Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

The Dag and Dirk was tucked away within a row of buildings on a narrow, cobbled street down by the docks, its entrance a heavy, scarred, and weathered wooden door beneath a painted hanging sign depicting a flintlock pistol and a dagger. Although it had not rained that day, the paving stones were slick and wet, partly from the river mist and partly from the waste and offal thrown out into the street. The acrid odour of the refuse mingled thickly with the briny breeze coming in off the Thames, evoking the noisome stench of rotting fish. And once inside the tavern, the smell was not much better.

“Methinks that this was ill considered, Tuck,” said Shakespeare, as he looked around apprehensively at their surroundings. “Half the men in here look as if they would gladly cut our throats for the contents of our purses, whilst the other half look as if they would simply do it for a lark.”

“‘Tis just a tavern, Will, much like any other,” Smythe replied, though he did not feel quite as certain as he sounded as he glanced around at all the patrons, most of whom were certainly a surly-looking lot. Many of the men sitting at the well-stained wooden tables over pots of ale were wherry-men, brawny and weather-beaten, grizzled men with skin like old leather. They made their living rowing small boats on the Thames, ferrying the residents of London up and down the river. With the streets often congested by all the carriages and carts and coaches, to say nothing of pedestrians and riders on horseback all vying for the right of way, travelling by river was often the fastest way to get around the city. Most likely the safest, as well, thought Smythe, given the steady increase in crime. And in this dockside tavern, there was a good chance that a fair number of alley-men and cutpurses were intermingled with the crowd, not to mention cut-throats.

The city constables were, for the most part, ineffective, since they were too few and far too mindful of their own self-preservation to do very much about the problem of rapidly increasing crime. The sheriff’s men confined themselves largely to dealing with the riots, now almost a daily occurrence in the city with all the gangs of roaring boys roaming the streets and looking for trouble. Every now and then, some malefactor would find himself-or herself-placed under arrest and thrown into one of London’s prisons, such as the Marshal-sea, the Newgate, or the Clink, and there were always fresh heads to be placed upon the spikes along the bridge. For the most part, though, crime in London went unpunished, something of which Smythe and Shakespeare were all too uncomfortably aware as they gazed around at all the grim and sullen faces that stared back at them in the dim light of the tavern.

“A tavern much like any other, eh? Methinks not,” Shakespeare said uneasily. “There is little of the Toad and Badger’s merriment in here, Tuck. I have been to wakes that were more filled with cheer. There is a grim smell of foreboding in the very air of this place.”

“‘Tis because they have not changed the rushes in at least a week,” said Smythe.

“Aye, well, that, too,” said Shakespeare, wrinkling his nose. “Be wary where you tread. Look to your purse, as well. ‘Strewth, I should be grateful if we manage to leave this infernal place in one piece.”

“If it truly makes you feel so apprehensive, Will, then let us depart forthwith,” said Smythe.

“Nay,” said Shakespeare with a sigh, “we have come this far, we may as well go on and see it through. Although, I must admit, I cannot quite comprehend why meeting this fellow seems so terribly important to you. He wrote some decent poetry, and his plays were well received once, but he is now down on his luck, by all accounts, just another poor and dissipated poet. And ‘tis not as if there is a shortage of such men in London, you know.”

“Aye, I do know. I have one for a roommate,” Smythe replied wryly.

“Watch it…

“In truth, Will, neither his plays nor his poems interest me so much as do his pamphlets about crime,” said Smythe.

“I know, I know. You have been cluttering up our room with all his cautionary scribblings. ‘Tis a most peculiar fascination.”

“I have seen you reading them, as well,” said Smythe, defensively.

“Out of simple curiosity and nothing more. They are somewhat edifying, I suppose, but hardly make compelling reading and certainly contribute nothing new to man’s understanding of his fellow man.”

“Perhaps not in the grand literary scheme of things,” said Smythe, “but they do contribute a great deal to my understanding of this criminal ‘underworld’ in London, as he calls it. I find it all quite fascinating. Consider the way they speak, as an example, their so-called ‘criminal cant.’ Why, they have a language all their own. Take the way they call their victims ‘coneys,’ as in ‘coney-catching,’ likening them to rabbits they can snare. There is much practical advice to be found in these writings, Will, particularly for one,who comes from the country, like myself, and knows little of the ways of criminals in the city.”

Shakespeare sighed again. “Well, I shall grant you that, for I have learned a thing or two from reading him myself. Nevertheless, I cannot help but feel a little sorry for him. He is a university man, once well regarded and respected, who has had his poems published and his plays produced upon the stage. We have staged a number of them ourselves, even if they were a little dated and needed a bit of sprucing up here and there. ‘Tis a pity to see him fall to such a state.”

“You mean reduced to pamphleteering?”

“Oh, not at all. I never decry good, honest work. A poet has to eat, like any other man. I meant reduced to such a state as this… He indicated their surroundings with a gesture and grimaced with distaste. ”If this be not the filthiest place in London, then I should not like to behold one filthier.“

“Soft, Will, here comes the tavern-keeper, I believe,” said

Smythe.

A large and bearded man with a girth like a dray horse approached them, wiping his hands on his greasy brown leather apron. “What will ye gentlemen be wantin‘?” he asked gruffly.

“We are looking for Master Robert Greene,” said Smythe. “We were told he maybe found here.”

“He owe ye money?”

“Nay, good sir, we have not come here to collect a debt. We are but admirers of his work,” said Smythe.

The tavern-keeper looked as if he could not have cared less. He simply jerked his head toward the back of the room. ‘That’s ’im in the corner there,“ he said. ”Stand ‘im to a drink an’ ‘e might talk to ye. An’ then again, ‘e might not. Suit yerselves.“

“Well, then bring him some more of whatever he is drinking.”

Smythe said. “And we shall have some, too.”

The tavern-keeper merely grunted and moved away, the floorboards creaking ominously with every step. They turned their attention to the object of their quest, the man seated at the table in the corner, hunched over his pot of ale, which he clutched firmly with both hands.

“Master Greener” said Smythe as they approached.

Robert Greene looked up at them slowly, as if the mere act of raising his head were a laborious task. Despite what Shakespeare had said about how Greene had fallen into dissipation, the sight of him still took Smythe aback. The man was bloated. He looked swollen, as if he were about to burst. His skin was pale and blotchy, in sharp contrast to his thick, unkempt red hair and beard. His eyes were rheumy, and it seemed to take a moment for his gaze to focus.

It took less than a moment, however, for the lean and rat-faced man who sat beside him at the table to bound to his feet and draw his dagger. “Who wants to know?” he demanded in a sneering tone.