A Murderous Affair, page 10
‘Then what business with Don Alphonse, pray, brings you to the lepers’ end of Lion’s Quay?’
‘Actually it’s his servant who I seek. A moor named Cassangoe.’
At this the old man snorted dismissively. ‘Ah, the luckless Cassangoe? What has he done now? Been in the general vicinity of some ill-deeds? Scared a rich old lady by looking in her direction?’ He sat back in his chair, his early playful expression morphing into one of contempt. ‘Or are you paying him that rare courtesy of a social call?’
‘He has done nothing as far as I am aware sir,’ I replied carefully, at pains to ignore the sarcasm in his words. ‘I merely wish to speak with him.’
‘Well I expect you’ll find him by his friend’s side. The faithful Cassangoe rarely ventures onto the London streets by himself. Far too dangerous – for him, that is!’
‘I am afraid not. Unfortunately Don Alphonse has met with an accident.’ Ever since the beginning of our conversation I’d been wondering whether or not to mention Don Alphonse’s death, but the change in the old man’s manner towards me seemed to trigger the information involuntarily.
‘An accident? Is he dead?’ Hercules Smyth shot these words out almost as if he had been expecting the news.
‘His body was found yesterday morning, given up by the river at Rotherhithe.’ I explained briefly how Don Alphonse had been found, without mentioning anything about strangulation. Nevertheless, the news was clearly a shock to the old man. He slumped forward on the table and all of the earlier playfulness and pride dissipated from his frail body.
‘Don Alphonse dead? I can’t believe it.’ He shook his head slowly and I noticed a lone tear running down his face into his beard. He suddenly regarded me coldly as if, as the bearer of bad tidings, I must somehow be involved.
‘And why are you here Master Lovat? What does Don Alphonse’s death have to do with you?’
‘I work for a friend of Don Alphonse’s who wants to know what happened to him.’
‘What happened to him? So he didn’t just fall in the river? Don’t try pulling the wool over my eyes Master Lovat.’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ The old man’s sudden fierceness towards me was disconcerting. I hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of an interrogation. ‘A friend you say? Don Alphonse had no friends as far as I am aware. Not amongst the English gentry, who you so clearly represent. He held them in the greatest contempt.’ His manner had now become bitter and hostile. I realised I’d lost any element of empathy and decided to cut to the chase.
‘Can you at least tell me where I might find Cassangoe?’
‘No. I haven’t seen him.’
‘Perhaps he’s at Don Alphonse’s home?’ I asked, hoping the old man would tell me where that was, but he either he refused to take the bait or genuinely didn’t know – the shake of the head he gave me was difficult to interpret.
‘Cassangoe might be in danger. Are you sure you don’t know where he would go if he was alone?’ Hercules Smyth hesitated for a moment, his eyes flitting about the room. I thought for a moment he was going to tell me something, but he evidently thought better of it.
‘Danger? From whom? I really can’t help you Master Lovat. I’m sorry I must continue with my work.’ There was nothing for it but to go. I paused in the doorway and turned back to the hermit-like figure in the corner.
‘You called this the ‘lepers’ end of Lion’s Quay’. What did you mean by that?’
‘It was an expression coined by Don Alphonse. You Englishmen want the trade us foreigners bring but you don’t want to be reminded of our success, and you certainly don’t want to associate with us. So you stick us at the end of these backwaters and pretend that we don’t exist. Now would you kindly leave.’
There was nothing for it but to leave with as much dignity as I could muster, the passionate force of his words echoing in my ears. My overriding feeling was one of having bungled the interview, despite not knowing what, if anything, I could have done differently.
* * *
The light and air outside the warehouse came as a relief, even though sleet had started to fall. I huddled inside my cloak in front of Don Alphonse’s port-house door, a feeling of frustration building up inside me. Cassangoe was nowhere to be found and I could see no means of unearthing him. I could stake out Lion’s Quay but would he return there, particularly if he were guilty? Without Cassangoe there was very little else to go on and failing to find him would hardly impress either my brother, or Walsingham.
As I again stood despondently by the river’s edge, the semblance of a vague plan forming in my head, Hercules Smyth suddenly appeared in front of his warehouse. Without looking at me, he quickly locked the door before hurrying away along the greasy boards of the quay. After a moment’s hesitation, I followed him, making sure to keep some distance between us. As I reached the passageway beyond Lion’s Quay, I momentarily lost his slight figure as he disappeared into the crowd, but after a few seconds panic, I caught a glimpse of his hood disappearing down a side alley. I ran quickly after him squeezing round carts and buffeting into disgruntled strangers.
After that brief moment of concern, shadowing Hercules Smyth was child’s play. He kept himself out of the crowds by using a variety short cuts and alleys, and it was simply a question of keeping him in sight as he wound his way up the tight passageways that led away from the river. He kept moving at a brisk pace, never once looking back.
I stalked him as he beat a path past St Dunstan’s Church and out onto Tower Street, where he turned right towards the Tower, whose turrets loomed ominously against the skyline at the end of the street. Now that we were out on a broad thoroughfare, I held back and allowed him to pull further ahead, aware that at any time he could turn round and spot me, but he continued on, seemingly oblivious to my presence. When he reached the end of the street, he turned right along Petty Wales in the direction of Crutched Friars and I lost sight of him for a few seconds. I turned the corner a few seconds later but there was no sign of him.
It was an unusual street with the houses along one side overshadowed by the foreboding wall of the castle on the other. In between ran the wide moat filled with black, reflection-less water. At the north corner of the Tower the cobbled road opened out into an empty grassless patch of scrub, known as Tower Hill, where executions regularly took place but which today was completely deserted. Hercules Smyth must have gone into one of the houses.
I walked along trying to peer discreetly into windows, until I reached the porch of a church at the end of the row. There was no sign of Hercules Smyth. Rusty signs occasionally swung jerkily as gusts of wind blew unhindered across the hill. The odd passerby scuttled across the desolate spot. There seemed nothing for it but to wait.
This plan was soon thwarted, however. A parson walked out of the church door, and began eyeing suspiciously – before telling me that there was nothing of value in the church and advising me to clear off. Choosing not to explain that I was actually an upright citizen rather than a thief intent on robbing His house, I sloped back past the tenements. It was depressing to contemplate the impression I gave of myself. I was thinking of loitering at the other end of the street but as I reached the corner two gentlemen of the watch, who had noticed my exchange with the parson, began walking towards me. Suddenly I found my nerve giving way. The last thing I needed was to end up in the Clink for a night for no good reason at all. Without glancing back, I turned into Tower Street and decided to cut my losses.
* * *
As it was close by, I decided to pay a quick call on Buck. I hadn’t seen him since the night of the procession and I was still intrigued to find out what had happened to my boots, suspecting that he and Greville had stolen them as a prank. More than that, I was looking forward to sharing my new adventure with him, and discussing what to do next.
On entering the shop, I could immediately sense there was something wrong. The only person behind the counter was one of the two apprentices, a gangly youth called Clochiard, who Buck had nicknamed ‘cloth-ears’ on account of both his name and the two crumpled-up features on either side of his head. Before I reached the stairs, he stopped me in my tracks.
‘If it’s Master Harry you’re after, you won’t find him. He’s gone.’
‘What do you mean gone?’ I assumed that he only meant to the theatre.
‘Cleared out. The boss and him had an almighty row last night and this morning he was gone. Must have done a moonlight flit.’ I stared at him amazed for a second. Despite having removed his blue cap as he spoke, in supposed deference to my rank, he voice contained a certain relish. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know anything about it? The master says the pair of you are as thick as thieves.’
My heart sinking, I turned and ran up the four flights of stairs to Buck’s garret. Instead of Buck, I found Emmalina sitting on the bed. When she saw me she stood up and threw her arms around me, before sobbing wordlessly on my shoulder. I was at a loss what to do but after a moment began to gently stroke her fine hair, which was falling down around her neck and shoulders. Gradually she stopped shaking and seemed to get a better hold of her emotions. She pulled away slightly and looked at me directly. Her pretty face was distraught.
‘What happened?’ I asked her gently.
‘Last night Father and Harry had a terrible row. It’s been brewing for a while – they have hardly said a civil word to each other in months – but this time it was somehow different.’ Her words came out in short, breathless bursts.
I knew that Buck’s moods had been darker than usual recently but I never expected that something like this would happen. Of more immediate importance, where could he have gone? I found myself grasping for rational explanations
‘Perhaps he’s gone on tour with the theatre – players are always touring around the country?’ I knew it sounded unlikely but felt I needed to offer her something. ‘He’s probably gone to Warwickshire or some other God forsaken part of the country. As soon as he gets bored he’ll be back. There’s no need to worry.’ Emmalina simply turned her solemn eyes to me and shook her head.
‘He’s left everything. If it was anything to do with the theatre, he at least would have taken his writing.’ I looked on the desk – Buck’s papers were in their usual mess. The room seemed just as we had left it two days earlier.
‘Where’s your step-father?’
‘He went to report Harry to the Constable. Harry threatened him during the argument. He’ll be back soon,’ she shuddered at the thought. ‘I’ve been staying up here to avoid that odious merchant Shuttleworth, who is coming into the shop more than ever.’
‘Do you mean that man who was here the other morning? What has he got to do with anything?’
She looked at me as though I was brainless. ‘He wants to marry me of course. And now that Harry has disappeared there’s nothing to prevent it happening. God help me.’ The thought was too much for her and she burst into another bout of sobbing. I felt a sudden urge to be protective welling up inside me.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Gather your things. You can stay with me until we work out what to do about Buck.’
Within minutes she had collected her belongings. Downstairs there was still no sign of Emmalina’s stepfather or the unwelcome merchant. Clochiard and the other apprentice watched us threateningly but they made no attempt to intervene.
Neither Emmalina nor I thought twice about the consequences of our actions as we burst out of the oppressive house and into the rain.
Chapter 10
‘The eagle suffers little birds to sing.’
(William Shakespeare; Titus Andronicus)
Three Cranes Wharf was its usual busy, bustling self. The cold weather hadn’t impacted on the river trade and the narrow wharf was awash with human river traffic, embarking or disembarking from the stairs that ran down to the river.
Emmalina and I found Matthew chatting to the bookseller, whose stall was situated outside the Tavern at the end of Three Cranes Lane, where he had a good view of the watermen dropping off and picking up their fares but was out of the main bustle of the street. In characteristically ironic style, the tavern sign showed three waterfowl cranes with plump bodies and long beaks, rather than representing the three mechanical cranes that stood on the dock for loading wine barrels, after whom the wharf was named. Today, only one of the cranes was in operation, lifting barrels from a barge and swinging them high across to the vintry warehouse. A glance at one of the barrels, as it rose over our heads, showed that the wine was imported claret from a certain T. Lurton of Bordeaux.
Matthew and the bookseller both had their hands wrapped around a cup of warm sack, and were debating how much colder it needed to get before the river froze over. The consensus seemed to be not much. I briskly introduced Emmalina and asked Matthew if he’d had any luck finding the waterman.
‘Alas no, Master John. I’ve spoken to one or two who were in the vicinity that evenin’, but none so far as have rowed the Portuguese gentleman and his companions.’
‘And this man Turney? Any news of his ship, or where it might be sailing from?’ The thought of tracking down Simon Turney had occurred to me as soon as my brother had mentioned him the night before, more through bloody-mindedness than anything else. I resented being asked to perform a task and then having my hands tied. The subsequent failure to find Cassangoe at Don Alphonse’s warehouse had made quizzing Turney an imperative, as he was, along with Marmaduke Drummond, someone that I knew for certain had been with Don Alphonse in the hours before his murder. Besides, my brother had been so obstructive that it seemed clear he was hiding something – maybe I just had a natural propensity for sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted?
‘On that score,’ Matthew said brightly, ‘I have more satisfactory news. A lighterman I spoke to tells of a ship a-harboured at Deptford captained by a Master Turney, and due to sail this very day. He says he delivered goods to that very same ship. The Lady Merrydance it was called. None others, as he knew, were so ready to slip anchor along the whole stretch of the Thames.’
‘Only one ship, I thought Turney was captain of a fleet?’
‘That’s what he told me.’
‘Deptford? That’s at least a league by river isn’t it Matthew?’
‘Nearer two I’d reckon, master.’ It was too far to expect Matthew to row and I didn’t much fancy joining him in the effort. I was on the point of suggesting we hire a boat with professional oarsmen, when the bookseller made a suggestion.
‘The best thing, young sire, would be to take a tilt-boat from Billingsgate. That’s how all these damned foreigners come and go. Their ships dock in Kent and the tilt-boats pilot them to the city. If you get there anon, you shouldn’t miss the fleet afore she sails.’
‘Well, let’s catch it then.’ I said decisively, before commanding Matthew to row us to Billingsgate with all haste. Coming to the great bridge, I only had time to glance up briefly at my lodgings as Matthew excellently propelled us through one of the arches and down the chute created by the higher water on the city side.
At Billingsgate, we left Matthew once again with instructions to continue his search for the waterman and went off in search of the tilt-boat to Deptford. I had wanted to leave Emmalina in Matthew’s charge but, ever since we had left Tower Street, she had been clinging onto my arm (even more so as we shot the bridge), as though I might abandon her at any moment.
The tilt-boat was easy to identify. It was a larger than average riverboat with eight oarsmen and an arched canvas tilt at the back to shelter the heads of wealthier travellers. As well as passengers, the boat also carried goods, livestock and even horses – a veritable Noah’s Ark, as I remarked to Emmalina on our approach.
Boarding was almost complete and we found ourselves caught up with the servants and belongings of a young, overweight German merchant, who was standing to one side and commanding the people around him in an arrogant tone. The man seemed to have every accoutrement bedecked about his person as befitted a gentleman, including an assortment of furs and a broad brimmed hat with feathers sticking out of it. I pointed him out to Emmalina, who laughed spontaneously at the spectacle. It was the first time I had seen the semblance of a smile since Buck had disappeared and her whole face lit up. She noticed me observing her and gave me an anxious look, as though her happiness somehow displayed a disloyalty to Buck.
We forced our way through the German’s impedimenta and onto the boat, finding space on a bench towards the stern, close to the oarsmen and just in front of the area covered by the canvas. Intermittent sleet was still falling, and I glanced enviously at those who had managed to secure seats beneath the tilt. A kindly gentlewoman, sitting behind us, leant forward and asked if my ‘sister’ would like a covered seat. Emmalina looked at me uncertainly but I bade her take refuge, which she did, leaving me wishing that my smart outfit had come with a hat.
The over-dressed German had finally secured his belongings and was casting his small, piggy-like eyes around for somewhere to sit. He hadn’t managed to find a place for everything and was holding in his hands a metal birdcage. Inside was a large, colourful bird, which was also looking about with an indignant expression. Only too late I realised that I’d invitingly left open the space that Emmalina had vacated, and before I could rectify matters the German was squeezing his well-fed arse into the gap, the bird giving an offended squawk as he slumped down heavily on the bench. I shifted awkwardly as feathers and furs invaded my already cramped position. Before I’d had a chance to compose myself, he turned to me and started speaking.
‘I shall miss your beautiful city.’ This remark came out as a sigh, and was accompanied with a wink. His accent was thick, and his breath smelled like sour damsons.
‘Really?’ I grunted, trying to suppress a sneeze brought on by having a pheasant feather stuck up my nose. I don’t think I could have been less communicative but it made no difference.
