‘They have fine uniforms and good weapons,’ he noted.
‘Both are essential in the military world.’
‘Do such items come within your remit?’
‘Everything passes through me at one time or another,’ asserted Fellowes. ‘That is why I have so many junior clerks to help me keep the accounts. It is no sinecure that I hold. This month alone, I have drawn up estimates of naval charges affecting the Office and debts due within it. I have made costings of munitions for castles and blockhouses then receipted Exchequer warrants for the necessary sums. I have arranged transport of munitions to our army in Ireland. And I have provided the Earl of Essex with an aide memoire on a subject of military significance.’
‘Your industry does you credit, Master Fellowes.’
‘I serve the Crown as best I may.’
‘We are lucky to have a man of such high probity in a position of such power,’ said Carrick solemnly. ‘There must be grave temptations for weaker souls.’
The Clerk of Ordnance gave a sharp reply. ‘We have a List of Orders to govern all procedures,’ he said sternly. ‘They make abuse impossible. All records must be kept in duplicate, one for the Ordnance and another for the Council. All indentures are to be signed by three officers. No purchases may be made on the authority of a single officer. The chest where all our receipts and dockets are held in custody has a three-lock mechanism with separate keys for the Master, Lieutenant and Surveyor of Ordnances.’ Fellowes adopted the pose he used in the pulpit. ‘As you will see from these precautions, we are scrupulous in our dealings.’
Andrew Carrick nodded in agreement. He also noted that such stringent regulations would not have been drawn up in the first place if there had not already been widespread abuse and embezzlement in the Office. He flattered the other with unstinting praise before slipping in a last question. ‘How long have you been Clerk of Ordnance …?’
Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather bundled through the streets of Clerkenwell in a vain attempt to impose law and order upon an unruly neighbourhood. It was a dark night with a churlish breeze that carried the promise of rain. The two watchmen sauntered along in step and wondered if there was a less burdensome or unrewarding job than the office of constable. They had uniforms, lanterns and weapons of a sort but no status beyond that of buffoons. Taplow often thought nostalgically of his days as a plasterer and Merryweather longed to be back among his dead poultry. The former would have been more of a match for criminals with a trowel in his hand and the latter could have given a far better account of himself in a brawl if armed with his cleaver. They traded their customary moans then fell back into a dutiful silence. As their old legs measured out the reeking filth of Turnmill Street, they inhaled the air of sweeter memories. Josiah Taplow saw rows of inviting walls and William Merryweather viewed the necks of a hundred chickens.
The watchmen ambled past the Pickt-hatch but noticed nothing untoward. Riotous behaviour within and loitering gallants without were normal features of the establishment and the colleagues did not even throw the place a glance. Drunkenness thrived in the lower rooms and debauchery in those above. Indeed, if sin had a tonnage, then the whole building would have toppled over with its own weight. The two men walked all the way to Cow Cross by the time that the figure appeared at a window. Frances had met with another problem. Though her customer had paid her well, he had beaten her to heighten his pleasure and left her severely bruised. She watched till the man came out of the building then gestured with her hand. The message was clearly understood.
Weary from his excesses, her violent lover dragged himself along in the darkness, and cursed aloud as the first drops of rain began to bite at him. He swung into Cock Lane and found the wind punching angrily into his face. He spat his defiance and surged on with lowered head, ignoring the slime through which he was now trudging and kicking out at a stray dog that popped out from a doorway. Oblivious to the thickset man who trailed him, he struggled on through the damp night.
The watchmen were a hundred yards away when they heard the first yell of agony and they reacted at once. Showing a surprising turn of foot for their age, they sprinted off towards the roaring torment in Cock Lane, guided by each new howl of misery from the victim. They arrived in time to see the fallen man being kicked and struck by his assailant with wilful savagery. The speed of their approach put the attacker to flight and he vanished into the darkness. By the light of their lanterns, the watchmen assessed the condition of the groaning wreck on the ground. He was beaten to a pulp and bones had been broken all over his anatomy. It was the work of a seasoned ruffian. Instead of killing his prey with a single blow, he wanted to smash him slowly to pieces.
Josiah Taplow and William Merryweather came panting up the lane in utter astonishment. No other watchmen were due to patrol their area that night. Taplow raised his staff as if to strike and called out a command.
‘Who goes there?’
‘Have no fear, sir,’ said Nicholas Bracewell, turning to him. ‘We are friends that merely borrowed your attire for purposes of our own tonight.’
‘This man needs a surgeon,’ said Edmund Hoode.
‘What are you?’ croaked Merryweather.
Nicholas pulled off his cap to reveal himself then introduced Hoode. Their garb had been taken from the store of costumes that Westfield’s Men kept at the Queen’s Head. In the guise of constables, they had licence to search the streets of Clerkenwell.
‘Who did you seek?’ asked Josiah Taplow.
‘A murderer,’ said Nicholas.
‘Did you find him?’
‘This is his handiwork here.’ Nicholas bent down beside the victim who had now lapsed into unconsciousness. ‘I believe we shall find the mark of his accomplice as well.’
Because the man lay on his front, Nicholas was able to lift his jerkin and his shirt to expose a broad back. Hoode angled his lantern so that they could all see the tattoo. Red lines of blood had been etched by wild fingernails. A night of passion had been a loveless embrace.
Nicholas was sorry for the victim but glad that he and Edmund Hoode had come to Clerkenwell that night. He felt that he was now one step closer to his quarry. It was only a question of time before the ruthless killer and his equally ruthless partner at the Pickt-hatch were called to account.
Sebastian Carrick could then rest in peace.
Chapter Ten
Childbirth was a source of mystery and pain. No woman could escape its random cruelties. Rank, wealth and the finest medical advice in the kingdom could not prevent recurring disasters in fraught bedchambers. Catherine of Aragon, first wife of Henry VIII, had numerous pregnancies but most ended in miscarriages, stillbirths or death on delivery. Only one of her children, Mary, survived infancy and when she herself came to the throne, her barren womb was mocked by phantom pregnancies that had been confirmed by learned physicians. The meanest beggarwoman who gave birth under a hedge could sometimes stand as much chance of rearing the child as the high-born ladies who underwent long confinements. Nothing about the miraculous process was certain except the fact that it cost the lives of large numbers of mothers and babies. Birth and death were familiar bedfellows.
Margery Firethorn understood this only too well. She and her sister were the two survivors of their mother’s seven children and Margery had watched infant mortalities darken the households of many of her relatives and friends. Her bustling benevolence at the Cambridge abode masked her deep concern for Agnes who was not as robust as her elder sister. But each day brought a visible improvement in mother and child as well as a growing self-importance in the father as Jonathan Jarrold came to terms with his new status. After coming through a testing birth, the baby seemed to know that the worst was over and it guzzled happily at the breasts of the wet nurse. The infant Richard patently liked the world well enough to remain in it and his sense of purpose was the best possible physic for his mother. With Margery forever at her side to reassure her, Agnes Jarrold came to believe that she would at last be able to raise a family.