Fear No More (hardy drew) Read online

  Fear No More

  ( Hardy Drew )

  Peter Tremayne

  Peter Tremayne

  Fear No More

  Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

  Nor the furious winter’s rages;

  Thou the worldly task has done,

  Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages…

  Cymbeline Act IV, Scene 2, William Shakespeare

  A wailing March wind was blowing from the northwest along Bankside, causing the Thames to move in choppy wavelets and froth an angry white around its quays and the massive piles of the great London Bridge. Wisps of thatch were being blown hither and thither among the debris of the streets, plucked from the houses and even from the roof of the stately Globe Theatre.

  The wind howled down Pepper Street, causing the painted wooden sign of the Pilgrim’s Wink Tavern to rattle and shake in spite of its iron fastening.

  Screwing up his eyes against the icy smack of the wind, Master Hardy Drew, Constable of the Bankside Watch, opened the lattice window on the first floor of the tavern. He held it ajar a fraction in order to lean out, pull closed a loose, banging shutter, and fasten it before, thankfully, securing the window latch again.

  It had been a cold winter and the elderly queen, insisting on going for her walk in the February chills, had caught cold and had been ailing since. In fact, the talk was that the poor lady would not recover. She lay in her palace at Richmond surrounded by members of her privy council and attended by her physicians and even the elderly Archbishop John Whitgift of Canterbury. All that day, Sunday, the nation had offered prayer for her recovery. Master Drew himself had gone to the church of St. Saviours to offer his supplication, but it seemed a forlorn hope. Yet, after forty-five years, it seemed impossible to imagine England without Elizabeth upon its throne.

  He turned back into the room that he rented on the first floor of the tavern and rubbed his forehead to massage warmth back into his cold flesh. The distant cry of a night watchman proclaiming the hour turned his thoughts to bed. He had finished the piece of cold mutton pie and the pint of ale that comprised his supper and glanced undecided at the dying embers of the fire. He paused wondering whether to place another log on it and continue reading for a while longer.

  Above the threatening cry of the wind and the occasional bang and crash of some object being pushed along the cobbled street before it, he suddenly became aware of a new sound. The rattle of a coach on the stones outside and the nervous whinny of horses caught his ear. Then he realised the coach had halted outside. He stood, head to one side, listening. Sure enough, there came a thunderous knocking on the door below. He made no stir for he heard Master Cuttle, the landlord, already grumbling at the door. Only a moment passed before he heard rapid footsteps on the stair and there came a knock on his own door.

  In answer to his invitation, it swung open and Master Cuttle stood nervously on the threshold for a moment.

  “Gen’leman to see you, Master Drew,” he mumbled before scurrying off.

  A tall man of some fifty years entered and pushed the door behind him. Master Drew caught the sweet smell of a tincture of roses, noted the finery of the cloak and hat, which the man proceeded to cast off without waiting for an invitation, throwing them carelessly over the nearest upright chair. His clothing not only proclaimed him a gentleman but a man of some status and substance.

  “Do you recognise me, Master Drew?” he demanded without preamble.

  Master Drew’s features had formed a frown of recognition. He had seen the attorney general of England several times when his duties took him north of the river to the law courts of the realm. He made a hurried bow.

  “Sir Edward. Please take a seat before the fire and tell me how I may serve you at this hour?”

  At the same time, Master Drew moved quickly to the fireplace to put the extra log on the embers.

  Sir Edward Coke moved unsmilingly to the indicated chair.

  “I have heard good things of you, Master Drew,” he said, as he seated himself. “I have heard others say that you have a reputation as a solver of puzzles. A man with the ability to supply solutions to the most difficult conundrums and withal a man of discretion. Is this not so?”

  Master Drew grimaced.

  “I am not responsible for what others say, Sir Edward. I can only say that I have had a little success since my appointment as constable here on the Bankside.”

  Sir Edward smiled quickly, as if satisfied with the answer.

  “Modesty may be a virtue, Master Drew, but it does not put a pension in your pocket or put a prefix before your name.”

  “My ambition is to keep my name and save a little to buy a small farm out beyond Moorfields where I might, in simple comfort, spend the twilight of my years.”

  “Modest enough. But with your talent, ambition should look further.”

  “I am well content. But I fear it was not talk of my ambition that was your reason for coming to call here on such a night.”

  Sir Edward sighed.

  “Indeed, good Master Drew. I have a puzzle to set before you. I will pay you well for your consideration of the matter.”

  Master Drew raised an inquisitorial eyebrow.

  “Perhaps you would be so good as to elucidate the matter?”

  “I will tell you in the coach. We have to go to Holborn, north of the river.”

  “But the gates on the bridge will be closed. And I have no jurisdiction on the north bank of the river.”

  Sir Edward laughed.

  “The gates of London Bridge will open to me. I am the attorney general and will tell you where your jurisdiction is.”

  Master Drew sighed deeply, casting a wistful look at the fire where the log he had recently placed on the embers was blazing merrily.

  It was scarcely fifteen minutes later when, having given instructions to Master Cuttle to have a care of the fire and seizing his worn but woollen cloak and hat, Master Drew found himself north of the river, seated in the attorney general’s coach. They had crossed London Bridge with amazing rapidity. The sentinels at the southern Stone Gate and then at the northern gate marked by Nonsuch House had given one glance at Sir Edward’s coat of arms emblazoned on the carriage doors and had waved it through with all speed. Sir Edward was relaxed in his seat opposite Master Drew.

  “In plain truth, Master Drew, the young cousin of an acquaintance of mine has been killed.

  Two men set him upon as he came to the town house of my acquaintance in Holborn. He had not long been in London, I’m afraid, and took a fancy to a stroll around the Chancery Courts and gardens, returning on foot at dusk. We need to be satisfied that this was either an attack by thieves to rob the unfortunate young man or whether there was some more sinister design.”

  Master Drew was surprised.

  “Sadly, as you well know, sir, such attacks are not unknown. The footpads will have vanished into the slums around the Fleet. If you are asking me to track them, I fear I shall not be successful. That is, unless they took some singular object by which they can be identified if and when they attempt to sell it.”

  Sir Edward was shaking his head.

  “The young man was not robbed, sir. At least, his purse was still on his body.”

  “Then were the thieves disturbed?”

  “They were seen bending over the body, but they had plenty of time to carry off the purse, if that was their wish.”

  “You imply that it was not?”

  “I do not wish to imply anything, Master Drew. I am here at the request of my acquaintance, who wishes some investigation and assurance about how his young cousin met his death.”

  “Surely, this is a matter for the City of London coroner?” Master Drew knew that scarcely a da
y went by when some poor soul was not attacked and robbed and even killed on the streets of London. Only if a person was of some status and wealth was an investigation held, and that usually by the coroner.

  “This must be an inquiry of a strictly confidential nature, Master Drew. Five guineas will be yours for the use of your discretion.”

  Master Drew stared in surprise.

  “I would need some enlightenment on this matter. Who was the victim?”

  “The young man was cousin to Sir Christopher Hatton, who owns the house in Holborn to which we are going. We are going to Hatton Gardens.”

  Master Drew frowned as he searched his memory.

  “Hatton?”

  “You are acquainted with the name?”

  “It has a passing familiarity. Ah, I have it but … but Sir Christopher Hatton died eleven years ago.”

  Sir Edward shook his head.

  “This is Sir Christopher’s heir, a great nephew of the Sir Christopher of whom you speak.”

  “I see. The Sir Christopher that I recall had been Captain of the Queen’s Guard, a privy councillor, and, I recall, Lord Chancellor. He was given the palace of the Bishops of Ely by the queen and was buried in St Paul’s. There was a rumour…” Master Drew paused and his lips compressed.

  Sir Edward smiled in amusement.

  “We are alone, Master Drew. Anyway I know the rumour.”

  “The queen was frequently a visitor at Ely Palace and was very solicitous when Sir Christopher was dying. It was said that when he died he was indebted to her by some forty thousand pounds.”

  “You speak of the facts, not the rumour. They are true. Since you are reticent about the rumour, I will tell it. The rumour was that Sir Christopher was the queen’s favourite.”

  “Such was the rumour,” affirmed Master Drew gravely.

  “Let us discard the rumour, then. It is of no consequence. It is known that Ely Place is now called Hatton Gardens, after Sir Christopher. When he died, which, as you rightly say, was about eleven years ago, his heir was a nephew, William Newport, who then adopted the name Hatton. He died six years ago and his cousin, the current Sir Christopher, inherited. Sir Christopher is of my acquaintance. In fact,” he grew slightly embarrassed, “when Sir William died, I married his widow.”

  Master Drew made no comment. The behaviour of the wife of Sir Edward, the former Lady Elizabeth Hatton, was one of the scandals of London. When they married, she had refused to take his name, preferring to keep to the title Lady Hatton. They had often been witnessed arguing in public places, and it was rumoured that the elderly queen had forbidden her entry to any palace in which she resided. It was known that the vivacious Lady Hatton was twenty-six years junior to Sir Edward and an unrepentant flirt, if not worse. They had, apparently, gone their separate ways over a year ago in spite of having a child in common.

  Master Drew cleared his throat and brought his mind back to the present matter.

  “So who was this cousin who was killed?”

  “His name was Henry Hatton.”

  “His age?”

  “Nine and twenty.”

  “You say he had only just come to London?”

  “He had been living on an estate owned by the Hattons in Waterford in Ireland. Ah, we are here.”

  The coach had halted and one of the footmen alighted and hurriedly opened the door. As Master Drew followed Sir Edward to the steps of the considerable town house outside which they had drawn up, the door opened and a distinguished-looking man came hurrying forward. Anxiety marked his features. His glance encompassed Master Drew and the constable was aware of a deep intensity of observation in that brief look.

  “Sir Christopher, this is Master Drew, of whom I have spoken,” said Sir Edward.

  Master Drew started to bow, but Sir Christopher quickly waved a hand that seemed an invitation to dispense with such etiquette.

  “You will want to see the body?” he asked immediately.

  “I will also want to speak with anyone who saw the attack or was at the scene soon after.”

  “My man, Joseph, will show you to the body,” muttered Sir Christopher. “You will join Sir Edward and myself in the drawing room,” he indicated a door in the hall of the house, “when you have finished.”

  A stony-faced footman dressed in Hatton livery moved forward.

  “If you will follow me, sir?”

  He led the way up the wide, winding stairway to an upper floor and into a bedroom.

  “Was this the guest room where Master Hatton was staying?” Master Drew asked, as the room clearly showed marks of occupancy.

  “It was, Master Constable,” replied the footman. “When Master Hatton arrived, Sir Christopher assigned him this room, it being one of our guest rooms.”

  “When did he arrive?”

  “Two days ago.”

  The body was laid out on the oak fourposter bed. It was a man of thirty or perhaps a little older. There were bloodstains on his satin doublet and white linen shirt, both of which garments had been loosened, obviously in some attempt to staunch the wound as the man lay dying. Apart from the doublet and shirt, no other items of his clothing had been touched. Even his stockings and fashionable shoes were still on his muscular legs.

  He was a handsome man. His skin was fair, almost white, and his hair, drawn back from a broad forehead, could be called red but standing more towards a pale ginger. The features seemed disconcertingly familiar to Master Drew. Certainly, the man was richly attired. His hands were well manicured and there appeared no indication that he had ever lifted anything heavier than a rapier in his life.

  Master Drew frowned suddenly and turned to the liveried servant who stood impassively at the door.

  “Joseph, was this gentleman wearing a sword?”

  “Not when he was brought in from the street, Master Constable.”

  “You mean he was wearing one when he went out this afternoon?”

  “I recollect that he was, sir. It don’t do for a young gen’lemen to be abroad in London without a good rapier to ward off the footpads and the like. Though much good it did the poor gen’leman. Maybe the thieves stole it.”

  Master Drew returned to his examination. His eyes, returning to the well-manicured hands, noticed a white circle of skin on the man’s signet finger, which indicated the habitual wearing of a ring.

  “Where is the signet ring he used to wear?”

  The footman looked bewildered. He leaned forward as if he had only just noticed that it was not there.

  “I do recall that he wore a ring, a large one, if it please you. But in the turmoil of the events…” He shrugged. “It seems that the thieves made off with that also.”

  “They stopped and removed a signet ring when it would be easier to cut the purse…”

  Master Drew muttered reflectively as he glanced to where the dead man’s purse still hung at his waist. He reached forward and felt it. It was heavy and clinked with its metal contents. Master Drew removed it, untying its fastening, and emptied it into the contents of his hand. “A silly young man to carry so much. A good three years’ wages to a wherryman on the river. Throats have been cut for less.”

  “Yet the purse remain, sir,” pointed out the servant, stoically.

  “Aye, indeed, good Joseph. The purse and its contents remain.”

  Replacing it, he bent over the body again, peering at it carefully, and then finally came to the wounds.

  “Someone has attempted to clean the wounds since death.”

  “On Sir Christopher’s orders, sir. Mary and Poll from the kitchen did their best to clean away the blood.”

  Master Drew was thoughtful. There was, in fact, only one clean wound. One small incision which would lead the blade directly into the heart. Master Drew had seen such wounds before and they were usually made by a swift thrust of a rapier-a gentleman’s weapon-and not the weapon favoured by cutthroats, footpads, and brigands of the London back streets.

  “Did this young man have his own serva
nt?”

  “He did, sir,” replied Joseph with a tone of disapproval. “He brought with him from Ireland an outlandish sort of fellow who speaks a gentleman’s English, though accented and interspersed with his gibberish Irish tongue. In fact, he was the one who spotted the footpads that attacked Master Hatton, causing them to run off, before he brought his body into the house.”

  Master Drew was surprised at this new intelligence.

  “What is the man’s name?”

  “He tells us that he is called Broder Power, from some town called Waterford.”

  “Ask him to join me here.”

  The footman looked as though he would raise an objection and then, meeting Master Drew’s steely gaze, inclined his head for a moment and went off to fulfil his task.

  Master Drew took the opportunity of the servant’s absence to make a quick search of the bedroom. There was a small walnut writing bureau. Obviously Master Hatton had neither inclination nor time for letter writing for the interior showed no sign of recent usage.

  There were clothes in the closet that spoke of good taste and quality. Henry Hatton certainly did not want for money to buy the best that master tailors could offer. He ruffled through the silks and satins. One cloak caused him to pause; it was a dark blue satin cloak that had a collar edged with pure white fur and black flecks and even the edging was of the same. Master Drew frowned. He recognised the fur as taken from one of the weasel family, prized for its tail of pure white fur and black tip. He grimaced and then closed the closet door.

  An intricately worked walnut dresser contained articles of a toilet nature, with bottles of scents and fragrances that again spoke of good taste. Some drawers were filled with stockings and undergarments, all of good quality. He was about to turn away when he saw some something bright under some of the silk clothing. It was a small silver locket on a chain of similar metal. He took it out-inscribed on the silver was a shield and a motto. The shield displayed two bulls’ heads divided by a chevron from a third bull’s head. Master Drew knew the motto as French, as he had a little knowledge of the language. “Le plus heureux” — The most happy. He opened the locket.