A fetid, rank odor hung about the lane, both from the rubbish thrown in the streets and the ditch that ran behind the neighborhood, a ditch full of the sewage of the district as well as that which had run down the hill. From the high-water marks on some of the buildings, I judged that the river sometimes flooded this district, though not so deep that houses were wrecked or swept away. I kept my hand on my purse the entire visit, to avoid being robbed by the thieves, custrels, apple-squires, and trulls that infested the district. I could see my silver reflected in their pouched, greedy eyes.
I now had a number of choices. I could apprehend Burgoyne myself, but I cared little for the idea of nabbing a desperate villain in a rathole like Ramscallion Lane. I could hire some professional thief-takers, but that would cost money—and besides, in the course of my legal apprenticeship, I had met the thief-takers of Ethlebight, who I suspect did their own share of thieving, then “recovered” the stolen items to sell back to their owners.
I could disdain the thief-takers and go to a magistrate, who would give me a warrant, but then I would still have to find someone to serve the warrant, and be scarcely any better than I had before.
I might go to the sheriff, if he was in the city and not elsewhere in the county. But then he would bring his own thief-takers, and would probably claim credit for the arrest.
I could not go to the Attorney General, for the simple reason that Queen Berlauda had not yet appointed one.
The one place I absolutely could not go was the barracks of the Yeoman Archers. The City of Selford rejoiced in its traditional liberties, which included freedom from interference by the Queen’s Army. The army was forbidden to apprehend lawbreakers, or otherwise disturb the orderly business of criminality, unless there was hue and cry (in which case soldiers could apprehend a felon while acting in the character of private individuals, rather than members of a military company), or if there was a riot or insurrection and a magistrate certified that the Act to Prevent Tumult applied, in which case the army was allowed to massacre at will.
Should the pursuing Archers have caught the assassin, I thought, it would have raised an interesting point. Could Sir Hector Burgoyne claim at his trial that his arrest was illegal, as the army had no right to apprehend him?
Of course, the prosecution could claim that a hue and cry had been raised, but the defense could counter that a hue and cry only applied when the quarry was actually in sight.
I would have enjoyed arguing it either way.
But in order to apprehend Burgoyne, I might go to a member of the Watch. But the Watch were mostly elderly pensioners who wandered the city at night, calling that all was well while ringing a bell. (The point of the bell was to let everyone know they weren’t sleeping on duty.) If a watchman discovered a fire or a crime in progress, he did not intervene, but rang the bell continuously and called for help.
The decrepit, underpaid members of the Watch were unlikely to provide enough brawn to apprehend a vigorous, unscrupulous man in Ramscallion Lane, so I thought instead of those who pay the Watch, which is to say the guilds. It is the guilds who maintain and pay the Watch—and pay them as little as possible, which accounts for the infirm condition of the watchmen—but the guilds themselves are filled with strapping young journeymen who might well enjoy a brawl in a place like the Ramscallions. They had come to my aid most admirably when I was oppressed by Count Wenlock’s henchmen, and I thought that with small encouragement I could bring a considerable force to the stews and apprehend my man without trouble.
But then I decided against it. Were I to show up in Ramscallion Lane with an army of pollaxe-wielding journeymen, there would not be an arrest but a battle. The entire lawless district would rise in arms against the invaders, and while violence raged in the streets, Burgoyne would escape.
Selford and the law provided any number of ways to take up a criminal, and none of them were of any use to me.
So, it must be the thief-takers after all. I went up Chancellery Road to the courts, where such people made themselves available for hire, and acquired for three crowns each, and a share in any reward, the services of two very large men named Merton and Toland. From their broken noses, missing teeth, and the scars on their pates, I marked them as former prizefighters, which meant they had practical experience in the ring against opponents carrying broadswords, halberds, and flails. Toland, indeed, looked as if his entire face had been flattened in a collision with a buckler.
I explained that Burgoyne was wanted for attempted murder, and warned that he was a former military man and probably dangerous.
“Should I not hire some more men?” asked I.
“Nay, sir.” Merton spoke in a plausible, peaceful voice that belied his formidable appearance. “We two are used to taking felons quietly, and if we bring a large group into the Ramscallions, we’re asking for trouble. Let’s keep the reward between the three of us.” Merton nodded sagely. “And I will need another couple of crowns.”
“For what purpose?”
“For the landlady, so she won’t make a fuss.”
This was sensible, and I passed over the silver. I was a little surprised when, even after my warnings, the thief-takers armed themselves only with wooden cudgels, which they hid beneath their cloaks.
“Are you sure those clubs will do the job?” I asked.
Merton seemed offended. “Sir, they haven’t failed yet—these veteran crown-knockers must have tamed an hundred villains, and turned them docile as little fluff-cats.”
We made our way down the hill to Ramscallion Lane, and while the stench clawed at the back of my throat, I pointed out Burgoyne’s building. Merton and Toland gave it a professional survey, and then Merton disappeared inside. I followed, and in the deep interior darkness of the hall saw one of my crowns make an appearance and vanish into the grimy hands of a beak-nosed slattern on the ground floor.
“Sir Hector?” Merton inquired.
“Top of the stair. Uphill side.”
Merton wasted no time with thanks, but stuck his head out the door and gestured to his partner.
“Master Toland will stay outside the house,” he explained, “to make certain that Sir Hector does not escape by his window. You should stand with him, if you please, and I’ll howster out this villain.”
“I’ll go with you,” said I.
Merton made no reply, and went to the stair—I doubt he cared whether I lived or died, but he had done his duty in trying to keep me away from any violence. There was no light on the stair, and its upper reaches were black as midnight. The steps creaked and shuddered under Merton’s weight. My hand reached for the hilt of my new dagger. Then there was a flash and a shot louder than thunder, and Merton pitched backward into my arms.
I struggled with the weight of the body as I gaped in astonishment up the stair, and there in the gloom I saw Burgoyne looking more or less as I’d last seen him, in a hat and a long coat, but this time with a big horse-pistol in his fist. He looked down at me in a searching, contemplative way, as if he were trying to work out where he’d seen me before, and then he turned and vanished into the murk. My ears, ringing from the shot, could still mark the clank of his rowelled spurs as he retreated.
I laid Merton down on the steep stair, and one look told me that he was dead, having been shot with a heavy ball right in the middle of his forehead. I was staring down at the man’s face, my heart beating high in my throat, when Toland came running in and staggered to a halt at the sight of his partner.
Anger and excitement blazed up in me like sparks in a forge. “Burgoyne shot him!” I said. “Let’s take him!”