The Scottish Play Murder (19 page)

Lady Larchford digested that for a moment, and seemed to accept that there was an irregularity afoot and it would be best if she didn’t know details. She then said, “Why would you protect me? Why have you done it already?”

“As I said, I understand your predicament.” A pang of guilt chilled her that she must lie about her motives. But she was truthful when she said, “I wish to find out who killed your husband. Constable Pepper rather depends on me in some of these cases, and I sometimes find I can ferret out the truth more easily than he can.” She left out the fact that the reason she succeeded where Pepper often failed was that she bothered to ask questions and didn’t spend her days sucking on a brandy bottle.

Lady Larchford nodded in understanding. Suzanne wondered why she didn’t ask more pointed questions, but at the same time was glad of it. Perhaps there was a possibility of keeping her promise of suppressing the scandal once all became known. Larchford was, after all, dead, in the hands of God and beyond the reach of earthly justice. The countess said, “There has always been a small pocket inside Henry he never let me see.”

Suzanne suspected that small pocket was a great deal larger than Lady Larchford even knew, let alone would admit. She didn’t reply, and the countess continued. “When we were first married I knew nothing about him beyond that he had recently inherited his father’s title. His properties were not impressive, but when we married I could see he had great ambition. As a member of Parliament he intended to be a great maker of law. He saw the role of that great body of men as the natural heir to the power once held by kings. He could see himself becoming so influential in Parliament that he might eventually become Lord Protector himself.”

“Which, of course, that dream died when the king returned.”

“It did. But the ambition did not. When the style of the court changed so much as it did, and suddenly everyone was wearing rich fabrics and vibrant colors, and lace, satin, brocade, and fine leathers everywhere, even I knew we needed more money than we had in order to maintain our position among our peers. Piety and good works were no longer enough.”

“Your husband abandoned his Parliamentary leanings and threw in his lot with the king.”

“It was only politic. His path was clear. And by all evidence, he was successful. His business interests have clearly been graced by God.”

Suzanne pressed onward. “Speaking of your husband’s business interests, I have come to ask about his ship.”

The bald look of surprise on the countess’s face told Suzanne she wasn’t going to obtain a great deal of helpful information about the pirate ship. Her heart sank. The countess knew nothing. “What ship?”

“Your husband owned a merchant ship. The letters you gave me referred to it.”

“He owned no such thing. He much preferred horses. A boat of any kind would have been out of the question. Henry never even liked to ride a barge on the river. It made him sick, you know. He could never keep his breakfast down, were he to ever step onto a floating craft no matter how large or how small.”

“I assure you there was one.”

“What was it called?”

Suzanne stuttered a little, for the letters had never mentioned the name of it. “I was hoping you would be able to tell me.”

The countess shook her head and her shoulders drew back once more in her defensive posture. “Well, I’ve never heard of Henry owning one.”

“You know he engaged in merchant activity.”

“He bought and sold goods.” She said it as if she were admitting he’d dug ditches for the money it had taken to build his house.

“What better way to transfer those goods, than by boat?”

The countess tilted her head in a quasi-nod of reluctant agreement. “In any case, Mistress Thornton, I have no information of such a ship and couldn’t possibly tell you its name. That is God’s honest truth, even would I care to lie, which I certainly do not.”

“Are there papers that you know of, which might point to the ship?”

“Until a moment ago I had no thought there could be one, so no, I’ve not found anything of that nature. And you’ll remember the constable’s thugs have searched this house high and low; they also found nothing.” She brightened as she had an idea. “Perhaps if you spoke to one of his associates. That Scottish fellow he was always going to see. Perhaps that one would have some answers for you.”

Suzanne sat up straight as a rod.
Ramsay?
Could she be talking about him? “What Scottish fellow do you mean?”

“The bagpipe player. I vow I cannot recall the name Henry mentioned. I only remember that recently he spoke of a man he knew who played bagpipes. Henry detested bagpipes. He called it heathen music, good only for Scots to frighten each other on a battlefield. In any case, not long before he died he had a visit from someone that sent him into a rage over the Scot with the bagpipes. He went terribly red in the face, flailing his arms and muttering curses.”

“Curses?”

“I blush to repeat them, but he said ‘The bloody Scot should turn on a spit for eternity.’ Things of that nature. Then he stormed out of here and rode off in the carriage with a murderous look on his face. I was quite frightened.” Tears rose to the woman’s eyes, and her nose turned red. “I hate to think it, but I realize I can’t be certain whether that was the last time I saw my husband alive.”

Suzanne’s heart clenched for the woman’s grief. She thought she could imagine how it must be to lose a family member. She knew how she would feel if anything happened to Piers. She coughed to clear her throat.

But as she did so, her thoughts segued to Angus. What had upset Larchford so much, and so near the day he and Angus were killed? “Tell me, my lady, the messenger who brought the news that so upset your husband . . . what did he look like?”

The countess frowned in concentration for a moment, then said slowly, “Quite thin. Small. Not well dressed at all.”

That last could mean anything, coming from a wealthy woman whose life revolved around what was fashionable in dress, coif, and furnishings. Suzanne asked, “How poorly dressed was he?”

The countess waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, terribly! He wore nothing but a belted shirt and leggings! No wig, no doublet, and not even shoes!”

“Was his clothing badly worn? Holes? Rents?”

“No. Not that I recall. That surely would have been a disgrace. To come here in clothing filled with holes.”

Of course. Such an affront to his lordship the earl. Suzanne said, “What did his face look like? The color of his hair? Size of his nose?”

The countess sighed. “I really couldn’t say I took so much notice of him as to remember those things. His clothing was so lacking, I’m afraid that was all I saw.

Suzanne nodded as if she understood. The man had been faceless. Invisible. She herself had once struggled to not be seen, the better to stay out of trouble, for being noticed too much by those with privilege and power was never a good thing for those with neither. “Very well,” she said. “Perhaps there are other means to finding him.”

“Why ever would you want to find that nasty little man?”

“The fellow who delivered the message that day is the only one who might know why your husband was so upset with Ang . . . that Scottish fellow.”

“Do you think the Scot killed my husband?”

“No, but I think that messenger might lead us to whoever did.” And that was as much as Suzanne wanted to tell Lady Larchford about her suspicions.

F
rom Larchford’s luxurious mansion in the west end of London, Suzanne took her hired carriage to the river docks, where seagoing merchant ships sat for loading and unloading of goods, passengers, and cash. There was a light flurry of tiny snowflakes in the air as she left her carriage in the street and walked out onto the pier, the better not to announce her presence and chase off anyone with information. It was a busy, noisy, and smelly place, aswarm with men and horses moving up and down the piers, the
whap-whap
of ropes and canvas and clank of chains as the ships gently rocked. Shouting filled the air here and there. Great cranes lifted nets filled with boxes and bags. Wagons, empty and laden, moved to and from the ships.

Suzanne wended her way in and out of the throng, searching and not certain what she hoped to find. She noted the names of the various ships standing at the docks, though she had not the first notion what name she might be looking for. Some of the ships were long and sleek, others squat and heavy-looking. Some tall, their masts seeming to scrape the clouds, some not so tall. Some were new and brightly painted, while others had seen years of service and a bare minimum of maintenance. In spite of the cold, she smelled rotting wood and the stagnant stench of bilge water as well as the less offensive odors of holds filled with musty grain or sheep-smelling raw fleeces. There was a whiff of a broken rum barrel somewhere, and a waft from a ship’s galley carried the tang of salt pork and garlic.

Men working on the dock stared at her as she walked past, more than likely wondering where her escort had gone. But nobody said anything to her, not even to harass her. She saw nobody exactly approachable, but she had to start asking questions somewhere because nobody here was likely to volunteer the information she sought. She put a hand out to one fellow in a striped shirt and woolen coat, and a bandana around his wigless head. “Kind fellow . . .”

He turned to her, wide-eyed with surprise. “Me, mistress?” As if she were a snake ready to strike.

“You, good man. I wonder whether you might be able to answer some questions for me.”

He shook his head, nearly in fear, and it was plain he didn’t wish to speak to her or be seen with her at all. “Not me, mistress. I ain’t got naught to say to no lady. It’s him over there as can tell you things, I reckon.” He pointed with his chin to a fellow slightly better dressed though plain enough, with wig, doublet, and proper breeches and leggings, as well as a stout coat with brass buttons, the entire costume of linen and wool.

Suzanne left the man in the striped shirt and approached the one indicated, who was at that moment occupied in conversation with another sailor in striped shirt. “Kind sir,” she said. Snowflakes landed here and there on her face, and she brushed at them as she awaited a reply.

The man ignored her until he was finished talking to the sailor, then turned his attention to her with an air of impatience. “Have you lost your ship?”

Suzanne bit back a sharp reply. Yes, she’d lost her ship. What a brilliant excuse for her to be here! She mustered her best sheepish, embarrassed smile. “Why, yes, good sir. I’m supposed to board a ship, and I’ve forgotten its name. Silly me, I’m always at a loss with names, particularly of things that cannot speak to me, such as horses and boats.”

“Ships.” The ship’s officer’s impatience did not wane.

“Right. Ships. In any case, I’m afraid I cannot find mine, and know only the name of the man who owns it.”

“And that would be . . . ?”

“Henry, Earl of Larchford.”

The fellow nodded immediately, and Suzanne’s heart lifted for she knew he must know the ship. “Aye,
Maiden
. That there fat tub down that-a-way.” Suzanne peered off in the direction indicated, and he continued, “That Dutch monstrosity he bought after it was near sunk in a battle and brought in as a prize.”

“You sound as if you don’t like the boat. Or is it only Dutch boats in general you dislike?”

He shrugged, but his eyes lit up with interest in the subject. His voice lost its impatience and took on a hint of excitement, warming to the talk of pros and cons of Dutch ships. “They’re solid as they come, and not easily sunk, but they’re slow and wallow about in the water like a toad.” He straightened and set his fists on his hips as he gazed off down the pier at the ship in question. “That there one’s got more and bigger guns than most, but she pays for ’em with a draft that hurts her capacity. I pity the passenger on a voyage in
Maiden
. You’re in for a long, rough trip, wherever you’re going. A safe trip with them guns, sure enough, but longer than necessary.”

Suzanne took another look at the ship, then said, “It can win a sea battle with those guns?”

“’Tis well gunned, for a certainty. I wouldn’t go up against her myself; I’d run away if I could, and there’s few as couldn’t outrun that whor—toad.”

“And if you couldn’t?”

“Then it would be the white flag for me, and hoping to be left afloat in a longboat when all was said and done. In any case, I must be on my way. There’s your ship, and a good voyage to you, mistress.” He gave a slight nod by way of bow, and hurried off toward one of the other boats, leaving Suzanne to regard
Maiden
in deep thought while the traffic on the pier parted around her as if she were a rock in a creek bed.

So Larchford did have a ship that was well known to be his. Very telling that his wife had not suspected this thing which appeared to be common knowledge to the rest of the world. The ship was, as the ship’s officer had said, rather squat and did appear somewhat toad-like with her sails furled and her aft end wide, the ship floating high with an empty hold and bobbing on top of the river’s surface. But even from here she seemed nearly prickly with guns peeking over the gunwale. Suzanne gathered from the officer’s comments that
Maiden
was a Dutch prize taken in the war King Charles was waging against that country. A perfectly legitimate possession of the earl’s, except for the uses to which it had been put.

She walked down the dock toward the thing. It seemed essentially no different from any other ship in sight, except that it appeared deserted. Its gangway was out, as if inviting company, but nobody was using it. She saw no men in the rigging, nor did there appear to be anyone on deck. At the bottom of the gangway she stopped and looked up. There appeared nothing to find here. A ship that could not talk would have no answers.

Maybe
it couldn’t talk. What might she find up there, if she dared board her? Nothing, perhaps. What would she learn if she didn’t? Nothing, certainly. She took one step onto the gangway, and nothing bad happened to her. Another step, and nobody came to shout at her she should go away. The ship shifted in the river, and she planted one foot to the side to ride the rise and fall of the plank beneath her feet. Once the gangway was still, another step forward and she was committed. She walked the rest of the way up to the ship’s gunwale, then stepped onto the deck. She slipped a little in a patch of slick ice, but regained herself and found a dry spot to stand.

It was smaller than she’d imagined. Ships to her had always seemed in her imagination to be enormous structures that could hold limitless amounts of cargo, men, guns, and provisions. But this seemed no larger than a small cottage. Cannon dominated the deck, and Suzanne counted ten rather large guns of dark bronze: four along each gunwale, one at the bow pointed forward, and one at the aft near the rudder helm, a long wooden arm atop a heavy shaft emerging from the depths of the ship.

The guns did seem unnecessarily large, their presence overwhelming the deck. Each was a huge bronze barrel set upon a heavy wooden carriage with small wheels. They appeared newer than the ship itself. The carriages were not as sea-worn as the decks on which they rested. Neither were the boxes containing the cannonballs for those guns. Each was well stocked with large iron balls, some beginning to rust in the damp air. The ship’s officer had certainly been right, this ship was inordinately well armed.

The deck tilted slightly in a surge of the river, and she set her feet again for balance so she wouldn’t stagger. Ropes of the rigging overhead whapped and tapped against mast and yardarms.

“Hello?” She almost hoped nobody was there. Though someone to answer questions might be helpful, she wondered if anyone she might find would be truthful. Being able to search the ship without interference might be more helpful. Such evidence would at least be more honest. Carefully she stepped toward a hatch that appeared to lead belowdecks, and peered down into it.

Utter darkness. The sunlight from above shone in a small patch against a bulkhead below, and beyond that was all black. She looked around for something that might help her see, and found a torch poked into a sconce on deck. No help to her without something with which to light it, but she found flint and striker in a box near the helm. It took several tries to make it light in this cold, but once it was burning she returned to the hatch for a look.

A ladder descended into the darkness. The torch didn’t reveal much from here, but it mitigated the black and turned it into shifting, flickering shadows. It was a hold she saw, empty except for three small barrels standing in the middle. Just then she could have stood a good, stiff drink to warm herself. Scottish whisky? By all accounts there had been whisky for Santiago to sell to Ramsay, but here in the hold was a dim scent of rum, lurking beneath smells of seawater and rotting things.

Suzanne straightened and turned toward a door that stood ajar at the rear of the deck. As she carefully picked her way across a rope-and-canvas-strewn deck, she held her torch aloft and took care not to set any of the ship on fire. The door creaked as she opened it. She entered with the torch before her.

Inside the passage, off to the side, a ladder led downward to the left. Suzanne could smell the galley, a distant odor of burnt meat and wood ashes, and knew someone had recently cooked something there. The warmth as she approached and passed it told her the fire was still lit. Perhaps someone was tending it. Perhaps not, but she stopped to listen, for surely someone was still on the ship. She steeled herself, and decided that if there were, she wanted to find him. A member of the ship’s crew might have the very information she needed to determine why Angus had been killed and who had done the same to Larchford. She headed to the rear of the ship, where the captain’s quarters would be situated. Surely anyone occupying a boat with everyone else gone would be sleeping in the captain’s quarters, given that the captain of this ship was dead and unlikely to object.

Her torchlight wavered as she moved, and in the flickering light she found a door that bore the word “
Kapitein
” on a carved wooden plaque. She gave it a slight shove, and it squeaked horribly. One more short squeak, and it slammed shut in her face. Startled, she stepped back. The door opened again, just enough to let through the muzzle of a pistol. It aimed directly at her nose.

“Get the bloody hell out of here, or I’ll blow yer brains out!”

Though Suzanne couldn’t help but take one more step backward, she said in a voice she couldn’t keep from shaking with terror, “I’m sorry. I’m looking for someone who can tell me something about this ship.”

The gun barrel retreated into the room, and the door opened a little wider to accommodate a man’s face. He was bearded, by about two weeks, and shaggy all around. He had no wig, though he needed one for the sake of a hairline that had receded halfway to the back of his soot-smeared head. He made up for the lack of hair with the extraordinary length of what was left, which stuck out in several directions for a great lot of grease and sleeping in it. She thought it might ordinarily have been combed out and tied back, even as greasy as it was, but she’d awakened him and caught him before his morning toilet. Though it was well past noon, she knew that meant nothing to most people. Most people who could sleep through the day, did so. Particularly people who drank as much as this man smelled like he did. The whiff of rum that rolled out on his breath made her eyes water.

“What do ye want from me?” He looked her up and down, and appeared to like what he saw. The familiar light of interest glinted in his eyes, and she knew she would have what she wanted from him if she played her game right. And she was terribly skilled at this particular game.

She thought she’d already answered his question, but patiently she replied as if she hadn’t. “I wish to learn something about this ship.”

“Such as?”

“May I come in?” She reached out to urge the door open, and her fingertips accidentally-on-purpose touched his hand where he held it.

He peered at her with a bleary eye shot red with too much alcohol and too little food, and that glint. He was thinking, figuring what he might get in exchange for telling what he knew. She had seen that sort of light far too many times and knew it meant trouble. Usually it meant she wasn’t going to be paid, but she could see this man’s faculties were impaired. She’d seen ones like this before, and knew how to deal with them. “May I?” she repeated, and gestured inside as she leaned slowly toward him.