The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

Chaloner considered her theory. It was only five years since Cromwell had died, and Hay would not be the only man yearning for a return of the Commonwealth. The government was its own worst enemy in that respect, because there was little in that debauched, quarrelsome, ambitious rabble that inspired confidence, and rumours of wild drinking, gambling and womanizing were rife. London objected to subsidizing its vices with taxes, and Hay might well have decided to take matters into his own hands. Dispatching suspected infiltrators would be an obvious precaution to take, because Hay and his co-conspirators would face certain execution if their plot was exposed.

‘Will you look into the matter?’ asked Hannah when Chaloner did not reply. ‘Please?’

Chaloner thought about it. Any threat to the government was a threat to its Lord Chancellor, so he, as the Lord Chancellor’s spy, was duty-bound to investigate. Unfortunately, he suspected that Browne’s intentions had not been as honourable as his wife believed. He knew for a fact that Browne had harboured anti-government sympathies, because he had confided them once during a drunken dinner at sea. Hence Browne might have been murdered because he was a rebel, not because he was attempting to unmask traitors, and if Chaloner did investigate, he might expose that fact. He was sure Hannah would not appreciate having that aspect of her husband’s character revealed and made public.

‘You owe John a favour,’ pressed Hannah when he still remained silent. ‘A debt of honour. I am asking you to repay that debt and find out who really killed him. I appreciate it is likely to be dangerous, given that you will be probing into the affairs of would-be dissidents and they will do all they can to keep their necks from the noose, but you must try.’

‘Why did you wait so long before writing to me?’ asked Chaloner, keeping his concerns about Browne to himself. ‘Your husband died in April, and it is now June. Trails will have gone cold, witnesses been bribed or silenced, and evidence destroyed. It would have been easier to explore the matter immediately.’

‘Because I had suspicions but no proof,’ explained Hannah. ‘But all that changed yesterday. John’s meeting with Hay was arranged by his friend Captain York – another man eager to expose treachery. York went to sea within days of John’s death, but he is home now. He does not think Walduck is the killer, either, and he has questions about the speed of Walduck’s trial and execution.’

‘I will need to talk to him.’

Hannah smiled for the first time. ‘You will help me, then? Thank you! York is waiting nearby, in the grounds of Bermondsey House.’

Hannah led the way through the crowded streets, travelling south. Behind them the noonday sun glinted on the river, which was sluggish and depleted by the drought upstream. Some of the houses they passed had gardens, but most were ramshackle affairs that arched across the narrow streets above their heads, so only a narrow ribbon of blue sky was visible between them. Prostitutes made lewd offers in loud, brash voices, and sailors roamed in drunken bands. Chaloner wondered whether any were from Rosebush , which was still waiting for a replacement captain to be appointed. Rumour had it that no one wanted the post – her crew was notoriously mutinous, and it was common knowledge that only hard, bullying men like Browne would be able to master them.

In a surprisingly short period of time, Hannah and Chaloner had left the houses behind and were walking along a hedge-fringed lane that boasted rolling fields to either side. The air was sweet and clean, and a soft breeze whispered through the ripening crops.

‘Bermondsey House,’ said Hannah, stopping outside a dilapidated metal gate. Her voice trembled slightly. ‘The place where John was attacked.’

At the end of an unkempt drive was a Tudor mansion that Chaloner knew had once been visited by monarchs. It was an elegant array of stocky chimneys, patterned brickwork and tiny gables, but it screamed of neglect and decay. Saplings sprouted from its roof, ivy climbed its walls and the whole edifice exuded the impression that it might give up the ghost and collapse at any moment.

Hannah opened the gate and led the way along the path that led to the main door. Halfway up it, she glanced around carefully, then ducked into a thicket of holly bushes, pulling Chaloner behind her. She followed a winding track until she emerged in a woodland glade. A man stepped out of the trees to greet her. He was portly, florid of face, and wore the kind of hard-wearing coat and breeches often favoured by sea captains. Chaloner had met him before, when York had been serving under Browne on Rosebush . The two sailors had been good friends, and the spy recalled thinking uncharitably that the fondness had probably arisen from the fact that no one else had wanted anything to do with a pair of such opinionated, arrogant tyrants. York nodded a curt greeting at him, then turned to Hannah.

‘Well? Will he do it?’ The captain’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, and Chaloner was under the impression that he might try to use it if the answer Hannah gave was not to his liking.

‘Thomas has agreed to help us,’ replied Hannah. ‘You can trust him. He is loyal to the government, and – like my poor John – eager to expose these vile traitors.’

York regarded her unhappily. ‘I sincerely hope so, because what you have told him may see me cracked over the head with a rock too.’

Hannah’s expression was not entirely friendly. ‘It is a pity you did not have the same consideration for John when you embroiled him in this nasty affair.’

The expression on York’s face was one of deep guilt. ‘I have already explained that. I would never have involved him if I thought he might be harmed. I assumed it was a case of taking names and leaving the rest to the government – in essence, I thought we could both be heroes, but without risk to ourselves. My intention was for him to share my glory in unmasking this plot, and I am appalled that he is dead when I thought I was doing him a favour.’

Hannah turned abruptly and walked away. Tears glittered, and Chaloner saw that she was torn between wanting nothing to do with the man and needing his help. York watched her for a moment, then indicated that Chaloner was to sit next to him on a fallen tree trunk.

‘She does not believe Walduck murdered her husband, and neither do I.’

‘Based on the fact that Walduck was unlikely to have been drunk at the time?’

York nodded. ‘He never took anything stronger than water. The lawyers at the trial kept harping on the fact that Browne was an unpopular captain and that most of his crew – including Walduck – would have relished the opportunity to dash out his brains. Hannah does not believe it, but it is true. You sailed with Browne, so you know I am right: he was a hard taskmaster.’

‘Then perhaps Walduck killed Browne when he was sober but hoped that saying he was drunk would save him from the hangman’s noose.’

‘Walduck was not that stupid – he would have known drunkenness was no defence.’

‘Why was he accused in the first place?’

‘Because he had the misfortune to be there when the murder took place. Browne had hired him and another sailor called Tivill as bodyguards. However, both seamen were carrying swords and knives, so why would Walduck have used a stone to kill Browne when he had far more familiar weapons to hand? Besides, Walduck was a greedy man and would never have harmed Browne before he had been given the two shillings he had been promised. If Browne had been killed on Rosebush that night, I would have said Walduck was as good a suspect as any. But here, before he had been paid? Never!’