‘I have nowhere else to turn, Margaret. If any of these Brothers can shed some light on Robert’s death, they will surely want to do so.’
‘I don’t know… He said there was danger for anyone who was identified.’
‘Perhaps that prophecy has come true,’ I urged. ‘Robert may have been marked as one of the Brothers. In that case his friends could be at risk.’
Margaret sighed again — a long drawn-out sigh. ‘Perhaps you are right, Thomas. But if I tell you, you must promise to tread carefully. Robert would ask no less of you.’ She paused again, then spoke the names slowly, as though reading them from a list. ‘Geoffrey Robinson, William Locke and Thomas Keyle. They’re all mercers. Humphrey Monmouth of the Drapers’ Company. Thomas Poyntz, grocer, but he was only here once… or possibly twice. I don’t know any of the other names.’
Shortly afterwards I took my leave but not before Margaret had several more times exhorted me to take the utmost care in my investigations. She was clearly as much in two minds as I was. However, it seemed to me that there could be no risk in contacting Robert’s close friends. In all likelihood they would not agree to meet me but nor would they inform on me to the bishop’s agents. It was not difficult to locate the men Margaret had named. I knew them all by name if not by sight. The mercantile and civic leadership of London is vested in a comparatively small community of successful traders who are jealous of their own dignity and regard their leadership of livery companies, City corporation and church guilds as essential to the wellbeing of the capital. Every ambitious freeman sees himself as being on a Jacob’s ladder reaching to the heavenlies where these furred and velveted mayors, aldermen and company wardens exercise sway over the municipality. The names of the aristocrats who govern our little realm are common property. So, I knew, for example, that Geoffrey Robinson was Senior Warden of the Mercers’ Company.
Knowledge was one thing. Making effective use of it another. How was I to approach these grandees and persuade them to discuss with me matters of the utmost confidentiality? That afternoon I carefully composed letters to the men Margaret had named. I explained that, as a close friend of Robert Packington, I was concerned about the manner of his death and would welcome an opportunity to discuss that shocking affair with any who might be able to cast light upon it. The following morning (Monday 20 November) I despatched messengers to find the recipients and deliver my request. Scarcely had I done so when news arrived concerning one of the addressees.
I was with the Dean of Gloucester, who had called about a new suite of gold altar furnishings for one of the cathedral chapels. As with all important customers, I received the cleric in my parlour and we were in the middle of cautious haggling when I received news that Ben Walling was in the shop asking to see me on an ‘urgent’ matter. As soon as I could do so politely, I concluded my negotiation with the dean, who must have been surprised that I so quickly agreed to a figure well below what he had, undoubtedly, expected to pay.
Ben looked excited as he came into the parlour and he declined the ale I offered.
‘I’ve found the grocer,’ he said. ‘Or, rather, I haven’t.’
‘In God’s name, Ben,’ I growled, ‘try to speak sense. Sit down, if you can remember where your backside is.’
‘Sorry.’ He grinned as he pulled up a stool. ‘What I mean is I’ve discovered who he is but I don’t know where he is now.’
‘That doesn’t sound very helpful,’ I muttered.
‘Wait till you’ve heard the whole story. This morning I went gossiping along the grocers’ shops in Bucklersbury, as you suggested. Of course, several people had heard about the disturbance in the coroner’s court and they knew who was responsible. His name is Thomas Poyntz — something of a troublemaker by all accounts.’
I pricked up my ears at the name. ‘Go on,’ I said eagerly.
‘Well, I went to his shop and asked to see the master. “He’s not here,” his assistant said. The man was quite clearly frightened. When I asked where I might find Master Poyntz, his lips closed tighter than a Whitstable oyster. Not wanting to seem too curious, I thanked the man and left — and not a moment too soon.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘I’d not gone more than a few yards down Bucklersbury when I heard a commotion behind me. I turned and saw four armed men getting off their horses and marching into Poyntz’s shop. I stayed around as a member of the crowd which straightway gathered to watch the fun. There was a great deal of shouting and crashing from inside the shop. Then the soldiers came out pushing three of Poyntz’s men before them, their hands tied, and off they all went.’
‘No sign of Poyntz?’
‘No. He was long gone. I overheard some of the neighbours talking about him. It seems he left yesterday morning on horseback. Probably trying to make the coast. By all accounts he spends a lot of time in the Low Countries — Antwerp mostly.’
Antwerp. Where Robert had been until recently. I knew that he used the English merchant quarter there as his base when his business took him overseas. That was where there had been trouble… where the heretic Tyndale had been tracked down. Tyndale! Wherever I turned in this maze I always seemed to come face to face with him.
‘Well, let’s hope Poyntz escapes the bishop’s clutches,’ I said.
‘Oh, these weren’t Stokesley’s men,’ Ben said.
‘City militia, then?’
‘No, not them either. These soldiers were in royal livery. Odd, that. Why would the king bother himself with the ravings of a bishop-hating grocer?’
‘To show he’s no supporter of heretics, I suppose.’
Ben scratched his head. ‘Odd thing is some folks were saying it was done on Cromwell’s orders. I can’t believe that. If Lord Cromwell is intent on pulling down the abbeys, curbing the power of the Church and putting up New Learning preachers in our pulpits, why would he try to silence people like Poyntz for foul-mouthing Stokesley?’
‘There are people who blame Cromwell for everything they don’t like.’
‘Aye, no doubt that’s the truth of it… though I still can’t see…’
‘If you want to keep a sane head on your shoulders, Ben,’ I said, ‘don’t try to make sense of politics. Any news of this Il Ombra fellow?’
He shook his head. ‘No, and I’ve been thinking about that. Why would someone “shadowy”, someone who doesn’t want to be identified, use a fancy name?’
‘Bravado?’ I suggested. ‘This wretch is a craftsman. He’s proud of what he does.’
‘And a craftsman needs clients. How does he find them?’ Ben brushed his bush of fair hair back from his forehead. ‘Suppose you wanted to hire his services. How would you locate him? You couldn’t look for a shop with a sign outside — “Get your murders here”.’
I pondered the question. ‘I see what you’re suggesting,’ I said. ‘I would have to let it be known that I was looking for an assassin.’
‘Exactly. You’d ask around in the places where thieves, whores and vagrants congregate — like Mother Bennett’s, hard by Bethel, or the ale houses on the road beyond Finsbury Fields. Breathe the name Il Ombra there and say you want to buy his services and, as sure as the Devil’s in hell, your man will come and find you.’
The suggestion was brilliant, obvious, and I had been too mired in detail to see it. ‘Of course! That’s what I must do — make him come to me,’ I said.
‘Hold hard now, Master.’ Ben looked genuinely alarmed. ‘You can’t just arrange a cosy meeting with a professional killer. I have a better plan.’ The young man drew his stool closer. He looked excited. Too excited.
‘Go on,’ I said cautiously.
‘Let me put out the word that a wealthy man — perhaps even one of the king’s courtiers — wants to arrange a revenge killing. If our luck is in, Il Ombra will take the bait and suggest a time and place to see you. Now, it’s bound to be somewhere secure. He’ll be wary of a trap.’