The Midwife's Tale (28 page)

“Have you seen his apprentice?” I interrupted. “We are on urgent business.”

“Richard?” he asked. “The constable was here. He took him away.”

“What?” I cried. “When was this?”

“Not long ago. He was just here.”

“Did the constable arrest him?” Will asked, struggling to escape Cawton’s grasp. “Where did they go?”

“I don’t think Richard was arrested,” he said. “He just went. None of my business, really.” Undeterred by Will’s efforts to escape, Cawton continued to drag him toward his shop. “Now, just a few more steps and we’ll be there.”

“Where did the constable take Richard?” Will asked.

“I told you. He didn’t take him anywhere. He wasn’t under arrest.” Will’s face turned an alarming shade of purple.

“Where did Richard and the constable go?” I interjected, hoping to keep Will from throttling the poor man.

“That way. Towards St. Saviorgate.”

I looked at Martha. “The Black Swan?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s it,” Cawton interjected. “I can’t imagine why the constable would want to take Richard there, but that’s what he said.”

Martha saw the look of concern on my face and answered my question before I could ask. “I’m coming with you. Will is with us, and if the constable is already there, we’ll be fine. Tom is violent, not stupid.”

Will extricated himself from Cawton’s grip and the three of us walked quickly toward Peasholme Green. As soon as the Black Swan came into sight, I knew that something was amiss. As usual, soldiers stood in front, but they were alert and on the lookout for trouble rather than stumbling about in a drunken haze. When we approached the door, a young lieutenant stepped forward to intercept us.

“I’m sorry, my lady, the alehouse is closed.”

Before I could answer, Will intervened. “Do you really think that Lady Hodgson is coming to this … establishment for pleasure?” Still frustrated by his conversation with the tailor, he made no effort to guard his tongue, and his every word dripped with disdain. The lieutenant did not take kindly to Will’s tone.

“Where Lady Hodgson takes her pleasure is none of my concern. You may not enter.”

“Lieutenant,” I said, drawing him to the side and shooting an angry glance at Will, “we are looking for a friend of mine, a local apothecary, and have reason to think that he may have come here. Can you tell us why all these soldiers are here? Why are you guarding the door?” He looked uncomfortable. “It is important that you tell me,” I added.

“There has been some trouble inside,” he said at last. “I don’t know what it is. My captain ordered me to post my men at all the doors and make sure that nobody entered.”

“Did a constable just take a young man inside?”

“Aye. The captain said to let them in.”

“Lieutenant, I need to go in there,” I said.

“My lady…,” he started. “I am under strict orders from my captain.”

“And I have my orders from the Lord Mayor of the city.” Eventually someone might challenge this claim, but until that time I would continue with my bluff. “It is urgent that I find Mr. Penrose.”

“My lady, I cannot.”

“Listen—I will go in alone, and if he is not here, I will leave immediately. Nobody will even know I was here.” He clearly did not relish saying “no” to a gentlewoman and stood there without speaking. Taking his silence as permission, I darted past him. He sputtered briefly, but I knew he would never dream of laying hands on me. By the time he found his voice—I heard him shouting, “My lady!” behind me—I had made it through the door and pulled it shut behind me.

The rooms downstairs were unnaturally quiet. Most of the stools were tipped on their sides. A cloud of flies buzzed around the plates of uneaten food, and tankards half-full of ale sat on the rough wood tables. A shiver ran up my spine—something awful had happened here. I heard footsteps and voices from above and climbed the stairs. When I reached the top I found myself at the midpoint of a long hallway, with curtained doorways on each side leading into small rooms. I peered through the nearest door and saw a sad and skinny whore asleep on an undersized bed. Down the hall, a small group of men stood outside one of the other rooms. As I approached, I saw Richard Baker standing among them. Under the bruises he had received from his master, Richard’s face was deathly pale, and he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to flee the premises. As I neared the group, my stomach lurched as Lorenzo Bacca stepped out of the room. When he saw me, a slight smile touched his lips and he inclined his head in greeting. I did not think anyone else noticed. Immediately behind Bacca came a tall, well-dressed man who looked at me in surprise.

“Why, Lady Bridget, what a pleasure! York feels so small sometimes.”

He was Henry Thompson, one of the city’s Aldermen and Edward’s good friend. I had known Henry for years and respected his intelligence and dedication to the city. He had inherited a fortune from his father and continued to build it as the city’s most prominent wine merchant. Henry was the same age as Edward—indeed, the two had grown up together—and like Edward, he was possessed of sufficient wealth and power to give him the authority of a much older man. “I can’t imagine what brings you to the Black Swan,” he continued, “but it cannot be the unfortunate business that called me to the scene. You should go.” He took me gently by the arm and tried to guide me back toward the stairs.

“Mr. Thompson, I am here—”

“On the Lord Mayor’s business?” he asked with a small smile. “Yes, Mr. Bacca told me all about your investigation. He and I have no doubt you will find your culprit. But this matter is unrelated, and you really must leave.”

“Tell me what has happened. Please.”

“Nothing of interest to you,” he said firmly. “One of the whores murdered a client, that is all. She fled, but we will find her soon enough.”

“Who was killed?” I persisted. “Is it Thomas Penrose?” He stopped short and turned to look at me with renewed interest. I knew I was right.

“And why might you think that?” he asked.

“I know he frequents the Black Swan, and I can’t think of any other reason you would have brought his apprentice to a murder scene.”

“Ah, it is interesting you should mention the apprentice. He says that you came to Mr. Penrose’s shop on Saturday looking for him. Why?”

If Richard had said that much, he surely told Henry that I had asked about the sale of ratsbane. I saw no point in hiding the truth. “I believe that he sold the ratsbane to whoever killed Stephen Cooper.”

“What evidence do you have of that?” he asked, raising his eyebrow. At least I’d gotten his full attention.

“The bottle found in Esther Cooper’s wardrobe matches the ones used in Thomas Penrose’s shop. His apprentice hasn’t sold any ratsbane, which left only Penrose.”

“And you thought Mr. Penrose might be able to tell you who bought the ratsbane and thus who murdered the unfortunate Mr. Cooper.” I nodded. “What if he told you that he sold it to Esther? Where would that leave your investigation?”

“Then we would know the truth. But now Mr. Penrose is dead, and unable to help me find the truth.”

“And you think there is a connection between the murders,” he said with a condescending sigh. “You want me to believe that Mr. Cooper’s murderer somehow discovered your interest in Mr. Penrose, and killed him before you could question him?” I nodded, and he sighed again. I clenched my fists and tried to contain my fury at his arrogance. “It is all very intriguing, but there is no evidence that the crimes are related. In this we should accept the simplest explanation: Esther Cooper bought the ratsbane from Mr. Penrose, and murdered her husband. For that she will burn. Mr. Penrose lived a dissolute life and was robbed and murdered by one of his whores. In both cases justice is done either through the law or by divine providence. Don’t you find this a fitting end to Mr. Penrose’s sinful life?”

“Fitting, perhaps,” I said sharply. “But I also think that when the unwitting accomplice in one murder is the victim of another, God is an unlikely author. I’d like to see the body.”

“I don’t think that is necessary,” he said, and once again tried to guide me to the stairs.

I pulled my arm away and turned to face him. “Mr. Thompson,” I said between clenched teeth, “I have done much work for the city, have I not?” He nodded. “And I know many of the city’s secrets, do I not?” He nodded again and began to look uncomfortable. “And unless I am mistaken, some of those secrets touch on those close to you.”

“You … you promised!” he hissed, the color rising in his cheeks. “You said you would never mention my brother’s … indiscretion so long as he maintained the child.”

“And I haven’t. I’m simply pointing out that I have given much and demanded little in return. Now, I am asking. I want to see Mr. Penrose’s body.”

Henry sighed yet again, this time in resignation, and started back toward the room where the body lay. “It’s not much compared to what a cannonball will do to a man, but I think it is bad enough.” I followed him down the hall, and the crowd at the door parted to let us through. When I neared Bacca, I felt my stomach drop, for his left hand was heavily bandaged.

“Mr. Bacca,” I said, staring into his eyes, “what a terrible wound. Whatever happened to your hand?”

Bacca glanced down as if he had forgotten about the bandages. “Eh? I was bitten by a horse. The bitch nearly took off my finger. But the surgeon says that it will heal soon enough.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “Well, you should be careful. If you get close enough, the bitch might have another bite.” He looked at me blankly before nodding his head in acknowledgment. I then turned my attention to the room where Penrose had died.

Even before we entered, I could hear the buzz of flies. I prepared myself for the worst, but the scene shocked me all the same. It was Penrose to be sure, but the damage done to his head and face turned my stomach. He sat on the floor, slumped against the bed, with his head lolling back, mouth agape. An explosion of blood radiated from his head like a grotesque sun. The flies swarmed about him, crawling across his bloodied face and glassy eyes. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath to try to steady myself. Then I stepped forward to look more closely at his wounds. There was one gash on the side of his head from his cheek to his ear, but the most horrific one ran down the middle of his face. It reached from his hairline to his mouth, nearly cleaving his face in two. It was this blow that sent the ropes of blood across the bed.

“Do we know what the weapon was?” I asked Henry.

He nodded to the constable, who produced a heavy iron crowbar. “We found this on the ground below the window,” he said. “It had blood on it.” I held out my hand and he let me hold it. It was so heavy that I could hardly lift it.

“Surely you don’t believe one of the whores committed this crime.”

“Given the location of the murder, that seems the most logical conclusion.”

“Have you seen the whores who work here? Two of them together couldn’t lift this bar over their heads, never mind swing it hard enough to cleave a man’s head in two.”

“Then she had an accomplice. We’ll find them both.”

“Do you even know which whore it was?” I asked, trying to hide my exasperation.

“Not yet. The alehouse keeper said she’d never been in before. But he was drunk as a lord, all he can remember is that she had brown hair. Most of the other whores and their customers fled as soon as the alarm was raised. The ones we’ve found claim not to have seen or heard anything.”

I took Henry’s arm and pulled him down the hall so I could speak my piece to him alone. “I want to make sure I understand,” I said. “You don’t know who this whore was, you don’t know who helped her, and you have no witnesses who can recognize her? Tell me again why you are so sure that you will find her.”

“She’s a whore, not a highwayman,” he replied peevishly. “She has no experience with murder, and she can’t escape the city. We’ll have her by sundown.”

“No, you won’t,” I said, shaking my head in despair. “I don’t know what happened here, but this was no robbery. And if you have the killer by sundown, I’ll send you a fresh-killed deer for Christmas.”

I turned and descended the stairs, still furious at Henry’s obstinacy. When I reached the alehouse door, I noticed the hem of my skirt had soaked up some of Thomas Penrose’s blood. For some reason, this roiled my stomach more than anything I had seen upstairs. Whether I wanted it to or not, his blood would come home with me. I crossed the street to rejoin Martha and Will.

Will asked the question that was on both their minds. “What did you find? Is it Penrose?”

I tried to answer but could find no words to describe the corpse, the way the blood had sprayed across the bed, or the sheer brutality of the killing. I simply nodded and started home.

Chapter 20

When we arrived at my house I called for Hannah, went to my chamber, and hurriedly took off the bloodied skirts. “Get rid of them,” I told her.

“My lady?”

“Take them, throw them away, burn them, use them yourself, I don’t care. I won’t wear them again.”

She looked at the blood, puzzled. She knew perfectly well that I had worn far bloodier clothes home from deliveries and then worn them again after they had been washed. She started to object but must have seen something in my face that told her I was serious.

After she left, I wondered at my reaction. I could not say why Penrose’s death disturbed me so much. I knew how he treated his apprentice and how men like him treated the city’s whores; I’d seen their bruises and delivered their bastards. What I found so disturbing was the realization that the drops of blood on my skirt would not be the last ones shed in this case. If I completed my investigation, two more people—Penrose’s killer and his “whore”—would join Penrose and Stephen Cooper in the ranks of the unhappy dead; Stephen’s death would beget three more. I sat for a while, looking out the window, and my mind kept returning to the girl who led Penrose to his death. I could not imagine her. She must have known what would happen to Penrose when they reached her room, but why would she do it? What was her connection to Stephen Cooper, and who was her murderous accomplice? A knock at the door interrupted my meditations.