Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

“I will find some way to kill Murtaugh.”

Hal persisted in his dissuasion. “But what advantage can his death gain thee?”

“It can gain me justice.”

Hal’s face curled into an ironic smile. “Justice in London town? That be like the fabled unicorn, of which everyone speaks but no one can find.”

Stout took a clay pipe, small in his massive woodworker’s hands, and packed it with aromatic weed from the Americas, which was currently very much in style. He touched a burning straw to the bowl and inhaled deeply. Soon smoke wafted to the ceiling. He slowly said to Hal, “Thy mockery is not entirely misplaced, my friend, but my simple mind tells me that justice is not altogether alien to us, even among the denizens of London. What of the plays we see? Ofttimes they abound with justice. The tragedy of Faustus... and that which we saw at the Globe a fortnight ago, inked by our friend Will Shakespeare: the story of Richard the Third. The characters therein are awash with evil — but right prevails, as Henry Tudor doth prove by slaying the ‘bloody dog.’ ”

“Exactly,” Charles whispered.

“But they be make-believe, my friends,” Hal countered. “They are of no more substance than the ink with which Kit Marlowe and Will penned those entertainments.”

Charles would not, however, be diverted. “What know thou of this Murtaugh? Hath he any interests?”

Hal answered, “Other men’s wives and other men’s money.”

“What else know thou?”

“As I said, he is a swordsman or so fancies himself. And he rides with the hounds whenever he quits London for the country. He is intoxicated with pride. One cannot flatter him too much. He strives constantly to impress members of the Court.”

“Where lives he?”

Stout and Hal remained silent, clearly troubled by their friend’s deadly intent.

“Where?” Charles persisted.

Hal sighed and waved his hand to usher away a cloud of smoke from Stout’s pipe. “That weed is most foul.”

“Faith, sir, I find it calming.”

Finally Hal turned to Charles. “Murtaugh hath but an apartment fit for a man of no station higher than journeyman and far smaller than he boasts. But it is near the Strand and the locale puts him in the regular company of men more powerful and richer than he. Thou will find it in Whitefriars, near the embankment.”

“And where doth he spend his days?”

“I know not for certain but I would speculate that, being a dog beneath the table of Court, he goes daily to the palace at Whitehall to pick through whatever sundry scraps of gossip and schemes he might find and doth so even now, when the queen is in Greenwich.”

“And therefore what route would he take on the way from his apartment to the palace?” Charles asked Stout, who through his trade knew most of the labyrinthine streets of London.

“Charles,” Stout began. “I like not what thou suggest.”

“What route?”

Reluctantly the man answered, “On horse he would follow the embankment west then south, when the river turns, to Whitehall.”

“Of the piers along that route, know thou the most deserted?” Charles inquired.

Stout said, “The one in most disuse would be Temple wharf. As the Inns of Court have grown in number and size, the area hath fewer wares houses than once it did.” He added pointedly, “It also be near to the place where prisoners are chained at water level and made to endure the tides. Perchance thou ought shackle thyself there following thy felony, Charles, and, in doing, save the Crown’s prosecutor a day’s work.”

“Dear friend,” Hal began, “I pray thee, put whatever foul plans are in thy heart aside. Thou cannot—”

But his words were stopped by the staunch gaze of their friend, who looked from one of his comrades to the other and said, “As when fire in one small house doth leap to the thatch of its neighbors and continue its rampaging journey till all the row be destroyed, so it did happen that many lives were burned to ash with the single death of my father.” Charles held his hand up, displaying the signet ring that Marr had given him yesterday. The gold caught the light from Hal’s lantern and seemed to burn with all the fury in Charles’s heart. “I cannot live without avenging the vile alchemy that converted a fine man into nothing more than this paltry piece of still metal.”

A look passed between Hal and Stout, and the larger of the two said to Charles, “Thy mind is set, that much is clear. Faith, dear friend, whatever thy decision be, we shall stand by thee.”

Hal added, “And for my part I shall look out for Margaret and thy children — if the matter come to that. They shall want for nothing if it be in my means to so provide.”

Charles embraced them then said mirthfully, “Now, gentlemen, we have the night ahead of us.”

“Wherefore shall we go?” asked Stout uneasily. “Thou art not bent on murder this evening, I warrant?”

“Nay, good friend — it shall be a week or two before I am prepared to meet the villain.” Charles fished in his purse and found coins in sufficient number for that evening’s plans. He said, “I am in the mood to take in a play and visit our friend Will Shakespeare after.”

“I am all for that, Charles,” Hal said as they stepped into the street. Then he added in a whisper, “Though if I were as dearly set on saying heigh-ho to God in person as thou seem to be, then I myself would forego amusement and scurry to a church, that I might find a priest’s rump to humbly kiss with my exceedingly penitent lips.”

The constable, whose post was along the riverbank near the Inns of Court, was much pleased with his life here. Yes, one could find apple-squires offering gaudy women to men upon the street and cutthroats and pick-purses and cheats and ruffians. But unlike bustling Cheapside, with its stores of shoddy merchandise, or the mad suburbs south of the river, his jurisdiction was populated largely with upstanding gentlemen and ladies and he would often go a day or two without hearing an alarum raised.

This morning, at nine of the clock, the squat man was sitting at a table in his office, arguing with his huge bailiff, Red James, regarding the number of heads currently resting on pikes upon London Bridge.

“It be thirty-two if it be one,” Red James muttered.

“Then ’tis one, for thou art wrong, you goose. The number be no more than twenty-five.”

“I did count them at dawn, I did, and the tally was thirty-two.” Red James lit a candle and produced a deck of cards.

“Leave the tallow be,” the constable snapped. “It cost money and must needs come out of our allowance. We shall play by the light of day.”

“Faith, sir,” Red James grumbled, “if I be a goose, as you claim, then I cannot be a cat and hence have not the skill to see in the dark.” He lit another wick.

“What good art thou, sir?” The constable bit his thumb at the bailiff and was about to rise and blow the tapers out when a young man dressed in workman’s clothing ran to the window.

“Sirs, I seek the constable at once!” he gasped.

“And thou have found him.”

“Sir, I am Henry Rawlings and I am come to raise a hue and cry! A most grievous attack is under way.”

“What be thy complaint?” The constable looked over the man and found him to be apparently intact. “Thou seem untouched by bodkin or cudgel.”

“Nay, it is not I who am hurt but another who is about to be. And most grievously, I fear. I was walking to a warehouse on the embankment not far from here. And—”

“Get on, man, important business awaits.”

“—and a gentleman pulled me aside and pointed below to Temple wharf, where we did see two men circling with swords. Then I did hear the younger of the two state his intent to kill the other, who cried out for help. Then the dueling did commence.”