A Web of Silk

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘I wish Philip’s new family joy of him,’ said Dale with a sniff, meaning the Reddings House employers. ‘I just hope he doesn’t teach their children how to lay plots and doesn’t kidnap any of them!’

  The morning passed quietly. Then just before dinner time, when I was in the hall with Sybil, once more discussing her new embroidery pattern, we heard the clatter of hooves arriving at a gallop. We looked at each other, startled.

  ‘That can’t be Brockley,’ Sybil said. ‘He’d never bring a horse home headlong, like that! But who …?’

  Together, we made for the door into the courtyard.

  The rider was Brockley. We reached the door in time to see him pull Firefly to a halt and throw himself out of the saddle. The horse’s dark-chestnut coat was black with sweat. Young Eddie ran out of the tack-room to take the bridle, because Brockley had simply left his mount standing and was running towards me and Sybil. We stared at him in alarm, for his face was white, dead white. I could not recall ever having seen him look like that before.

  I said: ‘Brockley!’ and he stopped, gasping, catching at the doorpost. ‘What is it?’ I caught his arm and drew him inside. The other grooms were appearing in the courtyard behind him and staring.

  ‘It’s Philip!’ Brockley gulped and I pushed him down onto a settle. ‘What is it, Brockley? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I got to Guildford. They said he wasn’t there. They didn’t know why he wasn’t there – he ought to have been. I started for home. I was less than a quarter of a mile away from here. The track goes through a spinney – you know the place, ash trees and elms and there’s a rookery in the elms …’

  ‘Yes, I know the place. Go on.’

  ‘The rooks were making such a to-do, cawing and wheeling! And Firefly’s hoofbeats disturbed some that must have been pecking at something on the ground, among the trees. They flew up, cawing enough to deafen you. I pulled Firefly round and went to see … oh God, oh God …!’

  He half rose, clutching at me as if for comfort. He said: ‘It was Philip. Lying there. In a little glade just off the road. Only a couple of yards to the side. He was dead. He had a crossbow bolt through his chest.’

  Quietly, I said to Sybil: ‘Find Dale,’ and she slipped away.

  ‘I can’t think why he was so near here,’ Brockley said. ‘Was he coming to Hawkswood? I didn’t meet him on my way to Guildford. I suppose I came later and rode right past his body, not knowing it was there. But he wouldn’t come here! He knew …’

  ‘He knew that I wouldn’t welcome him,’ I said steadily. ‘But if there was some emergency, he might have wanted to see you so badly that he decided to come anyway. But …’

  Brockley was rubbing his forehead in bewilderment. ‘If he wasn’t coming here, then where was he making for? He was lying by the track that leads straight here! There were hoofmarks about. I expect he came on his horse – but if so, it had run away or been stolen. I can’t understand this. There haven’t been any reports of footpads or robbers of any kind hereabouts, not for a long time. He … Fran!’

  Dale was arriving, at a run. ‘Roger, what is it? Roger?’ She had seen the whiteness of his face and her own was full of alarm. She put a hand on his arm. ‘What’s the matter?’

  He began to explain all over again. I said to Sybil: ‘We shall have to inform Sir Edward Heron, the county sheriff. Better him than the constable in Woking. This is obviously murder – and there’s a connection to my house, and unfortunately I am who I am.’

  I was the queen’s sister. It made a difference, in this case the difference between the Woking constable and the county sheriff. What touched me might – could – touch the queen. ‘Oh, damn!’ I said.

  There was a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach. I had sensed a hovering shadow – was this it? I was afraid, though I did not know what it was that I feared.

  And yes, we would have to tell Sir Edward Heron. And that would not be reassuring, for he did not like me, nor I him.

  Well, I had no need to take the message to him myself. A lady in my social position would naturally delegate such a task to someone else. Just as well, since the sight of me in person would certainly stiffen his back. Sir Edward Heron didn’t approve of women like me. In his view, women should concentrate on their households, their children, their still-rooms and their embroidery. He had no idea how much I would have preferred to do just that. Also, he had once had me up on a charge of witchcraft and had been very disappointed when I turned out to be innocent. No, Edward Heron didn’t like me at all and he didn’t like Brockley either, simply because Brockley was so very much my friend. But my steward was of course the appropriate person. I said to Sybil: ‘Where is Wilder?’

  ‘Cleaning silver in the pantry, I believe,’ said Sybil. ‘You want him to take word to Sir Edward?’

  ‘Yes. Would you call him, please. I’ll be in the study, writing the message he is to take.’

  Within fifteen minutes, Adam Wilder was getting into the saddle of his preferred mount, a piebald weight carrier called Magpie. Wilder was a heavy man.

  ‘Make all the haste you can,’ said Brockley. He and Sybil were standing beside me to see Wilder set off. ‘This is a very serious business.’

  As soon as Wilder had gone, Brockley turned to me. ‘Philip can’t be left out there,’ he said. ‘Those rooks … I know Heron will say his men ought to see Philip where he … where he died, but he can’t be left there, he can’t. I’m going to take two of the grooms with me and a placid horse – Rusty will do – and fetch him home.’

  ‘We shouldn’t,’ I said feebly.

  ‘I know, madam, but we’re going to, all the same.’ There were times when Brockley could be implacable. He turned away. Over his shoulder, he said: ‘Now.’

  Diffidently, Sybil said: ‘I can understand how he feels.’

  ‘I know. So can I,’ I said. ‘I shan’t try to forbid him. We’ll argue with Heron’s men later on. Meanwhile, I have to let Harry know. After all, Philip was once his tutor.’

  Philip had left my household because, although he was Harry’s tutor and should have considered Harry’s safety and well-being as part of his duty, he had been involved in a conspiracy that brought my son into great danger. But everyone in my household did not know that. I had been careful, because after all we had been sheltering a criminal from the law. By rights, Philip should have been in the Tower; might possibly have been hanged. For Brockley’s sake I had protected him – and Sir Edward Heron would have had something to say about that, had he known.

  I had therefore made sure that the truth was known to as few people as possible. I knew, the Brockleys knew, Sybil knew, and so of course did Harry. Gladys did as well, though not because anyone had told her. Gladys always knew everything that was going on, though I never found out how she did it. Sometimes I wondered if she was in fact a witch!

  Those who did not know, however, included Wilder, my grooms, my maidservants and my cooks. They all believed that Philip had left because I was not satisfied with the standard of his teaching and Harry did not like him. They only knew that I had had words with him and had said that he was never to enter my house again, and they just assumed that the words had been extremely offensive.

  Well, he would have to enter my house now.

  He came back, wrapped in a blanket and lying across the withers of Rusty, one of the most placid animals in my stable. Brockley rode on one side and Arthur Watts rode on the other, leading Rusty. Simon, my second groom, brought up the rear. They came into the courtyard at a slow walk and the three of them lifted Philip down and carried him, still enswathed in his blanket, with the crossbow bolt still in place, making a pyramid beneath it, into the house and up the stairs to one of the attics, where there was a spare bed. On this, they laid him.

  Brockley said, as they passed me, going through the hall: ‘Don’t look at his face, madam. And keep Fran away. The rooks …’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know what they can do.’

  I hated the
thought of it, just as Brockley did. Enough time had gone by for my first furious anger against Philip to subside so that now I could see him clearly. He had been foolish, passionately patriotic in the wrong kind of way. He had believed he was serving the queen; he had also believed he was helping a man who was his foster brother. He had not recognized what a thoroughly undesirable character that foster brother, Simeon Wilmot, was. He had shown little understanding of the suffering he had caused to me and to Harry. Had not seemed to understand the horrible fate that might have befallen Harry, and had not absorbed the fact that he was betraying a boy who had been confided to his care.

  He had been naïve, had lacked imagination. But I did not think he was wicked. Brockley’s son couldn’t be wicked, surely?

  Now he was lying cold and dead on a bed in my attic, and once more I had to be careful of every word I said so as to keep his perfidy secret, above all from Sir Edward Heron.

  Whose men, at that point, were arriving.

  Heron hadn’t come himself but he had sent two of his men. One was a powerfully built young man, probably there solely for the sake of his muscles as he would clearly be useful in dealing with obstreperous captives, although he had nothing to say. Indeed, while in my presence he never spoke a single word. The other was a stocky, dark man with a brusque manner and round eyes of the coldest blue I had ever seen. He did not approve of the fact that we had moved the body.

  ‘Sergeant Thomas Robson at your service. Do I understand aright? That the body of the dead man has been brought here instead of being left where it was for me to examine in situ?’

  ‘It was necessary,’ I said coldly. ‘There were rooks. Probably carrion crows as well. And there could also have been foxes. Or weasels.’

  ‘I have seen worse things,’ said Sergeant Robson dismissively, as though my concern had been for him. ‘You did wrong. Things should have been left as they were. I would have expected you to know better, considering your station in life, madam.’

  I didn’t reply, just looked at him steadily and waited for him to continue. ‘He was my son,’ said Brockley.

  ‘I daresay!’ Robson evidently dismissed matters of kinship as well. I wondered if he were married, if he had children of his own. ‘Well, I had better see the place and then I will see the body. Will someone kindly show me where it happened?’

  ‘I will show you,’ said Brockley, his voice just as cold as mine.

  They rode off to look at the place. They returned in due course and Brockley showed the sergeant up to the attic. This time I followed them, impelled by a feeling of responsibility. Brockley had recommended me not to look, but I felt that I should know.

  It wasn’t a pleasant sight. However, showing some trace of human feeling for once, Sergeant Robson covered the face up after we had had a quick glance, and instead lifted the blanket off the crossbow bolt and revealed Philip’s chest. The bolt had gone deep into the body. There wasn’t very much blood, only a stain round the point of entry. Scored with the beaks of the rooks though it was, I had still seen that Philip’s young face bore a look of surprise.

  ‘He died quickly,’ Robson said. ‘Probably didn’t feel much, if that’s any help.’

  I was glad of that. That face had upset me badly, and not only because of the pecking. He had such a resemblance to Brockley. I felt as if I was looking at Brockley himself made young and mutilated, but Brockley all the same. Tears stung my eyes. Brockley, standing at my side, said: ‘I had hoped, in time, to have grandchildren.’ I heard the sob in his throat.

  ‘Ambushed, I should think,’ the sergeant was saying. ‘There were traces of trampling among the trees close to the glade where he was found. And quite a lot of hoof tracks – not just one horse – leading back through the woods, going towards the glade but not from this direction. We think there were two horses, one bigger than the other. One was probably his, but there was another rider … Someone was waiting for him, that’s my theory. I’m going to send my men to ask questions at cottages and in villages along the track, and try to trace the paths of those two horses. I’d like to know the exact direction that the assailant came from. Where was the victim coming from?’

  ‘A place called Reddings House,’ I said. ‘In Guildford.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Robson. He added: ‘There will have to be an inquest. You will, I trust, be on hand for it.’

  ‘I have to visit the court,’ I said. ‘I have been summoned by Sir Francis Walsingham.’ I used Walsingham’s full name on purpose. It seemed somehow to lend weight to the summons. I would have to go, whether Heron and his sergeant liked it or not. ‘I am leaving next Monday,’ I said. ‘This is Friday. I shall therefore be here for two more days. I don’t expect to be absent long, however. At least, I hope not.’

  ‘You could come back for the occasion,’ said Robson. ‘You wouldn’t have that far to come. How do we reach you if necessary?’

  ‘I shall be at Greenwich. There are the usual White Stave officials who know where visitors are housed.’

  ‘Very well.’ Robson looked down at the crossbow bolt and then pulled the blanket back over it. ‘I shall report to Sir Edward. This man lived in Guildford, did he not? The coroner for Guildford must see the body but I think he will give permission for a funeral. He can be fetched tomorrow morning – he lives this side of Guildford. The inquest will be formal because there’s not much doubt about the cause of death. No need to wait long, and better not to in this warm weather. We will let you know before Monday whether the body can be buried.’

  ‘You will want to be at the burial,’ I said to Brockley, after the coroner, a stoutly built and resolute gentleman of middle age and obvious experience, had come, examined Philip’s body, given consent to a funeral forthwith, declined refreshment and departed. ‘I will speak with Philip’s employers, and if they agree it can be held here, so your son can be buried at Hawkswood, if you wish. We’ll see if Dr Joynings can be ready on Monday morning. Then we can set off for Greenwich afterwards and still be there the same day.’

  Brockley said: ‘Will you attend the funeral, madam?’

  I sighed. ‘If you would like me to be there … yes. I will.’

  FOUR

  Misinformation

  On Monday, the warm weather which had seemed so kindly suddenly became unpleasantly hot. Philip’s body had been removed to the church, so he was no longer under my roof, and everyone was relieved to think that his burial was not to be delayed. Not many of the villagers had really known him so the church wasn’t crowded during the service, but it was still stifling. I had ordered the benches that Joynings wanted but they hadn’t yet been delivered, so I stood there, sweltering inside my black gown, alongside the Brockleys and the rest of my household, plus Master Samuel Hartley, Philip’s employer in Guildford, the two Hartley sons, aged twelve and ten, who had been his pupils, and a handful of villagers.

  On the way to the church, we had fallen in with Dr Joynings, who had promptly seized the chance to ask me about the benches and to grumble again about the objectionable Judgement Window.

  ‘The benches should be ready by next week,’ I said patiently, ‘and I may later be able to consider replacing that window.’ There was a chance that whatever Walsingham wished me to do for him would – for once – prove to be not dangerous and yet still well paid, which might let me think about the window. Now, as I stood there in the heat while Dr Joynings besought us all to remember our mortality and be prepared to face our creator whenever he should choose to call us, I found myself unable to stop looking at the window that was irritating our good vicar so much.

  I didn’t look at it often. Just appreciated the swathes of colour that it threw across the flagstoned floor and the rood screen, which was also beautifully painted and which I had had refurbished only the year before. But for some reason, my eyes were now being constantly drawn to the window. The demons who were dragging the damned towards a cavern entrance spouting flames had horrible faces and even more horrible pitchforks, and the damned
were bleeding from pitchfork wounds, their faces distorted with terror and pain. While the virtuous, who were being led up a pearl-coloured stairway into Paradise, had such smug expressions that – in view of my sometimes unconventional past – I found myself wishing to throw things at them.

  No wonder small children were upset by it, I thought. I should have done something about it long ago. I had always disliked it, but I had also taken it for granted as part of the Hawkswood to which Hugh had brought me. Until Dr Joynings’ predecessor retired and Joynings arrived, took one look at it and began so vigorously to complain.

  No arrangements had been made for any kind of gathering after the burial. Master Hartley and his boys came back to the house with us, but my coach was already standing in the courtyard with our luggage aboard, ready to leave for Greenwich. I gave the Hartleys a few refreshments before they set out for home, and that was all.

  Hartley senior was a fussy, voluble man. While consuming the refreshments, he talked a good deal about what an excellent teacher Philip had been and how much his boys would miss him, and the boys themselves politely echoed him. ‘My wife would have liked to attend but she is expecting to lie in any day now and we have had a number of disappointments since my younger boy was born … We pray that all will go well this time. By the way, Philip’s horse came wandering home to my stable. What do you want me to do with it? I suppose it would be yours now, Master Brockley?’

  Brockley looked at me. ‘Send it over some time,’ I said. ‘We will decide what to do with it when we return from Greenwich.’

  Eventually, to our relief, the Hartleys took their leave, and at that point I suddenly became conscience stricken about Brockley.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind coming to Greenwich?’ I asked him. ‘This has been a dreadful time for you. I should have thought about that. Would you rather stay here – to be quiet, to remember Philip, perhaps visit the grave privately? And decide what you want to do with Philip’s mare. Dale can stay too. Sybil can come with me – we’ll look after each other – and I’ll take Simon as driver.’