Just before crossing Bishopsgate Without, she turned and peered down. The London ditch was too deep and too noisome to crawl into, used as an open sewer for the houses just within the wall. Instead across the main road, she searched for another hidden place in which to sleep. Eventually it was only a tree, an old oak with arms spreading a green canopy over the worn earth below. Pigs had been scrubbing there for acorns and no grass grew, but sitting with her back to the thick trunk, Tyballis felt sheltered. The sword hilt poked into her ribs, but she kept it close. She did not mean to sleep too long. The stars sprang like tiny church candles from the cold black above. From somewhere, perhaps from Bedlam, a dog was barking at the moon. Tyballis closed her eyes. She hoped to dream of Andrew.
Andrew went directly from Baynard’s to Portsoken. With the city gates locked fast for the night, once again he approached the river, unroped one of the wherries from the steps, picked the lock that held the oars, and rowed swiftly downstream. The stars reflected like minute beacons on the water’s surface. He rowed through silver dancing spangles.
Chapter Seventy-Two
The young man stared down at the body on the bed, grunted and scratched his chin. He looked back at the seething and furious woman waiting impatiently behind him. ‘He’s dead,’ said the captain.
‘You think I need you stupid bugger to tell me that?’ screeched Mary Notgrin. ‘Clear as piss, it is. What I want to know is – what are you going to do about it?’
Hetchcomb shook his head. ‘Bury the poor bastard, I suppose,’ he pondered, one finger gingerly poking at Baron Throckmorton’s motionless ribs. ‘Perhaps send for the priest. Throckmorton got any family left, has he?’
‘His lordship,’ Mary sniffed, still furious, ‘ain’t got no one ’cept me. So, I’ll go for the priest, but I’ll go for the constable, too. This was bloody murder, it was, and must be answered for.’
‘Difficult.’ Hetchcomb again scratched his chin. ‘Best not involve the constable. Unusual circumstances, I’m afraid. You say the girl did it? Well, there’s others implicated as wouldn’t want the situation investigated too closely, with lords far more important than Throckmorton. And the sly hussy will only say it was self defence.’
‘I fed her,’ wailed Mary with bitter regret. ‘He said to leave the bitch starving, but I give her my best gruel. And then she slaughters my baby, and runs off without a sorry nor a thank you.’
Mary was clinging to the corner of the bed, wild-eyed and quivering. Her huge breasts shuddered and swung as she spoke, bursting from her apron and the gown beneath. Dark sweat stains streaked black beneath her arms and across the bulges of her waist. Hetchcomb eyed the woman with dislike. ‘Quiet, fool. You want the neighbours coming to gawp? This must be kept secret.’
The corpse was spread-eagled over the mattress. His codpiece was awry, his doublet unlaced, and around his neck were the assorted stains of food, wine, and copious amounts of blood. His head was tilted back at an unusual angle, and his mouth was full of greenish vomit, the thick slime now dried and cracked around his lips. His eyes, still open, glared up at the bed’s cobwebbed tester with milky surprise while beneath his skull the blood was a blackened mess. Hetchcomb said, ‘Choked on his own spew by the looks of things.’
‘The trollop hit my baby over the head with a nasty big candlestick,’ objected Mary. ‘I took it off her. I’d have broked her miserable face with it if I’d knowed what she did afore she ran.’ Mary sidled up to the bedhead, patting the baron’s ruined shoulder. ‘Look at his poor dear life’s blood all spilled and spoiled,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the bitch, I will. And that other interfering bugger. I told him I would, and so I shall.’
Hetchcomb looked up with a frown. ‘Him? Who?’
‘The fancy man as come to look and poke around,’ Mary explained. ‘Said his name were Feayton. I told him it were that murdering little hussy as did my poor Esmund in. Asked a hundred questions he did, and went rummaging all through the house. He done told me not to call the constable, too, but I reckon I shall – and then go watch that trollop swing at Tyburn.’
Hetchcomb walked immediately to the door, but turned back with a snarl. ‘You’ll not go near the law, madam, do you hear? Or I shall send you to the same grave as your wretched master. But Feayton is known to me. And now I shall certainly avenge your foolish Esmund for you, and I shall do it with the greatest of pleasure.’
Mister Cobham reached his old house shortly before dawn, with the stars still bright in a clear night sky. The little cold wind carried the stench of the tanneries, but the sweet damp smell of growth in the surrounding gardens cleansed the air. Andrew pushed the front door open and walked directly into the hall. The fire had sunk low across the massive hearth with a smattering of wood ash and a drift of soot. He kicked the last smouldering remains and a faint spark sizzled. Once within his own private quarters, he saw no sign that Tyballis had returned. Nothing had been disturbed. He stopped, shoulders slumped, and took one deep breath of utter disappointment.
Back in the hall, he heard footsteps and turned. A small figure had scampered down the stairs and stopped abruptly in front of the fire’s last flicker. Andrew gazed down at her. ‘Ellen. Where’s your mother?’
Ellen curtsied. ‘’Sleep, sir. And my Pa. I bin up with them babies grizzling.’
Andrew nodded. ‘And have you seen Mistress Tyballis in the past hours? Yesterday, or tonight?’
The child shook her curls. ‘No, mister. I ain’t seen our Tybbs for ever so long. I only seen Mister Luke, and my Ma and Pa, and them babies, and Hob the baker’s boy. He brung fresh bread for the feeding of Mister Luke. We et some, too.’
‘Very well.’ Andrew strode towards the front doors. ‘Tell your mother I’ll be back, hopefully within a few hours.’ He stopped a moment, untied his purse and emptied several coins into Ellen’s small grubby palm. ‘If I return with Tyballis as I intend to, she’ll need hot food. It’ll likely be dinnertime by then.’
Ellen brightened. ‘Real meat and such, mister? For all of us?’
First light was creeping over the rooftops as Andrew strode out again, heading north. He held a small torch, tapers lit from the fire, but the flame swept and flared in the wind, shuddering into sudden scattered sparks that stung his hand. The roads up from Portsoken towards the High Street and beyond were cut across by alleyways, churchyards and small walled gardens. There were a thousand places to search. With the torch held high, Andrew called her name, though softly, for folk were rising and he wanted neither witness nor interruption. On reaching open ground where the houses were sparse, he called louder. No one answered.
The torch blew out in the wind’s sharp whine and he dropped the remaining stubs, stamping out the cinders. Walking on, he peered carefully into each dark corner. Slowly, since he scoured every lane and retraced his steps a dozen times, he came through Hounds Ditch and almost to Bishopsgate Without. He had traced a hundred traitors and foreign spies over the years, discovering those who, for many reasons, did not wish to be found. It did not occur to him that he might fail this time. He was aware only of the risk of reaching her too late.