‘Ben, you said the assassin called out, “Who’s there?”’
‘Yes, something like that.’
‘Definitely not words in a foreign language?’
‘No, he had an accent but his meaning was plain enough. Well, it must have been or Master Packington would not have replied.’
‘Now that is what puzzles me. Are you absolutely sure that he called out “Thomas”?’
It was Bart who replied. ‘Oh, yes. That was quite clear.’ Ben Walling’s friend, tall and pinch-featured, had about him an air of studious seriousness that made it difficult to doubt what he said.
‘Was it a statement or a question?’ I asked.
Ben looked at me with a bewildered frown. ‘I don’t take your meaning.’
‘Well,’ I explained, ‘did his inflection suggest that he was saying, “Yes, I’m Thomas” or “Thomas, is that you”?’
‘I don’t recall… What happened next… Well, we all saw…’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, does it matter?’
‘It matters a great deal to me.’
We had arrived at the conduit house where a crowd had gathered. News of the tragedy had spread rapidly, as it always does in the City, and a solemn mood had descended on the thoroughfare and its market stalls. Shopkeepers, customers and passers-by had gathered and now watched as Kernish cleared a space and arranged his witnesses within it in the places we had occupied at the time of the incident. With his pernickety thoroughness he took each of us again through our recollections of the murder. At last he released us with strict instructions to present ourselves in the Mercers’ Hall seven days hence for the formal inquest before a jury.
As we dispersed, Ben Walling clasped my hand. ‘I’m truly sorry about your friend. This was a monstrous business.’
‘Aye, and the murderer will be well away by now,’ Bart added. ‘I doubt Master Kernish will ever find the truth of it.’
‘He may not but I will track the hellhound down and avenge Robert’s death.’ For the first time I gave expression to the passionate determination that had been forming in my mind.
‘How?’ Ben asked.
‘For a start by asking some different questions — questions the coroner did not ask.’
The apprentices exchanged puzzled glances.
‘Think about it,’ I urged. ‘Was this a random killing or was it planned?’
‘It must have been planned,’ Bart said. ‘The assassin was lying in wait for his victim.’
‘I’m sure you are right. But who was his intended victim? Can you spare me a few more minutes?’
‘Oh, aye,’ Bart answered. ‘We’ve time enough. We’ve been suspended by our craft masters.’
For the first time that day I laughed. ‘Oh, I see, caught in a drunken brawl, were you?’
Bart scowled. ‘It was conspiracy. Business is bad and the freemen look for any excuse to wriggle out of their duties to their apprentices. I was accused of involvement in an affray and Ben’s master says he tried to seduce his daughter.’ He giggled. ‘If you could see the girl in question! Even Ben is not that desperate.’
‘Come with me, then, and I’ll tell you what puzzles me.’ I led the way back along Cheap. After a few yards we turned into the narrow entrance to Sopers Lane. Though the sun was now up, daylight still struggled with the gloom between the tall houses. We crossed the intersection with Needlers’ Lane and stopped after a few more paces. I pointed across the street to a building with a hanging sign bearing the symbol of a man’s leg.
‘That is — or was — Robert Packington’s house,’ I said. ‘Now, if you were an assassin come to shoot him, where would you choose to do it?’
It was Ben who came back promptly with an answer. ‘Probably on the corner along there. You have a good view of the house and can make your escape past St Pancrate’s or run on down here to Budge Row.’
I nodded. ‘I agree, so why did our man take his stand in Cheap, where there were other people around?’
Ben ran a hand through his fair hair. ‘Perhaps he did not know where Master Packington lived.’
‘Or perhaps he did not know Master Packington by sight,’ Bart said quietly. ‘He had to position himself close to the Mercers’ Chapel where he knew his victim was headed and get him to identify himself by calling his name.’
‘But that’s just it!’ I exclaimed. ‘If what you say is right, Robert did not identify himself. He called out, “Thomas.”’
The young men looked at each other, then at me. Bart said, ‘You don’t really think…’
‘I was also making my way to the Mercers’ Chapel,’ I said. ‘Are you absolutely sure you heard a’right?’
Ben nodded. ‘But there are lots of Thomases in London. Is there anyone who would want to murder you?’
I thought of the Seagrave clan. Could this be a revenge attack? ‘It seems a strange coincidence that I was due to meet Robert there and that the killer was lying in wait for someone named Thomas.’
There was a long silence broken, at last, by the thoughtful Bart. ‘Did anyone else know about this meeting?’
‘Not unless Robert told someone,’ I said. ‘It was only arranged last night.’
‘Then you must not reproach yourself,’ he replied. ‘You cannot know that the murderer mistook his target.’
‘Don’t be an ass, Bart!’ his friend snapped. ‘If the assassin made a mistake, Master Treviot has a serious enemy and may still be in danger. ’Tis that that worries him.’
‘Nay, I’ve no care for myself,’ I said. ‘I would gladly have taken that shot in my own body to save the life of a better man than I will ever be. Thank you, gentlemen, for your help and your time.’ I took a noble from my purse. ‘Here’s some recompense. I wish you better fortune with your churlish masters.’ I set off back along the street.
All that day I gave little thought to my work. Customers came and went. John Fink had accounts and orders for materials that needed my approval. But I did no more than go through the motions. There was a numbness in my soul and a buzzing confusion in my head. As soon as the shutters went up for the day, I called upon Margaret Packington. I found her in shock and grief with two close friends who were helping her cope. I muttered a few woefully inadequate words and after a brief stay took my leave.
Most of the next night I wrestled, sleeplessly, with accusing thoughts and answerless questions. If Robert’s death was, in some way, my fault, I would never be able to forgive myself. But was it my fault? I had enemies — that much was certain. Would any of them go as far as murder? Simon Leyland had made his hostility well known and had business difficulties but I could not imagine him resorting to such desperate measures. Seagrave’s family? I recalled Ned’s nervousness about a backlash to the courtier’s death. How far might they go in pursuit of revenge? And, anyway, my thinking always came up against the same obstacle: how could any harbourers of ill-will possibly have known I was going to be on that street before dawn. The arrangement had been made only a matter of hours before and I, certainly, had told no one. Which left Robert himself as the only possible source of the information. Yet, if he had been the intended victim, how could the assassin’s behaviour be explained? To waylay his victim in front of witnesses when he could have done so in the seclusion of Sopers Lane? To use a gun that would draw attention to the crime rather than a silent knife? Such actions did not suggest the work of a rational mind. Could it be that this was, after all, a random killing, the action of a madman?
At some point in the early hours I quit my bed’s tumbled sheets and lit a candle. I became aware of noises outside and opened the shutters to peer out. I saw a group of men carrying lanterns and armed with staves. Two of them wore common soldiers’ helmets. All were bundled up with thick cloaks against the dank night air. One appeared to be issuing orders and I recognised him as our current ward constable. He divided his force into two groups and led one further along West Cheap; the other set off towards the Standard and Poultry. So, I thought, the watch has been put on alert. A pity they were not more attentive twenty-four hours since.