An Honourable Murderer Read Free Page A

largish woman.
    â€œThat is Sir Philip Blake. I know him, know him well. The lady next to him is his wife, Lady Jane. They are both involved in this business with us. You might call them patrons.”
    By this time we were on the shore. There was a certain interest from the passers-by in the presence of such important visitors to the south bank but, being sophisticated Londoners, none of us wanted to show it very much. A glimpse of Queen Anne was hardly comparable to a sight of Queen Elizabeth in the old days. And it may be that everyone’s appetite for spectacle had been sated by the river-borne Spaniards. I looked about for Abel and the others but they’d made themselves scarce.
    The black carriage containing the Queen stood a few dozen yards off, sealed up like a sepulchre, the horses waiting patiently in the shafts. Sir Robert Cecil was evidently going to depart with Anne but was allowing himself to finish his conversation with Sir Philip Blake first. It was a mark of Cecil’s standing – some people might have said, his arrogance – that he could afford to keep the Queen waiting like this.
    The Lord High Admiral strode away from the royal party. He was by himself, a fine old gentleman in an elegant ruff. Closer to, his beard was more white than fair.
    â€œWhat do you bet that he’s going to take a little walk on this side of the river,” said Ben Jonson. Hs eyes tracked the admiral’s back. “See, I told you.”
    Charles Howard had turned off in the direction of Paris Garden.
    â€œ
He
has no fear of wandering by himself in these lawless realms. Every waterman, wrinkled or otherwise, in Southwark is familiar with the victor of the Armada, and would be honoured to see him board his boat. And if we were to follow him now, Nicholas, we would no doubt see him entering the hallowed precincts of Holland’s Leaguer – or some other knocking-shop.”
    â€œWhere every woman, wrinkled or otherwise, would be honoured to have him board
her
,” I said.
    â€œGood, good, Nicholas.”
    â€œYou’re very curious about the Lord High Admiral, Ben,” I said.
    For myself, I was surprised rather than curious. Not so much that a man of Howard’s rank might be visiting one of the local brothels – assuming that’s what he was doing – but that he should be so careless about it. As Ben said, the Lord High Admiral would be easily recognized by most of the older watermen, many of whom were ex-sailors.
    â€œThere is encouragement here for all of us who are merely in our middle years, Nicholas Revill,” said Ben Jonson, almost gleefully. “Look at Nottingham. He marries when he’s touching seventy, he gets his young wife with child almost straightaway, and while she is in that state which the French term
hors de combat
he takes himself off to the Southwark stews because he must have it. He must have
it
.”
    â€œI’m not in my middle years,” was my feeble reply. But Jonson wasn’t even listening.
    â€œI will follow my admirable admiral, I think. He has given me my cue for this hot afternoon,” he said, moving off in the direction taken by Nottingham and pausing only to shout out a reminder that I should present myself at the Mermaid tavern that evening, if I chose. And so Jonson left, presumably for one of the stews which are studded across Southwark like so many buttons on a whore’s outfit.
    I might have done the same, I suppose. I used to frequent Holland’s Leaguer sometimes when my friend Nell worked there (although I enjoyed free what others paid for). But I have lost my taste for that particular place ever since her sad departure. And because the heat which was stirring up Ben Jonson had left me feeling spiritless I made my way back to my lodgings.

    * see
Death of Kings

Where lodges he?
    T he story of my lodgings is part of the story of my time in London. Sometimes I thought my changing accommodation was a