‘Em. Who else.’
‘So that’s why you wouldn’t talk to me back at the Burning Prow.’
She nodded, brushing down her stained skirts and pushing them between her legs to dry herself.
‘What’s she to Cutting Ball? She’s kin, isn’t she?’
‘Em Ball? She’s his sister. Everyone knows that. Where you been living all these years? Now hand over your purse if you want anything out of me.’
‘You’ll have half-a-crown if you tell me where – and with whom – Will Cane lived. And you’ll have another if you can tell me who paid him to kill Nicholas Giltspur. And don’t say his wife, because I won’t believe you.’
‘How do I know you won’t tell Em?’
‘She’s no friend of mine. See this?’ He pointed out the bruises on his face. ‘Her brother’s men did that to me. All I want to know is who killed Giltspur.’
‘Well, if it weren’t the widow, I don’t know who done it. But I’ll tell you where Will Cane lived for a sovereign.’
‘No. A crown. That’s my limit.’
She thrust out her grubby hand. ‘Give it to me, then.’
‘First tell me where he lived.’
‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll lead you there and you can pay your respects to Will Cane’s widow.’
Boltfoot followed Aggy through the grim streets. This burgeoning city of dirt and squalor almost made Boltfoot wish he was at sea again. On second thoughts, anything but that.
She turned southwards towards the Thames and the wharfs. Finally she stopped outside a small house at the end of a wood-frame, in a street a little way back from the riverside. She nodded her head to indicate the place, then walked on, turning westward to retrace her steps back to the Burning Prow. Boltfoot had already paid her five shillings under the threat that he would return and shoot her dead if he discovered that she had betrayed him. She hadn’t looked as though she believed him.
Will Cane’s house was a surprise. It was not the house of a rich man, but nor was it the sort of hovel occupied by the very lowest. Perhaps he had been a man of some importance to Cutting Ball, a lieutenant who took a good share of their ill-gotten spoils and had set himself up. For a few minutes Boltfoot watched the front door. Then he walked down the small alley at the eastern end of the wood-frame, hoping to be able to see into the house from the rear. He cursed silently; the backyards were all walled and he had no view into the house. He was just pondering his next move when a water-bearer walked past and stopped, setting down his three-gallon cone-shaped barrel to stretch his aching back. Boltfoot noted the fine carving of the staves and the neatness of the hoops. He leant forward and ran a hand down the smooth surface appreciatively. Perfectly dry.
‘Fine cooperage. Not a leak on it.’
‘You a cooper then?’
‘Aye. Ship’s cooper.’
‘What’s the hagbut for then?’ The man thrust his sparsely bearded chin towards Boltfoot’s caliver. ‘Won’t be making casks with that.’
‘It’s for the shooting of Spaniards and Frenchies. I served my time aboard ships-of-war.’
The water-bearer laughed. ‘You’re a pirate then.’ He was a small man – too small to be carrying such a heavy load.
‘Some have called me that. Others call me a true son of England.’ He touched the water butt again. ‘Got far to go with that?’
‘No, just round the corner. The Cane widow.’
‘Will Cane’s widow?’
The water-bearer’s expression suddenly changed from open and cheery to nervous and guarded. ‘Why would you be interested, Mister Cooper? A man could die for inquiring into Will Cane hereabouts.’
‘So I believe.’ He picked up the water butt. ‘What say I deliver this to the widow Cane for you?’
‘No.’
‘You see, Mr Water-bearer, I want a few words with her – but I have no wish to scare her. You can care for my caliver while I’m inside. And there will be a silver sixpence for you when I come out. I will merely tell her that you are abed with the sweat and that I am your cousin standing in for you. Now is that not fair dealing?’
‘What is this? What will you do to her?’
‘No harm will come to Mistress Cane, I pledge it. This is a matter it were best you knew nothing about.’
‘No. I won’t have it. You’ll get me killed.’
Boltfoot smiled. ‘I think you don’t understand. The choice isn’t yours, Mr Water-bearer. I am borrowing your load whether you wish it or not. He reached into his soft leather purse and removed a sixpence. ‘Here, take it. There will be another when I come out.’
The threat in Boltfoot’s voice was obvious. The water-bearer was clearly not a man of robust courage. His hand shook as he reached out and accepted the coin.
‘Good. Now what’s your name?’
‘Pearson. Tom Pearson.’
‘Well, Mr Pearson, I shall do all in my power to keep you alive.’ Boltfoot unslung his caliver and cutlass and placed them in the water-bearer’s arms. ‘Take those, go to the water stairs and wait for me.’
The door was answered by a plump woman of no more than twenty years of age. Her clothes were plain but clean and well kept. Three small children, all under the age of five, clustered around her skirts.
‘Water, mistress.’
‘Where’s Tom today?’
‘Took ill. A slight summer sweat. I’m his cousin.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Cooper. I never knew how hard Tom worked until this day. Thirsty work all this fetching and carrying.’ Boltfoot feigned exhaustion as he hefted the butt of water inside the front room of the house, watched closely by the large, inquisitive eyes of the children.
‘Put it in the corner near the empty, Mr Cooper, and sit yourself at the table. I’ll fetch you some ale.’ She disappeared out the back with the children in her wake.
Boltfoot sat down and took in his surroundings. It was a comfortable, modest room with a settle and a table and a dresser displaying a variety of pewter pots and earthenware. It was not the sort of home he had expected of a lieutenant to the infamous Cutting Ball.
‘Here you are.’ Mistress Cane returned with a beaker of ale and handed it to Boltfoot. The three small children trailed behind her like ducklings.
‘Thank you, mistress, thank you. You have saved my life.’
‘I will tell you your life if you wish. Give me your hand.’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, I’ll not have superstition.’
She smiled, then reached out and took his hand. He did not resist. She studied it for a minute, then looked up and met his eyes. ‘You will suffer great pain, Mr Cooper. But I say you will find much love.’
He snatched his hand away. ‘You think me a fool.’
She continued to smile, but said no more. He drank his ale, his head buzzing. He could not recall when a woman had last touched him. He took a deep breath.
‘I am sorry to hear about your husband . . .’
She looked puzzled. ‘Are you? Why?’
‘Well, I heard-’
‘That he got himself hanged for murder?’
Boltfoot nodded.
‘Mr Cooper, I must tell you that dying was the best thing Will Cane ever did for this family.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Tell me you are not one of Cutting Ball’s men come to spy on me.’
‘Do I look so villainous? No, mistress, my trade was always cask-making and repairing.’
‘You look villainous enough with your bruised face. But I have lived among thieves and killers long enough to know that appearances can deceive. Perhaps you are an honest man.’
She sat down opposite him, looked into his eyes and sighed. ‘Will Cane was not a good man. No, that does not tell it well. He was a vicious brute and I fear he may have killed before. More than once, and most cruelly.’
‘And yet you married him.’
‘This is beginning to sound like an interrogation, Mr Cooper.’
‘Forgive me. I-’
‘It is no matter. I care not whether you are a Cutting Ball man or from the justice. I am beyond pain and fear. I married Will because he was handsome and dangerous. And because my father wished it.’