A Murderous Affair, page 15
Matthew and I had slipped outside when we hoped that most Londoners would be asleep, and shimmied down a long narrow ladder onto one of the thick stone biers that held the arches of the bridge. We boarded the rowing boat Matthew had secured there earlier and, using the current, cast off into the centre of the wide estuary. We skirted sleeping ships as quietly as possible, and after a few minutes located the shape of Don Alphonse’s warehouse, thrust out into the river at the end of Lion’s Quay.
I had surmised that the stubby chimney on the end of the warehouse was likely to be its defensive weak point, and so it proved. It was a crude, wrought iron flue, about two feet high, with a coarse, turret-like motif around it’s top. Taking a wrench, brought expressly for the purpose, I wedged it under the base and began to coerce the vent away from its fixings. It was only loosely bolted on and, despite an alarmingly loud squeal as the metal twisted, it swung free with a sharp crack, leaving a hole a little larger than a man’s head. I glanced up the wharf but there was no sign of movement – no indignant guard running, no alarms. Exhaling a large amount of pent up breath, I looked down at Matthew, who gave me a big toothy grin and jerked his thumbs upwards in encouragement.
Peering down through the hole, all was blackness, although I didn’t dare light a taper until I was safely inside. I knew from my wild childhood that if a man could get his head through a hole, the rest of him would surely follow but this looked a challenge. Deciding I didn’t need the extra encumbrance of either my sword or dagger, or the belts that held them, I slipped them off quietly and lowered them down softly to Matthew – dropping them carefully into his outstretched arms. All I was left with was a leather sack bag, brought to collect any booty.
I slid my head and one arm through the small gap, gripping onto a beam on the underside of the roof and pulling the rest of my body through behind. It was a difficult manoeuvre, and took a certain amount of wriggling to execute, but the upshot was that I was soon hanging from the ceiling and then, after a moment’s pause, dropping into the unknown.
I landed awkwardly on the hard floor and clattered into some unstable objects, one of them clattering onto the floor beside me, making enough noise to wake the river Gods. Cursing, I hauled myself to my knees and, after a good deal of nervous fumbling, lit a taper. As the flame fired up, I saw that initially I had careered into a pile of boxes stacked against the wall. The top one had given way and fallen down beside me.
Don Alphonse’s warehouse was a lot tidier, and spoke of much greater wealth, than Hercules Smyth’s neighbouring skins and wine shack. As well as the row of boxes, there were a large number of sacks, stacked in piles all around the room. Why couldn’t I have landed on one of them, I reflected ruefully, rubbing a sore ankle? A swift search of one revealed an abundance of long dried brown leaves, which, from the smell, I recognised as tobacco. In another, I found a sour-smelling dried red spice that I couldn’t instantly place and, in another still, a podded seed, which this time I recognised from its distinct aroma as aniseed. Judging by the number of sacks, there was a small fortune sitting in the warehouse. There were also a dozen boxes stacked together, including the one I had knocked over, which were stamped with symbols that I didn’t recognise. I tried to open one but it was nailed shut. Lifting it back into its position, all I could tell was that, whatever it contained, it was heavy.
Standing along one wall was a solid oak desk, with deep drawers on either side of a clerk’s stool, and a tall back housing a dozen square compartments. I started with a ledger, which lay invitingly open on the desk’s surface. It turned out to be an up-to-date record of Don Alphonse’s business transactions, with dates, cargos and ship’s names all clearly marked in neat black ink. I could detect at least two different hands. The last entry was dated as November 9th 1588, three weeks before the procession to St Paul’s, and documented the arrival of a ship called the Gabryell at Lion’s Quay. Next to the entry were scrawled the letters: v, s, a, and t. There were no large cargo ships in the harbour and I wondered where the Gabryell was now – perhaps sailing on a new assignment. The beginning of the ledger showed that it had been started in July 1586 and a further search in one of the drawers revealed a pile of similarly bound ledgers dating back over more than ten years. I took the latest one from the desk, deciding that the last two years should be enough information about Don Alphonse’s activities, and put it in the bag.
I rummaged through the small drawers of the upper part of the cabinet. They mostly contained quills, inks and other stationery items. There were a few bills of sale, letters and other papers but little that I could see of interest. Nevertheless, I took a few things to peruse later.
The lower drawers contained even less of interest. String for tying sacks, bits of broken equipment, pairs of old shoes. I was about to close the second one, when it occurred to me that it was somewhat shallower than its twin on the other side. I pulled out all of the detritus it contained and examined the surface of the bottom. It appeared to be solid but tapping it gave a hollow sound. I took a quill from the desk and tried sliding it down the sides. To my satisfaction, it suddenly slipped down beside the wooden surface and the whole bottom came loose. I lifted out a thin wooden partition to reveal a hidden compartment.
The object was a velvet pouch, tied with string. I pulled it out, brushing the dust away from the soft velvet, and untied the string to find a compact leather-bound book. It was in a very poor condition, and I picked it up gingerly, being careful that it didn’t disintegrate in my hands. The dark red leather had faded badly and on the front, embossed in gold, were the simple letters R de. S. and the date 1567. I opened it carefully. Its edges were worn, and pages dry and fragile. In the flickering light, I squinted at the entry of the first page:
O diário de bordo da caravela portuguesa Santo Francisco, escrito pelo seu capitão D. Rodrigo de Souza em Abril de 1567. Que Deus abençoe a nossa viagem e nos traga salvos para casa.
Gently turning the pages, I saw entries at different dates suggesting some sort of log. On later pages, the neatness of the dates seemed to be abandoned giving way to densely packed pages of writing. I carefully put it back in its velvet case and, after hesitating for a moment, slipped it into the bag around my shoulder.
No sooner had I done so, there was an urgent rapping on the wall of the warehouse – Matthew’s warning that danger was imminent. I hurriedly replaced the false bottom and put the rest of the implements back in the drawer, straining my ears to see if I could hear anything. After a brief pause, there came the sound of oars splashing, followed a few moments later by the banging of wood, as a boat came alongside the dock. Someone scrambled onto the jetty. I blew out the candle. Standing stock-still in the darkness, I held my breath.
Footsteps sounded on the pier, stopping directly outside the warehouse. A thin stretch of light flickered under the door. The padlock chain rattled as someone took hold of it, and then a voice said distinctly: ‘break it.’
As quickly and quietly as I could, I tied the bag to my ankle, then climbed onto the boxes and stretched upwards, blood pounding in my ears. I was just able to grasp a beam and pull myself up by my fingertips. For a second, I swung wildly in space, the bag jolting clumsily about below me, but then I managed to reach an arm through the hole. I got my head in the space and desperately wriggled my way upward. For a terrifying instant, I thought I would be stuck in the hole, legs hanging downwards as the strangers broke the chain and entered, but my technique proved effective, though inelegant. After what seemed an age, and driven solely by adrenalin and fear, I finally got the bulk of my body free. Just as I pulled my legs through, I heard the sound of a large crack. As the door opened, I hauled the bag through the gap. There wasn’t time to replace the chimneystack. I froze in a crouching position, thinking it was impossible that whoever was there couldn’t hear the thumping noise my heart was making.
A flare lit up the hole. On the wall I could see shadows dancing and melting together as bodies moved.
‘Take everything you can, the more we’ve got to incriminate him, the better.’ Midlands accent, blunt and to the point. Even in a low growl, the voice contained distinct power. ‘Be sharp about it. We don’t want to excite any drunken constables.’
Two other men wasted no time in obeying him and started loading the boat. From my vantage point, I could see the pile of sacks growing as they were thrown in. The men themselves remained in shadow. There was no sign of Matthew – after warning me, he had slipped out of sight.
The man giving the orders walked casually into my line of vision below the hole. He stood directly beneath me, a broad-brimmed hat hiding his features. Taking a knife from his belt, he began calmly scraping his nails, all the while oblivious to my presence.
Thoughts of who they could be ran through my head. My immediate assumption was that they knew Don Alphonse was dead, but were they responsible for that too? Could I have stumbled upon the murderers by chance? If only I could identify them. I willed the man to glance up so I could at least catch a glimpse of his features but his gaze remained steadfastly low. All I could tell was that he was tall and broad shouldered. He paced slowly away to the other side of the warehouse and out of my line of vision.
The heap of sacks in the boat indicated that the warehouse must be nearly empty – it looked as though I was going to miss my chance. I strained forward to get my face level with the hole from the chimney and tried to peer, at an angle, through the gap. The man was sat at Don Alphonse’s desk with his back to me, idly opening and closing drawers – just as I had done a few minutes earlier. I silently implored him to turn round and shifted my position slightly. As I did, I felt my shoulder push against something that gave way – the iron flue I had wrenched free and which had been perched precariously on the slope of the roof.
For a teasing moment, it rocked easily back and forth, and then I watched in horror as it rolled heavily down the roof and disappeared over the wooden gutter.
Chapter 14
‘Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil.’
(Aristotle)
A boom like a drum sounded as the chimney bounced off the jetty, followed by a loud splash as it barrelled into the water beyond. One of the men swore loudly – the chimney must have almost hit him – but then came a moment of icy silence. I drew my head back from the hole, cursing my stupidity and preparing myself for escape.
Where the hell was Matthew – with both my sword and dagger? I looked around but there was no sign of him. I looked back through the hole, and there, perfectly framed, was the face of the man I had been desperate to see – short-cropped hair, hard features, eyes like a hawk’s – that was all I could grasp in the shock of seeing him, but I would never forget that face – as scary as a woodkern’s.
He pointed upwards and barked: ‘the roof!’
I sprang from my crouching position and ran recklessly to the end of the warehouse, where the wide river was becoming clear in the first flecks of daylight. My only hope was that Matthew was waiting, but my fears were realised when all I saw was an expanse of empty river. In my haste, I almost pitched straight into the gilded, black water. Matthew and the boat were nowhere in sight.
I quickly recalculated. My only other hope was to get to the city gate of Lion’s Quay and out into the maze of streets around the docks. The men had a boat full of booty and it was unlikely they would pursue me. I turned and began to run along the central arc of the roof. It was angled and damp and I slipped two or three times as I ran. I also had to negotiate the chimneys of each warehouse as I passed them. Down on the dock below I could see one of the lackeys. He strode along the dock, matching my progress on the roof. Without any of the obstacles I was forced to negotiate, he kept up with me easily. There was no chance I would beat him to the gate.
I looked back to be confronted by the other lackey about fifty yards away on the roof behind me. To the left was water, to my right the man on the dock, behind me the other man. My only hope of an escape route had already been headed off. It dawned on me that I was going to have to fight my way out of the problem.
I stopped running and stood by a one of the metal chimneys. I was about half way along the length of the dock. My best chance of success was to engage them one at a time. The man on the roof behind me slowed when he saw me stop and then began closing in purposefully. As he did so, I saw the third man, the leader, on the dock below, carrying a pair of lit torches – one in each hand. He joined the man who had stopped a few feet ahead of me on the dock and was watching me expectantly. Both of their manners suggested an enjoyment of the chase. The leader started barking orders in his rough accent.
‘Ger’up there, Grayson.’ He wedged the torches in the dock and started to give the younger man a leg up. ‘Let’s see if we can’t persuade our young friend to come down and exchange some pleasantries.’
Grayson heaved himself onto the roof below me. He was about twenty-five and was clearly employed for his muscular qualities. A mop of blond hair clouded a face whose eyes were clearly too small for it. He stood up with a slight wobble and then grinned at me disarmingly, inching up the roof at an angle designed to trap me in a pincer movement.
The man behind me on the roof was also becoming clearer. He was a good deal older than Grayson, and a good deal uglier. He had a stubbly shaven-head, with a livid scar running down the left side of his face. As he got closer, I noticed with a primeval sense of dread, that the scar was only broken by a milky-white eye, which glinted when caught in the torchlight. If Grayson was on the team for his muscles, the man with scar had been chosen for his outright nastiness. He stopped one chimney away and also tried a grin, revealing a disconcerting lack of teeth.
As I contemplated my next move, Montaigne’s thoughts on confrontation suddenly flashed through my brain. Should I show weakness and appeal to my assailant’s mercy, or fight my way out of trouble and thereby win their respect? Judging by the look of intent on the men’s faces, the latter seemed to be the only option.
Grayson was no doubt strong but his bulk suggested he was out of shape, and he was also clumsy. A couple of times he slipped onto his knees as he moved up the roof. Each time his grin became wider but the look in his piggy-sized eyes suggested that he wasn’t too comfortable. Scarface, on the other hand, appeared more than satisfied with his lot and was simply gathering his wits for the next phase – delivering me up for the ‘exchange of pleasantries’. I decided Grayson was the weak link.
I knelt behind the chimney and slipped out of my bag the iron wrench that I had used earlier for breaking and entering. It felt leaden in the palm of my hand and I wondered if I had the strength and dexterity for what I intended. Grayson was coming at the chimney from an angle, up the slope. He was about four feet away. Scarface began closing in. I waited my chance.
I knew that when Grayson was close enough he would reach out for the chimney to steady himself. That would be my chance, but he had to get there before Scarface got too close. I pretended to back off, encouraging Grayson on, but as his arm shot forward, I swung my arm in an arc, only at the last second revealing the bar, which smacked resoundingly into the side of his head. He yelped with pain, lost his grip, and fell heavily onto the roof. I made to sprint past him but before I had barely made a yard, Scarface leapt forward and grabbed my ankle. I fell awkwardly away from the dock towards the oily river behind the warehouses, the bar falling from my hand and skittering ahead of me into the water. Scarface held his grip as we both rolled towards the precipice. I could hear Grayson crying out in pain on the other side of the roof and his boss exhorting him to get up and back into the fray, but the connection I had made was going to make that extremely unlikely.
I managed to grab the edge of the roof and with my free leg launched a kick at Scarface’s hand that was still clutching my leg like a clam. He let go of his grip with a sharp scowl, but the extra weight of my newly free leg just served to launch me bodily towards the water. Suddenly, I was hanging on by my elbows – the water waiting to envelop me below. Scarface found his balance and stood towering above me, ruefully rubbing his knuckles. It didn’t look like forgiveness was at the top of his agenda. I could see that the man was an old hand and twice as strong as me. He would simply pull me back up the roof and throw me over the other side, where the best I could hope for was a good kicking from all three of them – perhaps something a lot worse.
The dead white eye regarded me impassively. The grin widened. Huge hands reached down to grab me – inches away from the shoulders of my doublet. There was nothing for it – I let go.
As I hit the water, I thought I heard the words ‘Master John’. It must have been wishful thinking – a last illusion for someone about to die a watery death. Freezing water wrapped itself around me and I began to thrash my arms around wildly, my heavy bag and boots pulling me down. Swimming had never been my strong suit, and Anne had always made fun of me on that score. Childhood summers – were they to be my last thought? Clay-filled water started choking my throat.
The next thing I knew a wooden bar was under my arm. I thought I had caught the edge of the harbour. But no – the bar was smoothly rounded and moving upwards and lifting me out of the water. I gasped for breath as I broke the surface and saw Matthew’s determined face on the end of an oar. He scrambled me into the rowing boat, and with barely a thought we both started rowing for our lives. Scarface shouted and pointed and I knew the leader would be running back along the dock, but Matthew steered us away from the end of Lion’s Quay and we struck out into the middle of the river – relentlessly pumping our oars, barely looking up, knowing that we had only one chance. It took us ten minutes of hard slog and we didn’t let up until we reached the middle of the river.
