“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 day 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
