ‘Oof!’ of pain, to fall on his rump. I had rebounded a little, but now he was out of my way, I carried on past him, over the yard and out into the lane.
The three boys were all there, jeering and making sarcastic comments about the value of my money compared to the three pennies Sir Edmund’s men had given them, and then they were behind me.
I did not stop running until I had passed near London Bridge, and there I turned up and back towards Aldgate without thinking.
I stood outside my old house and stared at it. The hour was late, and I knew that the bridge over the river would be closed. I would be apprehended as soon as I tried to cross that way, and the wherrymen would have stopped working by now too. I could not make my way over to the Cardinal’s Hat, and instead must find somewhere else to rest my head – because I did need to sleep. The excitement of the day, the thrill of stealing back my pistol, the run all the way from the river to my old home, all had made me weary. If there was a good tavern nearby, I would have gone there to drink wine and fall into a stupor, but the ones nearer my house here in Aldgate suffered from the fact that I was moderately well known. If I were to enter any of the local hostelries, I should be recognized immediately and, from past experience, slung into the Aldgate gaol once more.
I needed to go somewhere else, and my eyes wandered over the street to Susan Appleby’s house. It stood only a matter of paces away, the building rising opposite my own. Many were the times I had woken in my bed, looked across the street at her bedchamber, and seen her carefully undress just to torment me. She really was a delightful bed mate, a lusty wench with a wayward eye and imagination to match.
It was tempting to go to her now, but if Saul, her husband, was there, I would have some explaining to do. Not about me and his wife, but about my arrest, and how I had escaped. After all, as far as anybody here knew, I was a fugitive from the law.
In the end, it was a neighing horse that brought me to my senses. I had two houses which I could not enter: neither the one here, nor my new property at St Helen’s. However, I also had outbuildings, and the rear of my house here had a small barn and hayloft. I had always maintained a good hayloft, even though my horse had been held in a stable south of the river, where stabling was cheaper. In case I brought my own beast, or a visitor appeared with a horse needing refreshment, I made sure that there was plenty of fodder available. And just now, that hay seemed enormously appealing.
I made my way to the rear yard quietly, and thence into my barn. The hayloft was reached by a ladder, and I propped it against the boards of the loft space and climbed, dragging the ladder up after me.
How long was it since I had last slept in hay? Thinking back, it must have been not since I had taken a certain miller’s daughter to have a frolic. It was she who, next morning when her father found me in her bed, denied knowing me, which was enough for her father to decide to see whether he could untwist my head from my shoulders. I only escaped with my life by the skin of my teeth – or, rather, the skin of my left cheek. In the act of fleeing, I stumbled and tripped, giving me the scar I wear to this day. But I do not regret it. How could I? I have often told new conquests that the scar was honourably won when I defended a maid from being ravished by a madman with a dagger … or a sword, sometimes, depending on my audience. Alice had been convinced easily enough that it was earned in defending two maids from a gang of roughs who sought to injure me for defending their virtue. I had, as I told her, been forced to kill two and injure three more before the remaining fellows realized their danger and ran from my justified fury. She had been most accommodatingly impressed and demonstratively grateful for my act of courage and honour, and rewarded me by losing her own virtue. That memory was enough to bring a little smirk to my lips.
I settled back in the hay. It was warm, and there was that odour of summer pastures when the scythes have gone through, which always makes a man feel randy. I would have given much for Alice to be beside me now. She had been such a willing mattress-walloper.
And that was enough to make my eyes open and frown.
She had been a good companion, yes, but more than that, she had been a very generous-hearted, kind young woman. What was the need for anyone to hurt her, let alone kill her? She did not deserve it. I was angry – yes, angry – to think that a man had taken her away. Why, for jealousy? It could not have been for her wealth. And why just now? There was a curious circularity to the facts of Vanderstilt’s disappearance and then Alice’s death. I know it has been said that bad things come in threes …
A shiver ran down my spine. It felt like icy aspic, slowly trickling, until it met the base of my spine, where it rested, leaching into my flesh.
Did death also come in threes? Would the next one be my own? Or was Vanderstilt already dead, taking the staircase to Heaven with Alice, while no doubt the moving lump of rock that had followed me to the Thames and drowned was already finding the afterlife much warmer.
That was a satisfying thought to conjure with.