The Midwife and the Assassin (22 page)

The next morning, hours before dawn, Martha and I dressed in silence and accompanied Katherine to the Banqueting House. We walked some two miles, tracing the same route that Martha and I had taken when we entered the city. We passed through the Ludgate, over the stinking stream known—too grandly—as the River Fleet, and then onto the Strand. With every step more people joined our procession to Whitehall Palace. Although some in the crowd must have fought against the King, there was none of the jesting that all too often accompanied an execution. We all realized that in killing Charles, we were not merely killing a man. For the first time in England's history, the cry of “The King is dead!” would not be followed by “Long live the King!” The King would be dead, and that would be all.

It was still well dark when the three of us reached the Banqueting House and the scaffold came into view. At the House, King Street—how ironic the name!—became a sort of courtyard, and it was immediately clear why the army had chosen this spot for the execution. To the south lay a turreted gate flanked on one side by the Banqueting House and on the other by a high brick wall. The King would die in a blind alley. The flickering light of the torches illuminated a platform overseeing the entire yard. The army had placed cannons upon it, and pointed them into the crowd. Any attempt to free the King would result in slaughter on a grand scale. The scaffold was draped entirely in black, and even now—hours before the execution—it was surrounded by a troop of horsemen armed with pistols and swords, as well as a rank of pikemen. The army was taking no chances.

In the hours that followed, the courtyard filled to overflowing and when the sun rose we could see that every vantage point overlooking the scaffold had been taken. Faces filled each window, and some brave souls had climbed out on the roofs of surrounding buildings. All had come to witness the death of their sovereign. The crowd waited in silence for what seemed an eternity. To my relief Katherine had come prepared with enough bread and cheese to keep the worst of our hunger at bay, but by noon we were ravenous.

Sometime after that, the scaffold began to fill and we knew the final act had begun. The first to come into view were soldiers, who peered into the crowd to ensure that all was well. They were followed by men with books and inkhorns. I supposed they were there to record the King's last words. Finally came the executioner and his assistant, both disguised not just with masks, but with false beards and wigs beneath their hats. The executioner inspected the blade of his ax and then the low block on which the King would lay his head. He nodded to one of the soldiers, who went into the Banqueting House. A few moments later, the King emerged. He wore a heavy black cloak, but none of the finery one would expect from a monarch. He looked out over the crowd and nodded to himself. I later learned that he wore an extra woolen shirt under his cloak so that he would not shiver in the cold; he was loath to have his subjects think he feared death.

The King produced a piece of paper from beneath his cloak and began to read. He was so far away and surrounded by so many soldiers that we could not hope to hear him. Finally, he turned to his executioner and the two men exchanged a few words. The King removed his cloak, and then what few royal jewels he still wore. A man stepped forward and helped the King put on a cap to keep his hair from impeding the executioner's fatal blow.

At last, he knelt and placed his head on the block. The executioner bent forward and, as tenderly as any lover, tucked a stray lock of the King's hair under the cap. He then stood with his ax at the ready and waited for the King's sign. The King extended his hand and, in a blinding flash, the ax fell.

At the sound of the ax, there emerged from the assembled crowd such a groan as I had never heard before, and hoped that I might never hear again. I closed my eyes to pray, not for Charles's soul—for he had already been judged—but for England. I did not know where such a bloody stroke would lead us, but the Bible said that blood cries out from the ground for vengeance. How loud must the cries of a king's blood be, and how would the Lord answer such cries?

Even as the King's head settled into the executioner's basket, we heard men shouting and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. With no more warning than that, horsemen flooded the yard, driving the crowd before them. Martha, Katherine, and I linked arms and fled as quickly as we could. By the time we reached Charing Cross, the crowd had begun to thin, and it became a somber procession back along the Strand into the city proper. Martha and I accompanied Katherine to her door, where we embraced and murmured our farewells. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to climb into my bed, pull the coverlet over me, and sleep for weeks.

As soon as Martha and I crossed the street, however, a voice called out to us.

“Martha, Aunt Bridget!” Will hurried towards us. I could tell from his expression that he brought terrible news.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You must come with me. Whoever killed Daniel Chidley has killed again. Colonel Reynolds and Mr. Marlowe are with the body. They sent me to find you.”

Even before Martha or I could respond, a woman called out from across the street.

“Martha Hawkins, there you are!” She hurried toward us. “Lucy Sheldon has begun her travail. She sent me to find you.”

Martha's eyes darted between Will and me.

“Go,” I told her. She started to protest, but I would not have it. “You see to the living, I'll look to the dead. Go upstairs, get your birthing stool and valise, and go to your mother. She comes first. If you need help, send for Mrs. Chidley.”

Martha nodded and went inside.

I turned to Will. “Take me to the body.”

 

Chapter 17

Will and I made our way south from the Cheap toward the river, and it was not long before I became thoroughly lost. As much as the Cheap now felt like home, the rest of London remained so strange and unfamiliar it might have been another city entirely.

“Who has been killed?” I asked.

“A man named Enoch Harrison,” Will said. “Few people know his name, but he was among the most important men in the Kingdom.”

“Who is he?”

“He owns a gunpowder-works near Greenwich. He was the chief supplier for both the New Model Army and Cromwell's navy.” We turned onto a broad lane and stopped before a stately home. “Here we are.”

Will led me up a set of stone stairs to the door, and we entered without knocking. We passed through an entry hall into what must have been Enoch Harrison's office. I stopped and looked at the office door—someone had broken in with such force that the frame had splintered.

Enoch Harrison's body lay facedown upon an ornately carved desk at the far end of the room. Tom Reynolds and Mr. Marlowe stood on either side, staring forlornly at the corpse. The office itself was large and well appointed, its shelves full of books, but also pistols and muskets in various states of disassembly; there was even a small brass cannon sitting in one corner.

“Good,” Marlowe said when we entered. “Come around here and see what we've found.”

I circled behind the desk and looked down at the corpse. It was immediately clear why Mr. Marlowe had connected Enoch Harrison's murder to Daniel Chidley's. A single wound, less than an inch wide, ruined the back of an otherwise spotless silk doublet. The hole was on his left side, just below the shoulder blade, precisely over his heart. His papers sat in neat piles around his body. As in Daniel's case, Harrison had hardly bled at all, and he'd died without a struggle. I pulled back Harrison's collar to peer at his neck. Unlike Daniel, there were no bruises, but the killer had stabbed him in the back, so choking might not have been necessary. My hand brushed the skin—it was cold and waxen.

“Do we know how long he has been dead?” I asked.

“His servant was the last person to see him alive,” Marlowe said. “He left Mr. Harrison alone last night and went to bed. He thought nothing of it when Mr. Harrison did not rise for breakfast, but when he discovered the locked door he began to worry. He summoned the neighbors and they broke in.”

“And nobody saw or heard anything?”

“His servant is older than Methuselah,” Marlowe said, frustration dripping from every word. “The murderer could have used a cannon without disturbing the old man's sleep. Harrison's daughter was here, but she went to bed even before the servant, and didn't hear a sound.”

“He died so quickly, he probably didn't
make
a sound,” Tom added.

I nodded in agreement. “If he didn't live long enough to knock the papers from his desk, he could hardly be expected to cry out for help.” I joined Tom and Mr. Marlowe in gazing at Mr. Harrison's body. “Why would someone kill both Daniel Chidley and Enoch Harrison?” I asked. “What did they have in common?”

“That is one question,” Marlowe replied, his voice tight. “But not the most urgent.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The Army is preparing an expedition against Ireland,” Tom said. “This week Mr. Harrison was to deliver a large shipment of gunpowder.” Tom's voice trailed off, and he looked to Marlowe.

“The powder is missing,” Marlowe said at last. “This morning, two men came to Mr. Harrison's warehouse with carts, horses, and a sealed letter from Mr. Harrison demanding the powder. The men took it and disappeared.”

I thought for a moment, putting together the puzzle.

“The murderer forced Mr. Harrison to write and seal the letter, so his comrades could steal the powder,” I said. “And then he killed Mr. Harrison to prevent him from sounding the alarm.”

Tom nodded. “That is the most likely explanation.”

“How much powder is missing?” I asked.

“We don't know precisely,” Tom replied. “But the thieves filled four carts. Perhaps five. The watchman at the warehouse was not sure.”

Marlowe looked as if he were suffering from a fever, and I understood why. He was the man tasked with securing Parliamentary rule, and someone had stolen five carts of gunpowder out from beneath him. Oliver Cromwell's chief spy had failed spectacularly.

“How did the killer know about the powder?” I asked.

Marlowe shrugged. “There are spies everywhere. How the killer found out does not matter.” He spoke barely above a whisper. “The only thing that matters is recovering it.”

A knock came from the door and two women entered, a maidservant and a young woman who was great with child.

“Mrs. Hodgson,” Tom said, “this is Mr. Harrison's daughter, Margaret.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Margaret Harrison would have been a pretty young woman, but the grief at her father's murder had left her hollow, and her red-rimmed eyes gave way to sunken cheeks and quivering lips.

“Can I take his body now?” Margaret's voice cracked when she spoke, and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I can't bear the thought of leaving him here any longer.”

Marlowe glanced at me, and I shrugged. Martha would have liked to see the body, but I did not know how long she would be occupied with her travail.

“Aye, you can have him,” Marlowe said. “We will continue our discussion elsewhere.”

When the four of us returned to the entry hall, we found a small group of men waiting—Mr. Harrison's burial party, I assumed. We nodded our condolences and found our way to Mr. Harrison's parlor. It was no less beautifully furnished than the office had been. Luxurious wall-coverings kept out the winter chill and finely woven mats covered the floors. Cromwell rewarded his powder merchants quite handsomely.

“So who would want to kill both Daniel Chidley and Enoch Harrison?” I asked again.

“That is the problem,” Tom replied. “Since we don't know why Daniel Chidley was killed, Enoch Harrison's murder doesn't do much to simplify matters.”

“It is possible that Royalists wanted the powder for a rising,” Marlowe said. “And they killed Mr. Harrison in order to get their hands on it.”

“And you think they killed Daniel because he learned of their plans?” I asked.

“It is possible.” Marlowe shrugged. “Of course, what is true of the Royalists also could be said of the Levellers. If John Lilburne and the agitators in the army intended a rising of their own, they would want the powder no less than the King's men.”

“What if the murders aren't so closely connected?” Will asked. “If the assassin works for pay, he might have been hired by the Levellers to kill Mr. Chidley for being a spy, and then by the Royalists to kill Mr. Harrison in order to obtain the gunpowder.”

Marlowe looked as if he wanted to bite Will for making such a suggestion. The situation was already too difficult and dangerous without adding new complications.

“Perhaps we should ask how the murderer knew about the shipment of gunpowder,” Tom said, hoping to deflect Marlowe's displeasure. “If we can learn that, everything else will fall into place.”

When Marlowe did not reply, I spoke up: “We should pursue the assassin from two directions. Martha and I will search for connections to Daniel Chidley. And since Harrison worked so closely with the government, you should look from there.”

Marlowe considered the suggestion and nodded. “Mrs. Hodgson, you will carry on as you have been. Find whatever connects the murders. Colonel Reynolds will find out how the murderer learned of the gunpowder's location.” Marlowe inclined his head toward the door. It seemed we were dismissed.

As we made our way out, Marlowe called after us. “One moment, Will. I must write to the Council about these matters. I will need you to deliver the letter immediately.”

Will nodded, bid me farewell, and returned to Mr. Marlowe's side.

Tom and I stepped into the winter wind and began the long walk to the Horned Bull and beyond it, to my house in the Cheap.

“Mr. Marlowe trusts Will,” I said.