P. Chisholm: A Murder of Crows

Dodd grinned, knowing his teeth would show in the paltry moonlight.

“Well, Sergeant?” came Pickering’s voice, steady in the greys and blues.

Dodd told him everything he knew, had worked out, and thought he knew. At the end of it, Pickering was silent for two beats of Dodd’s heart, and then he chuckled. Dodd nearly chuckled back because there was nothing more satisfying when you were on a raid than to know there was an ambush and where it was.

“I got some news for you too, Sar’nt. The prisoners ain’t in Chelsea, nor the marshes,” Pickering said., “And they ain’t at the Tower neither. They come off their boats at the Bridge. My bet is Southwark or the Bridewell.”

“Ay,” said Dodd, rubbing his chin. “But which?”

“We’ll know in a minute or two, I’ve got young Gabriel watching the Southwark house for me. One of Topcliffe’s places, but outside the City so ‘e can play ‘is games.”

“Can Ah go and tell my lady Hunsdon’s men whit’s in the wind,” said Dodd.

“Eh? Lady Hunsdon?”

“Ay, there’s two boatloads of Cornish pirates that brought me here.”

Dodd saw Pickering’s eyes glint with mischief. “Well well, who’d ha’ thought it. I know my Lord Hunsdon left Somerset House this evening heading up the Oxford road at the clappers.”

Dodd almost smiled back. Careys on the move, eh? Ay well, the Dodd headman was on the move too. He nodded and went down the steps to where the gig was tied up with a large Cornishman standing on the boatlanding looking nervous. Dodd saw Enys still sitting in the boat, waiting patiently, his tense face giving back moonlight. Dodd beckoned Enys to him and the man climbed out of the boat and came over. Dodd clapped him on the shoulder.

“There’s a change of plan, Mr. Enys,” he said. “We’re gaunae…” Then he punched the man as hard as he could in the gut, caught his shoulders, steadied him and put his knee into Enys’s groin. It was very satisfying and the man went down with little more than a whine. Ted Gunn was staring at him. He listened while Dodd carefully explained what was going on as southern as he could, and then climbed out of the boat, tied Enys’s arms behind him, and stuffed a bit of rope in his mouth. He and another Cornishman lifted him into the gig and laid him down along the length of it. Then Gunn raised his arm and whistled like a curlew across the water. Dodd could hear the rhythm of the oars as the gig came in to the boatlanding. He explained again to Mr. Trevasker who also grinned happily. Then he tensed and one of his men raised a crossbow.

Dodd spun on his heel to see Pickering with a couple of ugly mugs and a remarkably handsome young blond man beside him. “Gabriel ‘ere says it’s the Southwark house, but the Bridge is guarded,” explained the King, “Not seriously, just someone watching. ‘E also saw your boats climbing the Bridge rapids and the watermen says it was well-done but you was lucky not to die, and one of them lost ten shillings on it.”

“Ay,” agreed Dodd. “Will yer man lead us across the flow tae Southwark?”

“Course ‘e will.”

“Are there horses at the house?”

The blond man nodded. “Three of them for dispatch riders to Dover,” he said in a deep voice.

“And where are the women?”

“Cellars of course,” said Gabriel. “We ‘eard ‘em crying, couldn’t see them.”

“Crying?” asked Dodd, his blood chilling.

“Yer, screaming one of them was, like she was being tortured.” The young man’s face didn’t change when he said it. “Or flogged,” he added thoughtfully, “she was a bit breathless.”

Dodd set his jaw. “Mr. Pickering, what would you suggest?”

Pickering sucked his teeth. “Gabriel tells me the house is locked up tight, no open winders, no outhouses to climb on. Front door’s locked, o’course. There’s a courtyard onto Upper Ground wiv men in it and dogs and one of the horses is there ready to take a message.”

It was a pity Heneage wasn’t sloppy nor completely stupid. No doubt the house in the marshes was mined and the house in Chelsea well-defended. Southwark would have the fewest men, but there’d be enough to defend against a sneak attack or a frontal assault just in case. Well then, what you needed was distraction.

Dodd squatted down with Pickering, Gabriel, Mr. Trevasker, and Ted Gunn and laid out what he thought would make a good plan. At the end of it there was a moment of shocked silence.

“Well, Sar’nt,” said Pickering eventually, “You can go back to Newcastle…”

“Carlisle,” Dodd corrected automatically.

“…the north, but I’ve got to live in London. This is my manor, you might say. And I’ve never done anyfink like that.”

“Ay, and anither man has put a brave upon ye. If ye dinna hit him back wi’ more and worse, ye’ll no’ be a headman for long,” said Dodd with finality. “But if ye can think of another way intae a house that’s defended and has hostages of yourn, I’ll be glad to hear of it and take the news back tae the north country.”

More silence. Finally Dodd recognised Gabriel’s gruff voice. “’e’s right, master,” it said, “and that ‘ouse is in a garden and right on the river.”

There was the sound of teeth being sucked. “All right,” said Pickering, “But we do it my way. We’ve got a bit of time to spare.”

Ted Gunn was delighted with his part in the business and kept quietly snickering to himself.

Pickering, Gabriel, and a couple of his upright men climbed into the gigs and the waterman who had piloted them through the bridge went with Ted Gunn to direct the them going upstream against the difficult flow of the Thames without being sucked into any of the whirlpools or grounded on a sandbank. Both gigs were low in the water, but one crossed the current to the South Bank while the other with Ted Gunn and the still sleeping Enys in it continued upstream towards Chelsea.

The boat kissed the boatlanding a little upstream of Heneage’s house so Pickering, Dodd, Gabriel, Briscoe, and a couple of upright men that had fought in the Netherlands could get out. The boat carried on softly to the steps that led up to the garden of the house. There would be a wall and an iron grill, of course, but the Cornish had brought crowbars. It was at least an hour after midnight, maybe two, and Southwark was asleep, although the bakers would probably be stirring in an hour or so to light their ovens. There were lights from some of the bawdy houses to be sure, but Gabriel popped his head in one of them and spoke to the Madam who came out to curtsey to Pickering. The Bishop of Winchester may have been her landlord, if what Carey said was right, but Pickering was her real lord. She listened to what he had to say and then nodded, went indoors and started shouting at the girls. A little later all of them who weren’t with clients came slinking out in their striped petticoats and elaborate hats and dangerously lowcut bodices. There was one striking redhead there with a cheeky grin and perfect white rounded tits that Dodd remembered from somewhere other. He had to swallow hard and pull his eyes away. He had always liked red-heads and the fact that the girl had a couple of freckles low down only made her more interesting…

Pickering elbowed him in the ribs. “If this lot works, Sar’nt, you only ‘ave to say the word and she’s yours.”

Dodd coughed. “Ay, but Ah’m a married man.”

“So what?”

“Ah, ma wife’s got some…eh…powerful relatives.”

“Oh. Well, never mind, they probably don’t come to London.”

That was true enough to be quite tempting. Dodd thought about it for a moment and then decided he’d better concentrate. The girls went with them as they quietly walked towards Heneage’s house, led by Gabriel. It was indeed closed-the door locked, the windows shuttered tight. At the back was a walled courtyard but there was nobody visibly keeping a watch. From the house came a series of howls and screams which then bubbled away.