“We’ve figured out a better way to change Sir Edward’s mind about where to put his money,” he says. “Since Tristan was already here, in 1601, we couldn’t give him the new instructions, so we’ve called an audible and made an unplanned insertion. I’ve got some specific plans to enact, and I need your help just like you’ve been giving it to Tristan.”
“As long as you understand what I have not been giving to Tristan,” I say, for his talk of insertions was putting me on my guard. He was not near so comely as Tristan and I didn’t want him to be making any insertions on my person. But he gave me a strange look, as if he hadn’t the faintest idea what I was referring to. “Certes,” I said, letting it go. “I am in league with Tristan so by association I am in league with you. Be stating your intentions, O man from the future.”
“I’m going to put Sir Edward between a rock and a hard place. Make him an offer he can’t refuse. Turn up the heat.”
“All right,” I said cautiously.
“Yeah. Here’s the plan. The Constable of this parish? St. Mildred’s?”
“I know what parish we are in,” I told him.
“He’s poor. Easily corrupted,” he tells me. I reckon he must know this from his history books—and don’t I know it from my own life! “Introduce me to that Constable. And then, separately, introduce me to one Simon Beresford—the father of Sir Edward’s fiancée.”
“Why’s that, then?” I asked.
“Well, Sir Edward uses this whorehouse, right?”
“Once or twice,” I said.
“There’s a girl here he likes, Tristan told me.”
“That would be Morag. Bit of a gymnast she is.”
“We have to get the Constable to inspect the whorehouse while Sir Edward is here with her—and Sir Edward’s future father-in-law is with him on a ride-along.”
“On a what?” I asked. I did not like his attitude or his strange accent or queer way with words and phrases.
I did not like the notion that Tearsheet would be inspected, but in truth, all the bawdy-houses are targets occasionally and isn’t Tearsheet overdue for it, on account of my magic fending it off so long. Often’s the time a parish constable will squeeze a whoremonger for money. Constables are given power but no money at all, and so usually held by somebody with a high enough opinion of themselves, who happens to be short on coin. “Well enough,” I said. “But Simon Beresford? The father-in-law-to-be?”
“Yeah, I don’t know where to track him down. He’s a lord or something. Knows the Queen. We have to get him to go with the Constable on the inspection.”
“And why would he do such a thing?”
“So that he can report to Queen Elizabeth which of her courtiers was caught in the whorehouse.” He seemed chuffed with himself for this idiot scheme. His arms—when he wasn’t using them to push his hair out of his eyes—hung more casually at his sides now, as if he’d grown accustomed to them. He was finding his sea legs, as Your Grace’s men might say.
“Hardly seems like something a gentleman would care to do,” I pointed out.
“Good way to win points,” himself said confidently, in that tone that says: he has made up his mind about it, and therefore any new information or suggestion has the weight of mist. “Also, if we drop a hint that his future son-in-law might be one of those in the brothel, then Simon Beresford will have a pressing need to see for himself who comes out of the brothel door during the raid.”
I shrugged. “There are hidden exits on every floor for the customers to leave unnoticed,” I said. “Constables have sought them out for years and never found them, it’s a matter of great pride at Tearsheet. Morag knows those exits same as any of us, she’ll take Sir Edward out of there to safety.”
“No she won’t,” said Les Holgate. “I’ll be blocking the exit on that floor. Sir Edward can only get out if I let him.”
I wasn’t so sure about trusting this fellow now, he had such a different sensibility to him than your man Tristan.
He goes on: “I’ll show up at the same time as Beresford and the Constable. You should be in the whorehouse and protest, make a fuss, follow us around. When we find Sir Edward and Morag, you make enough of a fuss to distract the Constable, and I’ll pull Edward aside and offer him a get-out-of-jail-free card: he can run out the front door and be seen by Simon Beresford, and kiss his social-climbing marriage goodbye forever. Or, I’ll get him out safely and Simon Beresford will never know he’s there—but I’ll only do that if he signs his name to an oath, that he will never fund the Boston Council, no questions asked. Got it?”
Absurd, I thought it. Dull-witted. Absolutely mental. But I nodded, grimacing.
So: that was the plan. That is not what happened.
This scheme—this accursed scheme!—was easy enough to begin because of how the stars were aligned. I spoke to Morag, and explained a little of what we were up to—not about Les Holgate being from the future or such details, just that we needed to blackmail her newest customer and she’d be recompensed for her cooperation. Pym the owner has a strict no-blackmailing policy at Tearsheet, but it only applies to blackmail that he knows about, and Morag (being Scottish) is resourceful. To my request, she laughs and says, “Well, Sir Edward and I do have a special little romp planned for tomorrow afternoon. If you want to catch him in the act, this will be the act to catch him in. This will be an act for all the ages to speak of.” And she laughs with such abandon that I can’t help but be a wee bit curious, suspicious even, of what she’s on about, so I ask her.
“What are you on about?” I ask her.
She sobers right up, although her eyes look like the laughter will still come spilling out of them. “Ach, I might have no morals, but I certainly have manners,” she says. “I’ll not reveal a gentleman’s proclivities.” (For doesn’t she like to show off her schooling with these fancy new words.) “But I know he’ll be arriving here just as the bells toll two, so come at half-two and you’ll get at least as much as you’re seeking.” And we’d have to pay her well for that, for it’s true her lips are generally as tight as her character is loose. She’s the one the fellas ask for when it’s especially secret they need to be. She valued her reputation that way, so hard up for money she must have been, if she was willing to play our game with us. Now I’ll always wonder about that.
’Twas easy enough to find the Constable, as he’s also the manager of the bear-baiting pit, so he’s always around Southwark. The Constable is a funny enough fella, perhaps on account of his line of work. His assistants, who feed the bears and file down their teeth, are large fellas, and fierce, but he’s entirely different. Mild and obsequious at once, he is, and doesn’t he smile deferentially even as he regrets to inform you that he’ll be taking advantage.