The Midwife and the Assassin (35 page)

He seized one pistol by the butt, and his finger sought the trigger. I grabbed the barrel and wrenched it forward. It slipped out of his blood-smeared hands, and I hurled it toward the stairs. It clattered down, leaving one pistol in the room, but in the confusion neither of us knew where it had gone.

With a victorious cry, Owen threw himself forward and—too late!—I saw the pistol peeking from behind a barrel of powder. We both were moments from death. He turned the pistol toward the powder and tried to pull back the cock, his bloody thumb slipping once, twice. I looked above him and saw another barrel tottering on its edge. I leaped forward and gave it a final push. It landed on his extended arm and the pistol fell from his hand. Owen's scream, equal parts pain and frustration, filled the room. I stepped forward and took the pistol for myself.

Moments later, half a dozen members of the watch thundered up the stairs. Two saw to Sergeant Hirst, while the rest bound Owen's hands. They showed no sympathy for his ruined arm. Another sergeant appeared, his eyes wide at how close we had come to ruination.

“I am Sergeant Willoughby,” he said. “The men told me what you said to Sergeant Hirst. I could hardly believe it, but it was true.”

I nodded. “He meant to kill us all.”

Sergeant Willoughby kicked Owen in the stomach and searched his pockets. He found a few coins and then produced a third red silk cord. He stared at it in puzzlement for a moment. “What is this?”

“It is another sign of his guilt, as if it were needed,” I said. “The plotters carried them so they could know each other.” I took the cord and put it in my apron. “I will bring this to the Tower. The jury will want to see it before they pass judgment.”

The sergeant nodded. “Should we take him straight to the Tower, too?”

“Aye,” I said. “Send him by boat. There is a Colonel Reynolds there. He will lead the questioning.”

Sergeant Willoughby nodded to the soldiers. “Go on. She just saved your lives and all of Westminster. You should do as she says.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” I said.

“Would you care to explain how you came to know about all this?” Sergeant Willoughby gestured at the barrels of powder lining the walls.

“It is a long story,” I replied. “And not one I can tell right now. Perhaps another time.”

Martha and I excused ourselves and made our way back to the river, where we found a wherry to take us to the Tower. When we arrived, we found the guards waiting for us. They led us through the maze of towers and halls until we reached the White Tower. Will was waiting outside.

“Martha, Aunt Bridget!” Will cried when he saw us. He crossed the last few yards between us and took Martha in his arms, hugging her fiercely. “The guards told us what happened. The house was filled with gunpowder?”

“Barrels of it,” I replied. “The carnage would have been…” I closed my eyes and imagined the aftermath if Owen had sparked a flame: thousands dead, Parliament destroyed, a new civil war begun. And if the explosion had started a fire, who knew how much of London would have burned?

I shook my head to chase away such visions. “Is Charles Owen here?”

“Aye. They brought him in through the Traitors' Gate, and straight to a cell. Colonel Reynolds started questioning him as soon as the jailor had him in irons. He expected you would come and asked you to wait in Mr. Marlowe's office.”

Martha and I followed Will into the Tower. Once we were settled, we told him of our day's adventures. When we'd finished, Will shook his head in wonder.

“My God, if you'd arrived in Westminster just a few minutes later … Parliament destroyed, Cromwell likely killed, the Leveller women slaughtered in the street. It would have been like nothing England has ever seen.”

“Aye,” I said. “It was a damnably close thing.”

Some hours later, as the sun disappeared behind the Tower wall, there came a knock at the door and Tom entered.

“I don't think you need to knock.” Will laughed. “It will likely be your office soon enough.”

Tom smiled thinly. “An old habit.” He looked to me and his smile broadened. He took a few hesitant steps in my direction before remembering that we were not alone. After such a harrowing day, I too wished to feel his arms around me, but knew it was neither the time nor the place.

“Thank God all of you are safe,” Tom said. “I still cannot fathom how close you—and all England—came to disaster.”

“What did you learn?” Will asked. “Did he confess?”

Tom nodded. “Given he was caught with flint and steel in hand, he could hardly claim innocence. He says he killed Daniel Chidley, Enoch Harrison,
and
Mr. Marlowe. His only regret is sending Abraham Walker to kill Margaret Harrison.
I should have done that myself,
he said.”

“Remarkable,” I said. “Did he tell you who his comrades were?”

“He gave us a few names, but says that they fled to France this morning. He was the one chosen to stay behind, light the powder, and die a martyr's death. They drew lots.”

“And his wife?” Martha asked. “What of her?”

Tom sighed heavily. “He says she knew nothing of the plot, and we've no proof to the contrary. I will send some men for her in the morning, but unless she volunteers for the hangman's dance nothing will come of it.”

“Such is the nature of the law,” I said.

“I am sorry to do this,” Tom said. “But Will and I must return to business. Once we have chased down all of Owen's accomplices—at least those still in England—the four of us will dine together. I should like to hear just how you discovered the plot when Mr. Marlowe and all his spies could not.”

I told Tom that I understood, and a few minutes later Martha and I were walking back to the Cheap.

“Jane Owen knew about her husband's plan,” Martha said. “She told us that herself.”

“Aye, she did,” I replied. “But I do not see what good would come out of exposing her. She would hang for the crime of keeping her husband's secrets, and her child would be an orphan. And a newborn deprived of his mother would likely die within weeks. I have no interest in sending one of my mothers to the gallows and then burying her child, simply because she married a Royalist.”

Martha nodded. “I suppose you are right.”

Dinner that night was exceedingly strange, as Elizabeth had returned from the march on Parliament buzzing like a bee in springtime. I knew she wanted to tell us about all she had seen, but because she'd gone without my permission she could not say a word. I, of course, could not tell her that I knew of her disobedience or of how close she had come to death at Charles Owen's hands.

As I prepared for bed I reached into my apron and discovered the red silk cord we had found in Owen's pocket. I had meant to give it to Tom, but by the time we'd arrived at the Tower, it had slipped from my mind. I told myself that in light of Owen's confession it did not matter, but something about it troubled me.

I lay in bed for hours, unable to sleep. I knew we had missed something vital, but could not figure out what it was. Martha knocked softly on my door, and I bid her enter.

“You cannot sleep?” I asked.

“No,” she said. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of my bed. “There is one question that bothers me still: How did Charles Owen get into Mr. Marlowe's apartment?”

“What do you mean?”

“We discounted Owen's guilt because Marlowe would never have let him get so close. We thought the murderer had to be someone that he trusted, or at least someone he did not see as a danger. Were we wrong about that?”

“I don't know,” I said. “But there is something else that puzzles me as well.” I reached to the table next to my bed and picked up the silk cord. “Why did Charles Owen have two cords?”

“Two cords?”

“We found one in the chest at his house, and a second in his pocket when we caught him. Why did he need them both?”

I knew the answer as soon as I asked the question.

“Jane Owen,” Martha and I said together.

“Marlowe would not have been afraid of a woman, especially one who was with child,” I said. “And if she was a part of the plot she would have needed a cord of her own.”

“She is the one,” Martha said. “She killed them all.”

*   *   *

As Martha and I hurried toward the Owens' home, I asked myself what I intended to do. I had said that I did not wish to see Jane hang for merely knowing of her husband's treason, but what of the murders she had done? What of the hundreds who would have died if Charles Owen had managed to kindle a fire? I neither wanted her to go free, nor to see her son made an orphan.

We found the Owens' house dark and stood outside gazing up at the windows. The guttering light of our lantern threw mad shadows on the street.

“Should we send for help?” Martha asked. “If she killed Mr. Marlowe—and the others as well—it would be wise.”

“Aye, it would. But I want to see this through to the end. And we will be on our guard in a way that the others were not, for we know how dangerous she is.” I stepped forward to try the door handle. To my surprise the door opened at my touch. It had been neither latched nor locked.

Martha and I exchanged a glance. Only a madwoman would leave her door unlocked at night.

We slipped into the Owens' parlor and peered into the darkness. The silence was suffocating. “Something is wrong,” I said.

Martha crossed to the hearth and poked at the ashes. “Nobody bothered to bank the fire,” she whispered. “They just let it burn itself out.” We continued into the kitchen and found the same thing—no signs of trouble except for the dead, cold hearth.

We climbed the stairs as quietly as we could, but each creak sounded as loud as a dying man's scream. The door to Jane's chamber was open. It was here that we finally saw signs of what had happened. Jane's clothes chests lay open, their contents left in disarray. The layette that Jane's gossips had brought for little Charles was missing, and there was no sign of the swaddling clothes I had given her. Jane had fled.

“What now?” Martha asked. In the darkness her voice seemed unnaturally loud.

“Let us look in the back room,” I said.

We ventured down the hall. I was not surprised to find that the cyphered papers had disappeared, as had the pile of coins we'd left sitting on the bed. The only thing that remained was the red silk ribbon, which Jane had carefully laid upon the bed, as if bidding us farewell.

“I suppose she didn't want to be caught with that on her person,” I said.

“We should send word to the Tower,” Martha replied.

“Yes,” I said. “But I do not think Jane Owen will be found easily. I imagine she joined her comrades in fleeing to the Continent.”

“On the day she gave birth?”

“What choice did she have? If she tarried, she risked hanging alongside her husband, making her son an orphan before he'd spoken his first words. Which of us would have done anything different?”

Martha nodded. “Let us go home. We can send a letter to the Tower from there.”

When we turned the corner from the Owens' house I noticed a dim glow from inside the Crown. I put my hand on Martha's arm and pointed.

“You don't think it's Jane, do you?”

“I don't know who else it could be,” I said. I pushed on the tavern door and—like the Owens'—it opened to my touch. The room was lit by a single lantern and the dying coals in the hearth. A nearly empty bottle of wine sat on the table next to the lantern.

“Lady Hodgson!” Lorenzo Bacca's voice frightened me so badly I had to swallow a scream.

“Jesus,” Martha hissed. “Are you mad?”

“I am sorry—I did not mean to startle you.” Bacca stepped out from behind the bar. “I went for another bottle of wine. Will the two of you join me? I'll get more glasses.”

“Where is Mrs. Owen?” I asked, ignoring the offer.

“You are too late for that,” Bacca replied. “She left not ten minutes after you raced off after her husband.”

“Where did she go?”

Bacca shrugged. “France? The Netherlands? Ireland? Scotland? Perhaps even America. If her goal is to avoid hanging for treason, anywhere that is not England would suit her needs. She has money enough to go wherever she pleases and buy some secrecy along the way.”

“How do you know all this?” Martha asked.

“I have eyes and ears, don't I? In the last week half the Royalist agents in London fled to France, so I knew something was afoot. Then Jane Owen's gossips told the neighborhood about her husband's intrusion into her delivery room, and the even stranger conversation you two had with her. It was not hard to figure out the rest.” Bacca paused for a moment. “There is one other thing I should show you.”

“What is it?” I asked. “If you mean the silk knot, we already found it.”

Bacca knitted his brow in confusion. “No, it is not that. Far from it, in fact. Follow me.” He picked up the lantern and led us through the kitchen to a small closet. He opened the door to reveal a man's body, curled up on the floor, his hands bound behind him. He was clearly dead, and had been for some hours.

“Jane did this?” I asked.

“Lord, no,” Bacca replied. “I did. Jane hired him to kill all three of us. Me for bringing you into her chamber, and you two for foiling their plot to blow up Parliament. He made the mistake of coming for me first.”

“How do you know all this?” I felt myself growing dizzy, and I wished I'd accepted the glass of wine he'd offered earlier.

Bacca laughed. “I asked him. He knew he had seen his last sunrise, so he had no reason to lie. Paid assassins are not known for their loyalty when things go wrong.”

“And then you killed him?” I asked.

“If I hadn't, he would have killed me,” Bacca said. “And the two of you as well.”