D. Wilson - The First Horseman

Ben Walling spoke up. ‘We did all hear a noise.’

‘So we did,’ I recalled. ‘That must have been what Fennel called a bolt from hell.’

‘Describe this noise,’ Kernish demanded.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘it was a sort of explosion. It echoed along the street.’

‘So it could have been a gunshot?’

‘I suppose so,’ I replied lamely.

‘That would mean there’s an assassin loose on the streets of London,’ the apprentice muttered.

Kernish re-established command of the meeting. ‘We must not jump to conclusions. We have ascertained that the victim was shot and the witnesses I have so far seen agree that a stranger pointed at him. Was it a gun that he pointed?’

Both the apprentice and I shook our heads firmly. ‘No,’ I said, ‘it takes two hands to fire an arquebus. Someone would have noticed. The murderer could never have discharged his weapon and got clean away without being challenged.’

‘He’d have been a fool to try,’ young Walling added. ‘My friend Bart and I would have been after him straightway. We’d have made him wish he’d never set foot in Cheapside.’

‘So what became of this stranger?’ Kernish asked.

Walling thought carefully. ‘When Master Packington fell we all moved forward to see what was amiss… whether he needed any help.’ He frowned. ‘The killer must have made his getaway while we were distracted.’

‘Fennel swears he saw the man run off down Bucklersbury,’ I said, ‘but what store we can set by his testimony…’

Drudgeon removed his apron and smoothed down the sleeves of his doublet. ‘Well, Master Kernish, that is a problem I must leave with you. I have patients to see and I’ve not yet broken my fast. With your leave, I’ll sign my statement and be on my way. My condolences, Thomas. I know how close you were to Robert.’

While the physician was bent over the table, I drew Walling to one side. ‘I’d be obliged if you and your friend could stay for a while. Go to the kitchen and tell my cook to draw you off some ale and find you some bread and cheese. There are a couple of things I’d like to go over with you in private.’

Kernish devoted another half-hour to questioning the witnesses. Then he made a cursory examination of Robert’s body. Drudgeon had closed up his incision in the chest and replaced the clothing so that the only visible evidence of the crime was the caked blood on the shirt and doublet. The corpse could tell us nothing that Drudgeon had not already deduced. Strange and appalling as his findings were, there was no escaping the fact that someone had slain my friend with a gun at close range and then made his escape in the darkness and mist.

The lawyer departed to view the scene of the murder and ordered us all to accompany him. I went down to the kitchen where I found the two apprentices doing justice to a hearty breakfast. I informed them of the coroner’s instructions and we left together to make the short return journey to the Great Conduit. As we walked I probed further what the young men had seen or, more specifically, heard.

‘Ben, you said the assassin called out, “Who’s there?”’

‘Yes, something like that.’

‘Definitely not words in a foreign language?’

‘No, he had an accent but his meaning was plain enough. Well, it must have been or Master Packington would not have replied.’

‘Now that is what puzzles me. Are you absolutely sure that he called out “Thomas”?’

It was Bart who replied. ‘Oh, yes. That was quite clear.’ Ben Walling’s friend, tall and pinch-featured, had about him an air of studious seriousness that made it difficult to doubt what he said.

‘Was it a statement or a question?’ I asked.

Ben looked at me with a bewildered frown. ‘I don’t take your meaning.’

‘Well,’ I explained, ‘did his inflection suggest that he was saying, “Yes, I’m Thomas” or “Thomas, is that you”?’

‘I don’t recall… What happened next… Well, we all saw…’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, does it matter?’

‘It matters a great deal to me.’

We had arrived at the conduit house where a crowd had gathered. News of the tragedy had spread rapidly, as it always does in the City, and a solemn mood had descended on the thoroughfare and its market stalls. Shopkeepers, customers and passers-by had gathered and now watched as Kernish cleared a space and arranged his witnesses within it in the places we had occupied at the time of the incident. With his pernickety thoroughness he took each of us again through our recollections of the murder. At last he released us with strict instructions to present ourselves in the Mercers’ Hall seven days hence for the formal inquest before a jury.

As we dispersed, Ben Walling clasped my hand. ‘I’m truly sorry about your friend. This was a monstrous business.’

‘Aye, and the murderer will be well away by now,’ Bart added. ‘I doubt Master Kernish will ever find the truth of it.’

‘ He may not but I will track the hellhound down and avenge Robert’s death.’ For the first time I gave expression to the passionate determination that had been forming in my mind.

‘How?’ Ben asked.

‘For a start by asking some different questions — questions the coroner did not ask.’

The apprentices exchanged puzzled glances.

‘Think about it,’ I urged. ‘Was this a random killing or was it planned?’

‘It must have been planned,’ Bart said. ‘The assassin was lying in wait for his victim.’

‘I’m sure you are right. But who was his intended victim? Can you spare me a few more minutes?’

‘Oh, aye,’ Bart answered. ‘We’ve time enough. We’ve been suspended by our craft masters.’

For the first time that day I laughed. ‘Oh, I see, caught in a drunken brawl, were you?’

Bart scowled. ‘It was conspiracy. Business is bad and the freemen look for any excuse to wriggle out of their duties to their apprentices. I was accused of involvement in an affray and Ben’s master says he tried to seduce his daughter.’ He giggled. ‘If you could see the girl in question! Even Ben is not that desperate.’

‘Come with me, then, and I’ll tell you what puzzles me.’ I led the way back along Cheap. After a few yards we turned into the narrow entrance to Sopers Lane. Though the sun was now up, daylight still struggled with the gloom between the tall houses. We crossed the intersection with Needlers’ Lane and stopped after a few more paces. I pointed across the street to a building with a hanging sign bearing the symbol of a man’s leg.

‘That is — or was — Robert Packington’s house,’ I said. ‘Now, if you were an assassin come to shoot him, where would you choose to do it?’

It was Ben who came back promptly with an answer. ‘Probably on the corner along there. You have a good view of the house and can make your escape past St Pancrate’s or run on down here to Budge Row.’

I nodded. ‘I agree, so why did our man take his stand in Cheap, where there were other people around?’

Ben ran a hand through his fair hair. ‘Perhaps he did not know where Master Packington lived.’

‘Or perhaps he did not know Master Packington by sight,’ Bart said quietly. ‘He had to position himself close to the Mercers’ Chapel where he knew his victim was headed and get him to identify himself by calling his name.’

‘But that’s just it!’ I exclaimed. ‘If what you say is right, Robert did not identify himself. He called out, “Thomas.”’

The young men looked at each other, then at me. Bart said, ‘You don’t really think…’

‘I was also making my way to the Mercers’ Chapel,’ I said. ‘Are you absolutely sure you heard a’right?’

Ben nodded. ‘But there are lots of Thomases in London. Is there anyone who would want to murder you?’