The Midwife and the Assassin (36 page)

“Are we still in danger?” I asked. “Are there others?”

“I do not think so,” Bacca said. “Before I killed him, I made him write to one of Mrs. Owen's friends in France saying he'd killed the three of us. Unless she returns to London and stumbles across us at the market, Mrs. Owen will think we are all dead.” Bacca closed the door, and we returned to the dining room.

“But with all this confusion and danger,” Bacca continued, “I think it would be prudent for me to find a new profession. I fear I have become too old and too tenderhearted for the life of a spy.”

“What will you do?” Martha asked.

Bacca looked around the room and a smile played across his lips. “It appears that the Crown is in need of a new owner. Perhaps I will take up the work of a tavern-keeper.”

I laughed. “So London agrees with you?”

“More so than the hanging that awaits me in Italy,” Bacca said. “After so many years I've even grown used to the winters. Yes, I think I will stay.

“But what of you?” he asked. “With the plot ended and Mr. Marlowe dead, you are free to return to the country, are you not?”

“I suppose I am.” It was true, of course, and I was surprised that the thought had never occurred to me. But was my home in Pontrilas truly my home? Or was the Cheap my home? “Come to think of it, I will accept that glass of wine.”

 

Chapter 28

The next morning I sent a boy with a letter to Tom saying that Martha and I would be visiting. After breakfast we made our way through the city to the Tower. Will was waiting at the gate.

“You'll find Colonel Reynolds in a black humor,” he warned us as we made our way to the heart of the castle.

“Let me guess why,” I said. “Jane Owen has disappeared, and you have no idea where she went.”

Will stopped and stared at me. “How did you know?”

“It's even worse than you think,” I said. “I'll tell you and Tom together.”

“If you have worse news than that, I'm not sure I want to be there,” Will said. When we reached Mr. Marlowe's office (it was hard not to think of it that way), Will knocked twice and we entered. Tom sat behind the desk, leafing through a sheaf of papers, frustration etched into his brow.

But the smile that crossed his face when he saw that I'd come warmed my heart. Tom rounded the desk and embraced me.

“I fear I do not have much time to talk,” he said. “Jane Owen has disappeared from her home, and we must find her.”

“You won't,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Tom asked. “How do you know?”

“She's fled England,” I said. “But that is not all.”

Tom stared at me for a moment and realized the seriousness of my news. “Tell me.”

“Charles Owen lied about the murders. He didn't commit them, not all of them anyway. Jane killed Mr. Marlowe.”

“That can't be right,” Will said. “She is a woman and was with child.”

“That's how she got into Mr. Marlowe's apartment,” Martha said. “He never would have opened the door for a man, especially Charles Owen. But a young woman who was with child? He never would have seen the danger, not until the knife was already between his ribs.”

“What about Daniel Chidley and Enoch Harrison?” Tom asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “Only the Owens can say for sure. But once again, where Daniel Chidley and Enoch Harrison might have suspected a man, Jane could get close enough to do whatever she pleased.”

Tom sighed. “I will ask Owen, but if he's lied this long, I doubt he'll suddenly decide to tell the truth.” Tom paused for a moment. “Are you sure it was her? Do you have any proof?”

“There are these.” I removed the two silk knots from my apron. “We found one in a locked chest at the Owens'. Charles Owen had the other when he was taken by the watch.”

Tom took the cord. “They are the same as the one that Abraham Walker carried.”

“Aye,” I said. “I should have realized it as soon as we found the second one in Owen's pocket, but I too was blinded by Jane's sex.”

“And the fact that she fled can only be a sign of guilt,” Martha said. “A mother who flees on the day she gives birth must be very frightened of something.”

Tom nodded. “So I allowed a murderess with a newborn in her arms to escape from my grasp? That will inspire confidence in the Council, I should think.”

We stood in silence for a moment.

Tom looked up at me. “Oh, we did make one discovery of note, and it makes your case for Jane Owen's guilt all the stronger. She was Abraham Walker's sister. Charles Owen and Abraham Walker were brothers through Jane.”

Such news was unexpected, but after the events of the last two days I could hardly say I was surprised. “A family of spies,” I said.

“Aye,” Tom said. “It is also how they were able to escape Mr. Marlowe's investigations. I can't tell you how many men Mr. Marlowe had hidden in among the Royalists, but he never knew of this plot.”

“He would have had to marry into it,” Martha said. “And as a result they came within a few minutes of destroying all of Westminster.”

“That also explains Jane's farewell gift to me,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Tom asked.

“Before she fled, Jane Owen paid a man to murder me and Martha. She wanted revenge, it seems.”

Tom looked to Will. “Gather a squad of men.” He turned back to me. “Who is he? We will take him today and keep you safe.”

“Tom, it is fine,” I said. “Lorenzo Bacca ensured my safety. The assassin will not trouble us. And with Cromwell's spies on her trail, Jane Owen is in no position to pursue revenge. I am safe enough.”

“I do not like it,” Tom said.

“I would be disappointed if you did,” I replied. “But you must not worry.”

Tom sighed heavily. “Very well. But right now, Will and I must return to business. Will the two of you join us for dinner tomorrow? We can meet at the Horned Bull and walk to a victualing house that is more agreeable.”

“Very well,” I said. “Tomorrow it is.” I crossed the room, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and slipped out with Martha close behind.

*   *   *

When the next afternoon came, so too did a boy with a letter. It was short, simply asking Martha and me to meet Tom and Will at the Tower rather than the Horned Bull.

“It seems dinner will have to wait,” Martha said. “I wonder why.”

“Perhaps he captured Jane Owen,” I replied. “It could be anything.” But the truth was that from the moment the letter arrived, I felt a growing sense of unease. I told myself I was imagining the worst when I should hope for the best, but such pleasant thoughts failed to cheer me. By the time we departed for the Tower, I was utterly convinced the happiness that had seemed within our grasp was slipping away before my eyes.

My suspicion became a certainty when we arrived at the Tower gate and saw Will's ashen face.

“Will, what is it?” Martha and I asked at the same time.

“Colonel Reynolds will tell you.” He could barely choke back his tears, and I began to weep, though I did not know why.

“Will, you must tell me,” Martha said.

Will shook his head. “Come with me.”

We followed Will to the White Tower and into Tom's office. He sat at the desk, slumped down in his chair, staring vacantly out the window. He glanced at us when we entered and rose to his feet.

“Tom, what has happened?”

“Will and I are going to Ireland,” he said. He turned to the window, unable to meet my gaze. “Cromwell will take the army there very soon, and we are to help prepare the way.”

I think Tom continued to speak, but all I could hear was the sound of blood rushing in my ears and the thundering of my battered, broken heart. He turned to face me, clearly awaiting some kind of reply, but I had no words.

“Ireland?” Martha's voice seemed to come from a great distance. “For how long?”

“As long as we are told,” Tom replied. “Queen Elizabeth's war lasted nearly ten years.”

“I thought you would have Mr. Marlowe's place.” My voice sounded both petulant and sad. “I thought you would be here in London.”

“As did I,” Tom said. “But in war nothing is certain.”

“Will Marlowe's successor inherit us along with this office?” Martha asked.

Tom shook his head. “I've already seen that he won't. I burned all the papers relating to the murders and gunpowder, and I sent a letter to Sergeant—now Lieutenant—Hirst, commending him on single-handedly stopping Owen's plot. The only others who know of your role in this business are Will, me, and the Owens. Will and I will hold our tongues, and the Owens will be dead or fled soon enough. You are free.”

The problem, of course, was that I had no interest in my freedom. I wanted to be Tom's and for him to be mine, on that day and forever. This was too much for me to bear. I found my way to a chair and sat, overwhelmed by the outrages that Dame Fortune had seen fit to inflict upon us.

“When will you leave?” Martha asked.

“On the morrow. Cromwell wishes to put down the rebellion as quickly as possible.”

I could not control the sorrow that welled up in my chest. I opened my mouth to cry and curse, but only a thin moan emerged. Tom sat and took me in his arms, while Will embraced Martha. Tom wept, whispered to me of his love, and swore that he would return. All too soon, Martha and I found ourselves outside the Tower walls, retracing our steps to the Cheap. The brilliant sunshine could not penetrate the sorrow that enveloped us, and we clung to each other like sailors drowning in a foreign sea.

The next day, Tom and Will were gone.

*   *   *

Martha, Elizabeth, and I responded to Tom and Will's departure much the same way I had responded to the death of my children. We visited mothers approaching their travail, saw that the children we delivered were doing well, and sought out new women for clients. In short, we did everything we could to keep from thinking about what we had lost. Of course it did not work, for sorrow cannot be so easily chased away. The only cure for grief is the passage of time. In these dark weeks, Elizabeth began to accompany us on our journeys, and I began to teach her the art of midwifing. I had long intended to do this, and had thought that such lessons would bring me great joy. But under the circumstances, they were merely a salve for a terrible wound.

Tom and Will had been gone for less than a month when my maid, Susan, roused me from a deep sleep. “There is a girl here for you.”

“Is someone in travail?” I climbed out of bed and began to dress.

Susan hesitated before responding. “Katherine Chidley has died.”

I stared at Susan, one sleeve on, one sleeve off. “Died? How?”

“I don't know. The girl might.”

“Wake Martha,” I said.

Downstairs I found one of Katherine's maidservants weeping in the parlor.

“What has happened?” I asked.

“Last night. After supper she went to her chamber. She said she was going to read and write before she went to bed. I was in the garret when I heard a crash from downstairs. I found her next to her bed.”

Martha joined us, sorrow already etched into her face. “Is it true?”

“It seems so,” I said, and began to weep. I wondered that God would rob me of Tom and Will, and just a few days later strike down the best gossip I had in London.

“What happened to her?” Martha asked the maid.

“When I came to her room, she was having a most terrible fit. Blood ran from her nose like I'd never seen. It was awful. We called for a physician, but by the time he came…” She shook her head.

I dried my eyes as best I could. “I will tell Elizabeth,” I said. “Katherine's body is at her house?”

The girl wiped her nose on her sleeve and nodded.

“We will be there soon.”

I went to Elizabeth's chamber and woke her as gently as I could, for there would be no softening the blow that I was about to deliver. She knew something was wrong as soon as she saw my face.

“Katherine Chidley has died,” I said.

Elizabeth stared at me, her mouth slightly open, refusing to believe the news and waiting for me to take it back. When I did not, she closed her eyes, trying in vain to hold back the tears. I wrapped my arms around her, and we wept for the death of our friend.

“Martha and I are going to the body now,” I said. “You can come with us, or wait until morning.”

Elizabeth sat up. “I will dress now.”

*   *   *

By the time Martha, Elizabeth, and I arrived at Katherine's house, word of her death had spread throughout the Cheap. Her body had been wrapped in linen and laid out on a table in her shop. A dozen people stood around her, speaking softly. I recognized some from the Nag's Head, others from Watling Street, and there were a few I'd never met. The crowd continued to grow until it flowed upstairs into Katherine's parlor and out onto the street. Martha, Elizabeth, and I drifted among the mourners, still unable to believe our friend was gone. Elizabeth clung to Martha and me as if she were afraid of losing one of us as well.

When morning came, people brought bread and cheese, and Jeremiah Goodkey arrived with a barrel of ale, but by then the crowd was so great it was clear that one would not be enough. I began to talk with other mourners and found them as motley a bunch as I'd ever hope to encounter. There were Levellers, of course, still talking politics, continuing their usual arguments, despite the presence of Katherine's corpse. I thought she would approve. Alongside these were mothers whom Katherine had served, including a woman who told me that Katherine had delivered two generations of her family. Neighbors came, and the parish churchwardens, and finally a squad of soldiers. They said Katherine's son was in the north minding the Scottish border. A letter had been sent, but he would not hear of his mother's death for days or even weeks.