The Midwife and the Assassin (25 page)

“Of course we will,” I said. “But why are you concerned with the father's name?”

“I don't give a fig's end about the child's father,” Marlowe replied. “You must question her about
her
father. We must know the truth about his murder, no matter the cost.”

Katherine and I stared at him, lost for words.

“You want us to question her about her father's murder while she is in travail?” I asked at last.

“It is necessary,” Marlowe said. “She says she is guilty, but she will not say in what way. We do not believe that she wielded the knife. Or that she killed Mr. Chidley. But she must know who did. She is the key to unraveling the entire scheme.”

“You want us to threaten her?” Katherine asked. “And to abandon her if she does not confess to her part in a murder? She would be hanging herself.”

“It is the only way to find the truth,” Marlowe replied. “You must.”

Katherine and I glanced at each other. She seemed no less uncertain than I was. I had no qualms about questioning a bastard-bearer about the father of her child, or threatening to abandon her if she refused. In my experience, even the most indocile mother chose to reveal the father's name rather than deliver her child alone. But this was a different matter. We could be asking Margaret to confess to murder. She would be putting a noose around her own neck and pulling it tight.

“I will not,” I replied. “It is an evil thing to force a girl to choose between death in travail and death by hanging. I will have no part in it.”

Marlowe glanced at Tom, who smiled slightly and muttered something under his breath that sounded like
As I predicted
.

“Mrs. Chidley,” Marlowe said.

“You may deliver the girl yourself if you'd like,” Katherine said. “But I'll not be a part of your scheme, either.”

“She knows who murdered her father,” Marlowe said. “And who killed your husband.”

“We will ask her,” Katherine said. “But if she will not confess, we will deliver her as we would any mother. We'll not be party to her execution.”

“Mrs. Hodgson?” Marlowe pleaded.

“You have our answer. If you do not like it, you may do the work yourself. Or perhaps you have another midwife in your employ?”

Marlowe looked at Tom.

“What would you have me do?” Tom asked, fighting not to smile. “They are your spies, not mine.”

Marlowe looked as if he had swallowed a toad. “Very well,” he said at last. “Do your best.”

“We will,” I said.

 

Chapter 19

Margaret Harrison's bedchamber was large and well appointed, precisely what I would have expected from a woman of her father's wealth. This, of course, also made her unique among the bastard-bearers I'd delivered; they usually lived in tiny hovels or one-room tenements. A fire roared in the hearth, chasing away the winter chill. Margaret sat in a large bed, propped up on luxurious pillows, the very picture of a woman in the comfortable stages of early travail.

But when we approached I saw the fear shining in the girl's eyes; all was not well with her.

“Who are you?” Margaret demanded. “Why are you here?”

“Hush,” I said. “I am Widow Hodgson, your midwife.” I put my wrist to her forehead. I found it passing warm, but she could hardly be described as feverish.

“What fool said she had a fever?” I asked. “She's in travail and lying next to a blazing fire—she could hardly be cooler.”

“The physician said it,” Margaret replied, her eyes glistening with tears. “He said that a woman could not be delivered so long as she suffered from a fever. Is it true?”

“It is not true, and you don't have a fever,” I replied. “You are fine.”

“What about my colic? My stomach pains me. He said it was colic.”

Nobody had said anything about colic, of course.
That
was a different matter. “We will see,” I said. “I must examine you before I know anything.”

Martha took Margaret's hand while Katherine joined me in my examination. I pressed the girl's belly, trying to distinguish the source of her pains. “Are the colic pains different than your labor pangs?” I asked. If the physician could not recognize a fever, I had no faith that he'd know colic when he saw it.

“I don't know,” she said.

I pressed on the left side of her belly and the girl moaned. I waited a moment and pressed again. “Ah, God save me!” Margaret cried out.

“It is indeed colic,” I said to Katherine. “And we must see to it before the child is born.”

Katherine nodded. “Shall we potion her with cinnamon?”

“Aye, and oil of almonds,” I said. “And we should prepare a clyster in case that does not work. We must be prepared in all events.”

After Katherine departed for the kitchen, I looked back to Margaret. Fear shone in her eyes. “You will be fine,” I said, taking her hand. “I have seen such a condition many times. I will see you through this.”

“Thank you,” she said. Tears of relief and gratitude welled up in her eyes, making my next task that much more difficult.

“We will help you, but in return you must tell us the truth about the child's father—and about what happened to
your
father.”

In an instant Margaret's relief turned to fear. “He told you? That horrible Mr. Marlowe told you?”

“Aye, he did,” I said. “But he said you wouldn't tell him everything that happened. You must tell us the rest. You are living under a terrible burden. Lay it on my shoulders, and you will rest easier.”

Tears poured forth and within moments she was sobbing like a newly orphaned child. I climbed onto the bed next to the poor girl, and took her into my arms. She was still weeping when Katherine returned with the cinnamon water. Margaret drank a few swallows without complaint and slowly regained control of herself.

“You confessed to having a hand in your father's death,” I said. “But we know that you did not kill him yourself.”

Tears returned to Margaret's eyes. “It was my fault, though. I invited Bram into the house that night. He must have done it. I still cannot believe it, but it must be true.”

“Start at the beginning,” I said. “And tell me everything.”

Margaret took a deep breath to compose herself and began to tell her story. “He started wooing me a full year ago, Bram did. He was loving and kind in a way few men are. He said I was beautiful.”

At this she began to weep. It was impossible not to feel for the girl's suffering at Bram's cold-hearted betrayal. With a few soothing words and common courtesies he had won over this lonely girl. And once he had her trust, he destroyed her life, getting her with a bastard and murdering her father.

“Bram is the child's father?” I asked.

“He promised marriage,” she said. “We were supposed to marry last fall, but he was called away on an urgent matter.” I had delivered countless bastards and heard countless stories of abandonment and betrayal, but I had never heard a girl sound so lost and forlorn.

“What else did he want?” I asked. “How did this lead to your father's death?”

“Bram said he was one of the King's men,” she replied. “He showed me a letter with His Majesty's seal upon it. And he had some silken string that had been tied up in the most beautiful knot you have ever seen. He said these were signs that he was doing His Majesty's bidding. He told me that if he succeeded the King would make him a knight, and we would have an estate, and we would live together. He said he needed my help, that the King needed my help.”

“What did he want you to do?” I asked.

“At first he wanted me to tell him all I knew about my father's business. He is a gunpowder merchant. Bram asked where the powder was made, where it was stored, everything I could discover.

“Then he wanted to know when my father was out of London, seeing to the powder works,” she continued. “He said he wanted to visit me away from my father's eyes. I waited until the servants were asleep and then I opened the door for him.”

“And you lay with him,” Katherine said. The girl nodded.

“But that was not the only reason he came,” I said.

Margaret looked away from me, and I knew we had reached the cardinal moment of her story. “Bram wanted to look through my father's books and papers to learn when Parliament was in short supply of gunpowder. He said that with that information he could better advise Prince Charles. The King's men are planning a rising, you know.”

The girl was oblivious to the fact that with each word she not only betrayed her lover and his cause, but made herself party to his treason.

“And Bram murdered your father?” I asked.

“I know it must be true, but I still cannot credit it.” Margaret started weeping again.

“Tell me about the night your father died.”

“Bram said he wanted to speak to him. He said he would convince him both to let us marry
and
to help the King. Bram said that if my father would do these things, all would be well for us. I would be married, and my father would no longer be called a traitor.”

“You let him into the house,” Katherine said.

“My father's custom was to work until very late at night and then rise near noon. Bram thought it would be best if they spoke during the night when they would not be disturbed. I waited until the servants were asleep and unbarred the door. I placed a candle in my window as a sign to Bram that it was safe for him to come. Then I went to bed.”

“Did you hear anything? An argument or disagreement?”

Margaret shook her head and daubed at her eyes with the edge of her sheet. “I lay there all night, wondering what would happen. I thought that in the morning, all would be right. And then I heard the door being smashed and then the shouting when the neighbors found his body.” She fell forward and buried her face in my chest. I held her close and looked up at Katherine's and Martha's grim faces. It seemed we had found our murderer.

I took Margaret's face in my hands. “Margaret, you must help us find Bram. You must. Who is he? Where does he live?”

Margaret took a shuddering breath and nodded. “He is Abraham Walker,” she said. “He lives south of St. Paul's.”

Martha and Katherine gasped behind me. My mouth worked for a time before I could make a sound, and even then it was a thin mewling, fit for a kitten. Even in her colic and travail Margaret could tell that she'd said something remarkable.

“What is it?” she asked. “What did I say?”

“Abraham Walker?” I repeated stupidly.

“And he lives on Knightrider Street?” Katherine said.

“Aye, that is where I sent my letters. Sometimes I would slip out and meet him there. What is wrong? What is it?” I could hear the panic rising in her voice and did not know what to say.

“What does he look like?” Katherine asked, though we all knew the answer to the question.

Margaret proceeded to describe Abraham Walker in perfect detail. There could be no mistake: Katherine's friend had murdered Enoch Harrison and—in all likelihood—Daniel Chidley as well.

Katherine sat down heavily on the bed, her face bereft of color.

“Do you know him, too?” Margaret asked.

“Aye, we know him,” I said. I pushed the cup of cinnamon water to her lips. “Now finish your medicine.”

*   *   *

After Margaret's revelation, I slipped from the room to tell the men what we'd learned.

I found Tom, Will, and Mr. Marlowe in Enoch Harrison's office. They had helped themselves to his store of wine and seemed very comfortable. Marlowe was leafing through one of Mr. Harrison's account books while Tom and Will examined the various weapons on the shelves. Marlowe rose to his feet when I entered.

“What is it?” he asked. “Did she kill him?”

“Not deliberately,” I replied. “But she told us who wielded the knife: Abraham Walker.”

Tom knitted his brow. “You said he was a neutralist. Why would he kill Mr. Harrison and steal the gunpowder?”

“He told Margaret that he was a Royalist intelligencer,” I replied. “He proved it by showing her a waxen seal and some sort of knot woven out of silk. He seduced her so he could spy on her father.”

“Was the seal genuine?” Tom asked.

“There's no way to know,” I replied. “She is so blinded by her passion that he could have shown her the butt end of a candle and she would have been convinced.”

“By his spying on Mr. Harrison, Walker learned about the gunpowder,” Tom said.

“Aye,” I said. “And then he struck. He forced Mr. Harrison to sign the letter, which he no doubt gave to one of his comrades to take to the powder works.”

“And then he killed Mr. Harrison so he could not raise a hue and cry,” Tom finished.

“Did you learn anything else?” Mr. Marlowe asked.

“Katherine said he lives on Knightrider Street south of St. Paul's,” I said. “And that is where the girl sent her letters.”

“Well done.” Mr. Marlowe started to pull on his coat, and the others did the same. “Colonel Reynolds, take Will and go to the constable. Raise whatever men you can find: beadles, the trained bands, chimney sweepers, anyone who can carry a club. Find Walker wherever he is.”

“Tell the men to be careful,” Tom said. “Walker has already killed two people, and there's no reason to think he won't kill more.”

“Careful is good,” Marlowe said. “But we also should be sure to capture him alive, even at the loss of a beadle or two. It is a fine thing to catch a murderer, but make no mistake: the real prize is the gunpowder.”

“We will find him,” Will said as he buttoned his coat. I smiled at his earnest determination and said a prayer for his success and safety.

“See that you do,” Marlowe replied. “I will go to the Tower. Bring him there when you catch him.”