Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

The husband and wife now made their way quickly through the dark streets — the suburbs south of the river had few dependable candle-lighters — and they concentrated carefully on where they put their feet.

The summer air was cool and Margaret wore a heavy linen gown, loose in the back and with a tight bodice. Being married, she cut her dress high enough to cover her breasts but she eschewed the felt or beaver cap customary among older wives and wore only silk ribbons and a few glass jewels in her hair. Charles wore simple breeches, blouse and leather vest.

“’Twas a delightful night,” Margaret said, holding tighter to his arm as they negotiated a crook in the narrow road. “I thank thee, my husband.”

The couple greatly enjoyed attending plays but Charles’s wine-importing company had only recently begun to show profit and the Coopers had had little money to spend on their own amusements. Until this year, indeed, they had only been able to afford the penny admission to be understanders — those crowded in the central gallery of the theater. But of late Charles’s industry was showing some rewards and tonight he had surprised his wife with threepence seats in the gallery, where they had sat upon cushions and shared nuts and an early-season pear.

A shout from behind startled them and Charles turned to see, perhaps fifteen yards away, a man in a black velvet hat and baggy, tattered doublet, dodging a rider. It seemed that the man had been so intent on crossing the street quickly that he had not noticed the horse. Perhaps it was Charles’s imagination, or a trick of the light, but it appeared to him that the pedestrian looked up, noted Charles’s gaze and turned with haste into an alleyway.

Not wishing to alarm his wife, though, Charles made no mention of the fellow and continued his conversation. “Perhaps next year we shall attend Black Friars.”

Margaret laughed. Even some peers shunned paying the sixpence admission at that theater, though the venue was small and luxurious and boasted actors of the highest skill. “Perhaps,” she said dubiously.

Charles glanced behind them once more but saw no sign of the hatted man.

As they turned the corner onto the road that would take them to the ferry, however, the very man appeared from an adjacent alleyway. He had flanked their route at a run, it seemed, and now stepped forward, breathing hard.

“I pray thee, sir, madam, a minute of thy time.”

A beggar only, Charles assumed. But they often turned dangerous if you did not come forth with coin. Charles drew a long dagger from his belt and stood between his wife and this man.

“Ah, no need for pig-sticking,” the man said, nodding at the dagger. “This pig is not himself armed.” He held up empty hands. “Not armed with a bodkin, that is to say. Only with the truth.”

He was a strange sack of a creature. Eyes sunken in his skull, jaundiced skin hanging upon his body. It was clear that some years ago a whore or loose woman had bestowed upon him the bone-ache, and the disease was about to work its final misery upon him; the doublet, which Charles had assumed to be stolen from a fatter man, undoubtedly was his own and hung loose because of recent emaciation.

“Who art thou?” Charles demanded.

“I am one of those to whom thou owe this evening’s play-going, to whom thou owe thy profession as a bestower of the grape’s nectar, to whom thou owe thy life in this fine city.” The man inhaled air that was as sulfurous and foul as always in these industrial suburbs, then spat upon the cobblestones.

“Explain thyself and why thou have been dogging me or, faith, sir, I shall levy a hue and cry for the sheriff.”

“No need for that, young Cooper.”

“Thou know me?”

“Indeed, sir. I know thee too well.” The man’s yellow eyes grew troubled. “Let me be forthright and speak no more in riddles. My name is Marr. I have lived a life of a rogue and I would have been content to die a rogue’s death. But a fortnight ago the Lord our God did appear to me in a dream and admonish me to make amends for my sins in life, lest I be denied entrance to the glorious court of Heaven. In truth, sir, I warrant that I should need two lifetimes to make such amends, when I have merely a fraction of one left, so I have but chosen the most worrisome deed I have committed and have sought out he whom I have wronged the worst.”

Charles looked over the puny man and put the dagger away. “And how hast thou wronged me?”

“As I said before, it is I — and several of my comrades, now all gone to the plague and infesting hell, I warrant — who be responsible for ending thy idyllic life in the countryside near Stratford and coming to this mischievous city so many years ago.”

“Howbeit that this is so?”

“I pray thee, sir, tell me what great tragedy befell thy life?”

Charles did not need a moment to reflect. “My loving father taken from us and our lands forfeited.”

Fifteen years ago, it was claimed by the sheriff near Stratford that Richard Cooper was caught poaching deer on the property of Lord Westcott, Baron of Habershire. When the sheriff’s bailiffs tried to arrest him he launched an arrow their way. The bailiffs gave chase and, after a struggle, stabbed and killed him. Richard Cooper was a landed gentleman with no need to poach deer and it was widely believed that the incident was a tragic misunderstanding. Still, a local court — sympathetic to the noble class — decreed that the family’s land be forfeited to Westcott, who sold it for considerable profit. The rogue would not give so much as a tuppence to Charles’s mother, who died soon after from grief. Eighteen-year-old Charles, the only child, had no choice but to walk to London to seek his fortune. He worked labor for some years, then apprenticed to the vintner’s trade, became a member of the guild and over the years turned his thoughts away from the tragedy.

Marr wiped his unpleasant mouth, revealing as few teeth as a puking babe, and said, “I knew well that this would be thy answer.” He looked about and whispered, “Faith, sir, I have intelligence about what truly happened that sad day.”

“Continue,” Charles commanded.

“Westcott was as many nobles then and now,” Marr said. “His life was lived far beyond his means and he found himself increasingly in debt.”

This was well known to anyone who read the Fleet Street pamphlets or listened to gossip in the taverns. Many of the nobles were selling off their goods and portions of their estates to meet the costs of their extravagant lifestyles.

“There came to Westcott an ignoble scoundrel named Robert Murtaugh.”

“I know the name,” Margaret said. “For reasons I cannot recall, there be an unsavory association accompanying it.”

“Faith, good lady, I warrant that is so. Murtaugh is a peer of the realm, but a lowly knight, an office he himself did purchase. He hath made an enterprise of seeking out nobles deep in debt. He then arranges various schemes whereby they come into lands or property through illicit means. He himself takes a generous percentage of their gain.”

Charles whispered in horror, “And my father was a victim of such a scheme?”

“Faith, sir, he was. It was I and those other scoundrels I made mention of who waylaid him on his own land and conveyed him, bound, to Lord Westcott’s fields. There, by prior arrangement, the sheriff’s bailiffs did arrive and kill him. A dead hart and a bow and quiver were set next to his cold body to testify, by appearance, that he had been poaching.”

“Thy father, murdered,” Margaret whispered.

“O merciful Lord in heaven,” Charles said, his eyes burning with hatred. He drew his bodkin once more and pressed the blade against Marr’s neck. The rogue moved not an inch.