The Silent Murder (Master of Defence Book 4) Read online

  ‘Why?’ asked Ben simply.

  ‘Because, apprentice mine, if we have enemies and to spare within the castle keep, we have a goodly army more in Whitsand Bay – if I have read matters here aright.’

  So saying, Tom turned and, with the other two at his shoulder he crossed to the little iron door and swung it wide – to reveal, under Ben’s bulging gaze, a pair of galleys snug against the big stone jetty there, and the cliff-side dark with men. After allowing his companions a brief glance, Tom eased the door shut and slid the bolts hard home.

  ‘Smugglers?’ croaked Ben, his voice awash with utter disbelief.

  ‘Spaniards,’ answered Tom, grimly, ‘and we must stay ahead of them until we can work out how to stop them and organize those that might help us do it. Meanwhile, we must keep out of the hands of the men that are helping them. We must find the Lady Margaret and young Hal, if we can; and we must warn Poley. I had not thought they would make Kit the King of Fools. That may make things more complicated.’

  ‘That’s your plan, is it?’ said Ugo dryly: ‘stay free, organize resistance, alert Poley and rescue the Lady.’

  ‘Part of it,’ Tom answered grimly.

  ‘Can someone please explain to me,’ croaked Ben, ‘what in the name of God is going on here?’

  ‘In a way it seems to have started with God,’ said Tom, lifting the trap at the back of the powder store, ‘though that fact was not made clear until we got to Winchester; and even there, some doubts remained.’

  Down the ladder they went, one after the other into the strange silver-and-black maze of the moon-bright cellar. They moved on tip-toe and spoke in whispers – and even then only when they were close enough almost to touch lip to ear-lobe. ‘For Gawdy was forced to claim benefit of clergy when he killed Lean Green. He did that, I would guess, because the footpads had failed in their commission to kill St Just as the footpads in London had been employed to kill Mann and Hammond – failed in their commission but refused to repay the money. Get the dark-lantern, Ben; I calculate it will have been returned to the foot of the ladder by now. And watch: it may still be hot. Gawdy burned his hand upon it most fragrantly when he was signalling the Spanish galleon on our first night here.’

  ‘Well, I guess what you say might make sense,’ said Ben, obeying without a second thought as Tom in turn crossed to the moon-bright door out to the cliff-face path and bolted that tight closed as well. ‘But why would Gawdy wish to signal Spaniards or to employ footpads to attack St Just – and what of the benefit of clergy?’

  ‘Gawdy was forced into declaring it to stay alive, for he would certainly have hanged otherwise; and so he revealed a secret he would rather have kept – the central secret of the whole, I think: that his father was burned at the stake.’

  ‘Martyrs were ten-a-penny in those days,’ said Ben. ‘How many did Bloody Mary burn?’

  ‘But he was burned while Gawdy was still in his mother’s womb. Not under Mary, therefore – under Edward; and that made all the difference. He was not a Protestant martyr; he was a Catholic, or held some services that offended the Protestant sensibilities of the good men of Kent around him – and ultimately those of the Lord Protector. But whatever his fatal miscalculation in those dogmatically dangerous times, who was it lit the bonfire under him?’

  ‘The local justices.’

  ‘Indeed. At the local assize. And who is the leading justice of the Rochester assize? – when he is in residence at Elfinstone, at least, as he was then?’

  ‘Lord Outremer,’ breathed Ben.

  ‘The Lady Margaret’s grandfather,’ said Tom. ‘And so is the lovely lady brought to the vengeful attention of an already dangerous man; a man who, prompted by a confederate, was planning to let his madness run riot under the protection of the Spanish; a man who, therefore, needed anyone that might fight to the death to protect Lady Margaret out of the way – to wit, St Just.’

  As they had this discussion they were feeling their way along the passage leading into the tobacco store. Only when they were in here did Tom pause to light the lantern, certain its brightness would be safely hidden from prying eyes for the moment at least.

  He paused in the chamber and pointed the narrow beam of brightness down at the bundles on the floor. ‘We discussed the contents of these packages when we last were here,’ he whispered, ‘but not the wrapping. Look closely, Ben. What do you see?’

  ‘Markings and writing.’

  ‘Ugo?’

  ‘That great “V” there is the port marking of Vlissingen, I think.’

  ‘And I agree. But the writing?’

  ‘Spanish,’ said Ben.

  ‘As you would expect. The tobacco has been smuggled here from the Spanish Netherlands. And it does not stretch imagination too far, does it, to suppose that where Spanish tobacco can go, an enterprising Spanish force might follow? – given some promise of a warm welcome and a good haul of important prisoners: every important social and civil leader in the Plymouth area, in fact, assembled here for their feast of welcome tonight while we have been focused on the danger to the Lady threatened for two nights’ time! Thank God Drake and Raleigh have not come.’

  ‘Hence the importance,’ whispered Ben, returning to the original thought, ‘of the smuggler held in Plymouth Clink.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Tom, ‘of the smuggler held by Robert Poley; but also, I suspect, of some whisper from a spy in the Southwark Clink on the day he first sought us out at the blaze on Water Lane –ablaze designed to rid our conspirators of a canvas and a chapel alike. For he has had wind of this, or something unsettlingly like it, but not enough to take any action – until now.’

  ‘Now that it is too late to warn him. ‘Tis a long night’s ride to Plymouth.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Tom. ‘And that was the point of the Fools’ Feast: to make him think of April and catch him unprepared tonight. But he’s less than an hour’s sail away on the back of a rising tide and the wind coming out of the south and west – if I can get Kit to the little skiff he keeps down at the foot of the cliff.’

  ‘But Whitsand Bay is full of Spaniards,’ quavered Ben.

  ‘Not there,’ said Tom. ‘Round the point on the Penlee side – a straight sail across the Sound and he’s there.’

  ‘Is there no other way of raising the alarm? Has the castle no alarm bell?’

  ‘Indeed it has,’ said Tom, ‘and no great distance from here, in the bell-tower of St Michael’s; but the bell cannot be rung because I cut the rope – as I was bound to do – when I took down the body of Agnes Danforth. You see the cunning of the mind at work in this? Or should I say minds? For there are two, as I hinted earlier.’

  On that he turned away from the tobacco and crossed to the little inner door that led to Agnes’s resting-place. He eased them into the silent chamber and paused for an instant, shining the light down upon her. ‘As I mentioned in the garden of our burning house, it took two to carry Master Mann; and, as I demonstrated when I slammed the trap leading down from the gun platform into the end of the passageway beside the armoury,’ he said, ‘only two men working together could have surprised Agnes. One held the trap up while the other jumped silently down behind her and ran forward to take her by the neck – one-handed, as you see.’

  ‘Gawdy again,’ said Ben, his voice awed by Tom’s ruthless logic.

  ‘And, therefore, Rowley holding the trap behind him, and helping him up again when they were precipitated down the stair and it no longer mattered who heard the trap-door shutting. When was it done? While we were all at dinner, I would judge – and Lady Margaret’s robe taken while she was with us. Why was it done? Originally because if the cut-up portrait was Gawdy’s, the chapel that housed it was Rowley’s. A Doctor, no less, of Poley’s College for Spies at Cambridge. He was in correspondence with someone called Lane – Poley himself, I assume – who was known as Hogg to his other spy. Hogg Lane is where he lives, you see. A good spy on his own spy and on Lord Robert’s spy – Lord Robert Devereux, the Earl of E
ssex, who employed close eyes upon the woman he hates and the boy whose person and fortune he covets. But in the end, Agnes simply saw too much – saw, I am certain, something to make her suspect that they were here when they were not supposed to be here; and so they moved. With Agnes out of the way, a little of the sin-worm’s madness took hold, and the cunning we have noted. For, with the portrait, have they not beheaded her? Aye and burned her too, in effigy at least – so they planned in the house in Water Lane. Now, in her golden robe, they hanged her; using an empty barrel from their hiding-place to do the deed; keeping us all riveted upon the Lady Margaret, who was at once their eventual target and immediate distraction, to be attacked, as I have said, on the day we have all been led toward like chickens following a line drawn in the dirt: Saturday, April the first.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Ben. ‘But I said myself it could not be them because they had not yet returned from Winchester.’

  ‘Ah, but they had. They arrived quite soon after the rest of us and were hidden in the cellar beneath the powder store while they completed their plans for tonight.’

  ‘And how was this achieved?’ asked Ugo, frowning down at the dead woman. ‘They must have had help.’

  ‘We live in an age where our names mean something,’ said Tom, apparently irrelevantly. ‘In the future I would guess all places will be like London now and a mixture where names and lines and families are all too easily lost; but that’s not true of most of the country yet. Find the most common man called Smith and you know that within a generation or two his forebears were shoeing horses. Ben, I’d guess that, were we to climb into the lower branches of your father’s family tree, we’d find some clan along the Scottish Borders that would own him, for Jonson is a border name, like Musgrave.’

  ‘Aye,’ allowed Ben. ‘And so?’

  ‘If not of trade or clan, then of birthplace,’ Tom said, snapping the lantern shut as he crossed to the next inward door. ‘Where was that village, hard by Elfinstone, where the smith re-shod your horse?’

  ‘Wainscott’ said Ben. Then he repeated in a much more thoughtful tone, ‘Wainscott.’

  ‘I told you Kent was all-important,’ said Tom, and swung the door an inch ajar. ‘Now this is our most dangerous path so far,’ he added after a moment’s silent look-out. ‘We must get through the area controlled by Rowley, Gawdy and their revellers, and our absence will have been noted by now so there’ll be look-outs posted. We must get to the tunnels under the gun emplacements and work our way up. If the Lady Margaret is in the public rooms, or her private chambers, we’ll be able to reach her from there. But that will only happen if we avoid the Spanish soldiers who’ll be coming in through the ancient tunnels we’ve just come out of. Rowley’s opened those for them while Gawdy was preparing his Feast of Fools. The gun placements will also lead to the roof. Anyone else trying to get out of this will likely head up there, for the great gate will be well secured by now, so we’ve a chance of picking up some help if we’re lucky; and if not, then we’ll use the culverins to raise the alarm one way or another. In the meantime,’ he added grimly, ‘we keep an eye out for the main chance. For I’ve not given up all hope of enlisting young Kit on to our side.’

  Before they found anyone to help them, however, they first found someone else who needed their help. For, as Tom swung the door wide, ready to make a run for it again, he glanced back at Agnes; and there, in the brightness from the open doorway, lay Martin, trussed up like a Christmas goose and laid out cold on the floor beneath her. So they hesitated in the place a little longer, using the dark-lantern once again and continuing their whispered conversation until Martin was unfettered and strong enough to walk with them.

  ‘It was at Elfinstone I first became certain there were two,’ said Tom as they worked. ‘For while I could just about imagine one man able to hollow out that extra passage within the wall, how much easier it was to see how two working together could do it – and one at each end of the tunnel itself: the master and the secretary. How well it must have fallen out for them – for Gawdy particularly, forced by his employment to share in so many of his mistress’s private thoughts and transactions, but never allowed to see her in her truly private moments. It must have been a kind of hell for him to be so utterly consumed by the person of the victim he was preparing to destroy. What an unutterable release to be able to play peeping Tom to her Godiva; but what torture to know that he was bound to destroy what he coveted so dearly. No wonder the Earl of Essex’s secret gift came to such a mysterious end – especially if, by the most delicious irony, Essex was using Gawdy as Poley was using Mann, to watch her in any case. For the picture also says, does it not? that I have eyes so closely set upon you that I can have your likeness made without my artist even seeing you. A chilling prospect indeed; and,’ he added, as Martin began to stir, opening his eyes and frowning in the lantern’s glare, ‘were Gawdy to mention my name to the Earl of Essex as someone the Lady Margaret was wishing to involve, the Earl’s reply would likely be enough to get the letters to me stopped, no matter what the price. For was it not at Elfinstone we first crossed swords and I cost both Essex and Southampton the fortune Lady Margaret now possesses.’

  ‘So,’ said Ugo slowly, ‘you think the Earl of Essex is involved in this? – that these Spaniards are somehow working to his orders?’

  ‘No,’ said Tom. ‘I think the Earl lost control of his creature long since. I think this is nothing to do with the Earl’s plans for revenge. It is all to do with Poley’s creature Rowley beginning to doubt his faith and think of Spain – of a spy spying on another spy and seeing thereby a way to use his man. Only a man such as Rowley could have sent a message such as Master Mann to the “Master Lane” he knew would be always watching him, unknown from the shadows. It is all to do with Gawdy’s revenge against the Lady for what her grandfather did to Gawdy’s father; and I think he and Rowley have transmuted two strange desires into one great scheme, so that they share the madness now. They have nothing to hope for but that the Spaniards will allow them licence now and afford them protection later in gratitude for the service they are rendering tonight. You are welcome back amongst us, Master Martin,’ he added. ‘I hope you are able to walk, for we must run. The Spanish will be here at any moment.’

  With Tom in the lead and the chamberlain staggering between Ugo and Ben, the four of them raced across the store-room behind the kitchen to the door that led into the tunnels beneath the new works. Tom tore this open and froze: there in the mouth of the first tunnel a wild figure stood facing him. It was dressed in a mad assortment of rags and shreds, and where its face should have been there was an almost featureless vizard mask. Tom charged forward at once, even as the monstrosity grappled under its robes for a weapon. As he ran, Tom stooped and slid one of the dags from his boot-top. As he did so, however, he saw another unconscious body sprawling on the floor. This he recognized at once as one of Quin’s ostlers, dressed only in shirt and breeches.

  Tom straightened as his shoulder took his opponent in the ribs. A familiar hissing sound completed the train of thought and he pulled back, minimizing the damage of his impact, but bringing him face to face with the falchion that he had fought to a standstill earlier that evening. He froze. As he did so, the other three staggered through the door behind him. ‘Master St Just,’ gasped Tom. ‘We are here to help.’

  It was the sight of Martin Danforth that stayed St Just’s hand. As Tom explained what they were about, St Just sheathed his sword again. ‘You stand a detter chance of finding her than I do,’ he allowed at last.

  ‘Can you get back into the great hall and take King Kit to one side?’ asked Tom. ‘He’s our best chance of getting help in that little skiff of his, if we can get him to it before the Spanish close every loophole in the place and Gawdy has leisure to think what he wants to do to Lady Margaret. We’ll retreat upwards if we get the chance. A last stand on the roof, if nothing else. You’ll be welcome to join us there if the fates allow. We’ll be all fools together!’


  Twenty-nine: Desperate Measures

  ‘The best we can hope for is three hours,’ said Tom as they ran for the tunnels leading to the lowest gun emplacement. ‘That will see us through the darkest hours and into the hope of dawn.’

  ‘If we can survive that long,’ gasped Ben, ‘with such fearful odds ranged against us; and such desperate plans for rescue and relief.’

  ‘‘Tis not so bad,’ said Tom. ‘Consider, Ben: if Gawdy and Rowley are in league with the Spanish, the worst of the rest will be in league with nothing worse than smugglers; and most of the celebrants at the Feast of Fools – in mask and costume or not – are good honest yeomen like the postillion whose costume St Just has taken. If the Spanish have the castle, then, they will find it full of enemies themselves – and all of them led by the redoubtable Captain Quin, as like as not.’

  Tom had no sooner delivered himself of this observation than the first of the shots rang out and a great outpouring of shouting and screaming swept all around them like the roaring of a nearby waterfall – only to be stilled by the next brutal volley.

  Martin Danforth stopped, brought suddenly to full wakefulness. ‘Those are my people,’ he said. ‘I must go to them.’

  ‘You’ll be more good to them out here with us,’ said Tom, ‘and a sight more use to Lady Margaret and the Baron – not to mention the chance you’ll have to revenge your sister’s murder.’

  That steadied him. A steely look crept into his baggy, watery eyes and the set of his jaw firmed under his jowls.

  ‘But if Gawdy and Rowley are working with the Spanish, how have they managed to make all these complicated arrangements?’ asked Ugo. ‘I can see how Gawdy would want to, in the strange, fantastic world of lust and revenge he seems to be sliding into; but how in heaven’s name would he manage it?’

  ‘With the Lady Margaret’s letters,’ answered Martin suddenly. ‘That’s it. I’ll swear that’s it.’