“We may’ve seen some,” Mary grudgingly admitted, massaging a tender rib.
“Oh give over, Mary.” Rob’s new admirer gave her friend a hefty push. “Tis the two of ‘em. They’ve been lordin’ it o’ the riverside for the past month, claimin’ rights an’ dues off all o’ us betwixt Petty Wales an’ Steelyards.”
Ned tried very hard to stifle a wide grin, and massaged his chin to suppress it, all the while wondering how he could use this sudden fount of information and just how immune high royal officials were to prosecution.
“That night twas nigh dawn at the Goat’s Head. They boasted they’d done in some filthy foreigners who crossed ‘em and all the dockside would do well to ‘eed the lesson.” Lizzie shivered in remembered fright.
“He wanted me for a tussle after that, his clothes still all splattered from the slaying. But Mary stepped in an’ saved me claimin’ that only two o ’best girls would do for the lords o’ dockside.”
That seemed the end of the confession for with a sob Lizzie leapt off the bunk and fled to the surprised shelter of Rob’s arms. Ned turned once more to the leader of the riverside punks, the belligerent Mary. She no longer looked so aggressive, instead only resigned.
“It’s as Lizzie says. More ‘n fifty others ‘eard it and word of the slaying is all o’ the docks. It matter naught though. They’ve friends at Court who’ll see ‘em right.”
“Who are the murderers?”
Mary seemed surprised by the question and looked quizzically at Ned. “Why, the two you wuz trailing today, Clemmie Watkins an’ Johnny Edwards.”
It would have to be so, wouldn’t it? The fragments of the murder and the plot with the Queen’s Oranges began to click into place. His deficient memory also kicked in a belated recollection. The tall one with the peacock’s feather in his cap-the last time Ned had seen that the fellow was fuming over a misfired harquebus in Crooked Lane. The two elusive powder sorters had finally surfaced, but who did they serve in all this? Welkin, Belsom, themselves, or another as yet undisclosed party? That was the question of the hour and if he didn’t find the answer very soon, well he didn’t like to think about the consequences.
***
Chapter 27. Rancour and Revenge, The Ruyter to London Bridge, Evening to Night, 9th June
Ned lent back against the wall in the shipmaster cabin. His mind all awhirl at the implications of what both punks had told him. He now had the murderers of Joachim and young Pieter identified, with a stack of witnesses available. However that’s also where the normal outcome foundered upon the rocky shoals of reality. No inquest would accept the sworn statement of a swag of part time prostitutes or of the usual tosspots and drunkards that infested the Goat’s Head tavern. Well, not unless the justices were persuaded to overlook the dubious character of the witnesses with a substantial inducement, or if a Royal ‘suggestion’ could be gained. Either of those two easy options was for Ned, an apprentice lawyer deeply lacking in connections and substantial wealth, out of the question, so apart from having the names, he was back to square one.
Not that the actions of a court mattered. No justice of any description in this country was going to convict two men who could claim the Lord Chancellor as their lord and master. Also, considering what was happening, neither Blackford nor Belsom, depending on who they actually served, would yield them. So it would seem that his earlier consideration was the only way. It was private justice or none, unless of course Watkins and Edwards could be persuaded to confess to their crime before credible witnesses. But that would be naught short of a miracle, and in these decayed times miracles were the province of the credulous.
Any further musings or questions were curtailed by a loud rapping on the door. Mary pointed the pistol waveringly in that direction, while Lizzie squealed and nestled deeper into the broad shelter of Rob’s arms. The portal opened to show a frowning Tam Bourke. The retainer looked startled for a moment at the fascinating tableau, until with a regretful sigh Ned stood up blocking the view.
“Yes Tam, what is it?” Ned hoped that didn’t come out too waspish, but he’d had his fill of interruptions in this cabin, and always when it was getting interesting.
“Ned Bedwell, I’ll do all manner o’ red handed deeds fo’ yea and guard yer back, even manage yer whores, but damn me lad I’ll nay be yer doorman! Ye got another caller, the sour faced beard o’ there.” The deputy of Captaine Gryne pointed back over his shoulder with a grimy thumb in the direction of the wharf.
Wasn’t he popular today! Ned, shaking his head with regret, had no choice but to leave the girls once more in the capable custody of his friend Rob. With muttered apologies, he grabbed his cap and shoved it firmly on his unruly hair, then left with what he vainly hoped was dignity and poise.
Ned could have cursed and sworn. The evening wasn’t getting any better. One of Skelton’s dour northerners was waiting for him at the dock. The fellow growled out some near incomprehensible message that left Ned once more shaking his head in bewilderment. Couldn’t these savages learn to speak properly? A play of gesturing finally got across the message that Skelton wanted a meeting. Ned glanced at the sky. It was well into the long summer evening. He supposed he had time to humour Norfolk’s retainer and still deal with the problems of the Gonne powder and the Queens Oranges. So with a resigned shrug he set off to see what that bearded clot of a northerner wanted this time.
Ned slammed painfully into the wall and a cloud of sparks flashed before his eyes, as a strong hand gripped his throat with all the implied menace that this could be his last breath. “Bedwell, I’s been a kindly friend but there’s limits to ma’ generosity. Y’ promised me that mule futterer, Don Alva. I got y’ message so where is the Spanish sheep shagger?” The grip tightened and Ned tried to remember some of the wrestling tricks Master Sylver had taught him. His body refused to comply with the reasonable request. Damn, it probably felt fresh air was a more immediate concern.
“Agghhhhgwwl.”
“I canna hear y’ lad. What did y’ say?” The pressure on Ned’s throat eased slightly, but the fingers remained, gripping tightly with more than a hint of anticipation.
Ned eagerly drew in a rasping breath. Never had the city’s fetid air tasted so good. “I saw him up by Temple Bar!”
Skelton leant across the clamped arm of his grinning retainer, peering into Ned’s eyes. “Y’ already said that in the message. What else? Y’ naught be try’n to cozen me would y’ lad?”
From the reek on Skelton’s close breath, the northerner must chew on raw onions. Ned tried very hard to take shallow breath despite the demands of his body. “There is nothing else! I don’t know where the filthy Spaniard went to!”
Skelton stepped back and sadly shook his head “Ahh Ned, I’s, sorry to hear y’ talk like that. It really tugs ma’ heart strings, but I’s going to let the lads have another wee chat with y’.”
The constricting pressure returned to Ned’s throat and his body’s demands became more urgent as one of Skelton’s men slammed a fist into his stomach. As Ned doubled over in pain, the choker of the pair threw him back against the wall and his sight speckled with red flashes as the agony spiralled up his torso.
At a wave from their leader both men stepped back and a limp Ned dropped to his knees. He would have puked, but the knot in his throat gagged back the flood of bile. By the saints, that felt worse than the pummelling!
As Ned was pushing himself up, a less than kindly hand grasped his hair and dragged his face once more into the view of Skelton’s. “Has y’ recalled it yet lad?”
If Skelton was trying for the sympathetic uncle approach, the broken toothed smile did nothing to help his bid. Ned tried to frame an answer but only a raw cough emerged.
“I’ll give y’ time to rack y’ memory, just for friendship’s sake lad.”