While Johns was speaking, Frost had climbed up to the window. He now descended, scowling, and said roundly: ‘Julius, I think you must have let your brains go begging.’
‘I want to see!’ Eleanor suddenly interrupted. Without waiting for permission, she went swiftly up the ladder. Young and lithe, she climbed like a monkey. She looked, gasped, and came down even more rapidly than she had gone up. ‘Uncle Julius, how could you?’
‘Hatred,’ said Brockley sternly. ‘Only someone who hated Mistress Stannard could perpetrate such a thing.’
‘I don’t hate Mistress Stannard, that is nonsense!’ Stagg now burst out in self-defence. ‘It was just that her most pleasing features were in my mind, and the colours in the first pane were wrong. I suddenly thought that one face at least should express the true feelings of a damned soul. I find Mistress Stannard’s features most striking and memorable, and …’
‘You did that to them? To features that pleased you?’ Brockley strode over to stand face to face with Stagg. ‘What I saw there, my friend, was hatred. It may seem odd that Julius Stagg, maker of stained glass, should hate Mistress Stannard, but it wouldn’t be at all odd if Anthony Hunt, the half-brother of Simeon Wilmot, did! Would it, Master Hunt?’
‘My name isn’t Hunt. I don’t know who this Wilmot is and …’
‘You have his fingers,’ I said. ‘And his back.’
‘His fingers? His back? What in the name of heaven are you talking about, madam?’ Stagg was blustering.
‘I have said it before.’ Brockley’s voice was grating again – grating, I thought, with rage. ‘Someone murdered my son Philip. I think that you and Frost did it. If not, who did? And why? Well? It was you, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?’
‘Don’t be …’
Once again, as at the side gate in the pre-dawn garden, Brockley sprang. His target this time was Stagg. They rolled on the ground, shouting, Stagg bellowing ‘Get off me!’ and a stream of swear words, Brockley exploding into vicious epithets and using his fists. Heron and Taverner leapt forward to try to separate them. Eleanor shrieked. Heron’s men ran forward as well, but hesitated as they saw that their master was himself entangled in the conflict.
The struggling heap of angry men crashed into one of the new benches, thrusting it sideways and nearly knocking Dr Joynings off his feet. Joynings had so far been watching the whole business in silence, but now he came to outraged life and began to shout. He waved his arms wildly and kicked vainly at the combatants, cutting a figure both comical and impressive at one and the same time.
‘This must stop! Stop it at once! I will not have such violence in my church. This is holy ground, consecrated to a loving God. This is an indecency, I will not tolerate this …!’
I can still see and hear it all, inside my mind: the battling heap on the floor; the open mouths and horrified eyes of the onlookers as they sidestepped and backed out of the way; the disordered benches, several of which had now been hit and two completely overturned; Dr Joynings’ scarlet face and flying cassock; Christopher standing back with arms stolidly folded; and then, absurdly, in a moment when Joynings had paused to draw breath and only snarls and grunts were coming from the struggling heap, and even Eleanor had briefly stopped screaming, the sound, beyond the open south door, of sparrows twittering.
Finally, Sir Edward Heron broke out of the mêlée and raised his voice in command. His men rushed in and the fighting trio were yanked apart, jerked to their feet, shaken into silence. Brockley’s nose was bleeding and Martin Taverner had a cut lip. Stagg looked as though he would have a black eye by the next day.
‘I want to hear more,’ thundered Sir Edward, ‘about the murder of Philip Sandley. And about Anthony Hunt.’
Stagg and Frost both began to shout at once. Johns caught his stepdaughter’s eye and beckoned her imperiously to come to him. When she did so, he seized her arm and rattled off some angry questions. Because Stagg and Frost were making such a noise, I couldn’t hear what he said and nor, I think, could anyone else except Eleanor.
Who lost her head.
Breaking away from Johns, she screamed: ‘What’s all this about murder? No one ever said anything to me about murder! I know nothing about it, nothing … It was just to pay the Stannard woman back for the death of my poor uncle Simeon. She deserved it, but there was no talk of murder.’ She rushed at Stagg and grabbed him by the elbows. ‘It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair! You never said anything to me about murder!’
Heron said something and the cherubic Saint marched over to Eleanor and pulled her away. She was weeping wildly. Taverner went to her, and Saint let him take her. In a rough and ready way, Taverner pressed her face against him to muffle the tears, and after a moment she quietened. He then detached her, except for continuing to hold her by one elbow. Joynings, who had witnessed the scene with obvious distaste, looked as if he would very much like to dig a hole in the flagstoned floor and bury himself in it.
Stagg and Frost stopped shouting. They stared at Eleanor. So did Heron. ‘I think, Mistress Liversedge,’ said Sir Edward, ‘that you have things to tell us.’
‘I think so too,’ said Daniel. ‘And by God, young lady, I order you to tell them!’
Eleanor gulped, sobbed anew for a minute or two, was shaken by Taverner, not violently but reprovingly, and was again told by Daniel Johns to speak up and no more nonsense. Joynings echoed him. And, at last, the truth was told.
Sullenly, Eleanor said: ‘I was fond of my Uncle Simeon. He was hanged and that Stannard woman was responsible – and it was all because he was in a plot to help England and protect the queen. To protect Her Majesty! What was so wrong about that? He and some friends …’
‘Including Master Frost?’ snapped Sir Edward.
‘No, no. Other friends. They made a plan to make the Stannard woman …’
‘Mistress Stannard, if you please, young woman!’ barked Brockley.
‘All right, Mistress Stannard … She has a certain reputation for … for undertaking things. They wanted to make her kill that Scottish queen who’s so dangerous to the realm, but she wouldn’t do it. Instead, she got them arrested and my poor uncle was hanged. Uncle Anthony was angry. He loved his brother, and why shouldn’t he? He moved his stained-glass business from Somerset to Guildford and changed his name. And he told me why. He said if I would help him, I could have a costly dowry from him and all he meant to do was avenge his brother by discrediting Mistress Stannard. I only had to pretend that the chest had been stolen and beg Mistress Stannard to get it back, then he would see she was caught trying to steal it and accused of theft. Serious theft … Even if she wasn’t hanged for it, she would be ruined and serve her right!’ bawled Eleanor, ending her account in a howl of protest against the unfairness of her relatives and the law.
Silence fell after that. Then Daniel, oddly authoritative despite his wheeled chair and the fur rug over his knees, said: ‘It seems to me that my stepdaughter has been a very foolish wench but nothing worse. I cannot criticize her for feeling affection towards an uncle, though I certainly criticize her for lending herself to an ugly and remarkably inefficient scheme of vengeance against those who brought him to justice. I know nothing of this murder which is said to have taken place, but I believe her when she says she knew nothing about it either …’
‘Nor did I, until it was too late!’ Frost’s face had once again turned leaden and he was sweating. Stagg glowered at him. ‘Well, I didn’t!’ protested Frost. In a shaking voice, he added: ‘You have lost. We have lost. It’s all over.’
Stagg seemed to pull himself together. ‘I must say this. I am not prepared to see my niece tried for helping in a murder. It is true that Eleanor knew nothing of Sandley’s death, and indeed it was never intended. Sandley was part of the original plot against Mary of Scotland, of which my brother Simeon was never ashamed. We believed that Sandley was true to us and asked him to play a part in our new undertaking. I believed him to be estranged from his father and the plan was for him to claim h
e had overheard a conversation between Brockley and Mistress Stannard, scheming to get their hands on the dowry chest. But instead, he said he was going to betray us, the silly innocent! I told my workmen I was ill and was going to stay in bed, but really I was out keeping watch on him. And when the very next day he set out and took the track for Hawkswood … well, I knew where he was going and went to intercept him. I wanted to argue with him, to persuade him to turn back. But he wouldn’t listen, and even drew his dagger and …’
‘You shot him from cover, with a bloody crossbow!’ shouted Brockley. ‘Then, I suppose, you played the part he should have played!’
‘It was self-defence!’ Stagg bellowed.
‘You’re a liar! He never carried a dagger!’ Brockley thundered. ‘Were the stakes, to your mind, so high you needed to kill him?’
Stagg gobbled, but didn’t reply. His temples were streaming with sweat and he was looking about him like a hunted beast at bay. Then I said: ‘Anthony Hunt had made threats against me. Sir Francis Walsingham told me that. He will confirm it.’
‘I can confirm that, too,’ said Christopher. ‘I knew of it from Walsingham, as Mistress Stannard did.’
Heron turned to his men. ‘Place Master Stagg – or should I say Hunt? – and Master Frost under arrest. As for this girl, Eleanor …’
‘She has been foolish and dishonourable,’ said Daniel forcefully. ‘She is not of my blood but I am responsible for her, and I have affection for her and a desire for her well-being. She has not deserved the horror of a fetid prison, though she should pay somehow for what she has done. What does it amount to, after all? In exchange for a dowry chest, she implored Mistress Stannard, weeping – she’s good at that – to retrieve the chest from Knoll House. She knew the plan was meant to ruin the lady’s reputation, but she fancied that that was justified because she had loved her Uncle Simeon and thought him unjustly condemned. If you will leave her to me, I will see that she pays a suitable price for her behaviour, but in private. She is only a silly young maid, not a criminal.’
Eleanor, who had been listening to him with a look of hope, now let out a squeal of fright and he gave her a sharp glance. ‘Don’t burst into tears again, girl! Not now. Save them for when we get home – if you are allowed to go home. My legs may be useless but my right arm is not, and the birch will use up all the tears you can spare. Sir Edward? What do you say?’
Sir Edward ruminated. At last, he said: ‘I agree that she is a silly young girl, little more than a child. Take her home and deal with her as a father should. Hand her to her stepfather, Taverner.’
For once, I thought, Sir Edward Heron’s poor opinion of the female sex had worked to female advantage.
Brockley had come beside me and was speaking into my ear. ‘There’s something I still don’t understand, madam.’
‘What’s that, Brockley?’
‘I think Frost told the truth when he said he didn’t know about Philip’s death. I think he must have been at court when my son … died. On the day of the inquest, which was the twenty-first of August, didn’t he say he’d been at court since early August and had only just returned? Philip died on the thirteenth. Which means Frost can’t have murdered Philip, and it’s probably true that he knew nothing about it until it was too late. Stagg must have acted on his own. I think Frost really is innocent of murder.’
‘What I can’t understand,’ I said, ‘is how did Stagg – Hunt – and Frost ever come to be fellow conspirators. Frost is a Catholic and was passing information to the Spanish, whereas Hunt was the brother of Simeon Wilmot, who wanted to protect England from the Spanish by getting rid of Mary Stuart. Whatever brought those two together?’
TWENTY-ONE
Unanswered Questions
I attended part of the trial, as a witness. But I was not present for all of it, nor did I wish to be. In December, I was surprised to be unexpectedly summoned to Greenwich to speak with Walsingham – and still more surprised to find him in an apologetic mood.
‘I must express my regrets,’ said Her Majesty’s Secretary of State, almost humbly. ‘I believed I was taking advantage of a harmless search for an embroidery teacher. It seemed to be a good opportunity to plant a source of inaccurate information at Frost’s very table, and doing that was important. There have been plots, Ursula, plots to call on Spain to help Mary Stuart on to the throne of England. We have defeated them, but there will be others. I wish with all my heart that the queen would let me detach Mary Stuart’s head from her body. I took Frost’s desire for an embroidery teacher as a golden opportunity. He even mentioned your name as a possible choice. Perhaps that should have made me smell danger! It was only a bait to draw you into a hornets’ nest. And to think I had warned you against those same hornets! I am not often so deluded!’
‘It all turned out well,’ I said forgivingly, rather enjoying the chance to be magnanimous towards the most ruthless man in Elizabeth’s council. ‘But I was surprised to hear that Giles Frost may not be in the Tower for very long. The Hambles passed me a letter from him.’
‘There are reasons,’ said Walsingham. ‘Even the queen – who can be difficult about these things – has consented. Frost is very useful, and he was not responsible for the death of your man Brockley’s son Philip. He has been heavily fined, of course, but he is more use to us free than in prison. We have also freed that fool of a chaplain of his. It seems Dr Lambert knew nothing of the plot.’
In most of the royal palaces beside the Thames, Walsingham not only had an office but also a private suite where he could entertain guests. He had invited me to dine. We were almost alone together, though Dale and Brockley were in the adjoining room having a meal with some of Walsingham’s servants. Another manservant was waiting on us, dispensing dishes from the sideboard, where they were being kept warm on tripods over beds of charcoal.
I accepted some wine and said: ‘But Stagg – or Hunt (I keep wanting to call him “Staghunt”) – will die for killing Philip. You say he has admitted it?’
‘Yes,’ said Walsingham. ‘The Tower has a power of its own. Guilty men lose their nerve when the walls close round them. Master Hunt has been talkative.’
I sipped the wine, glad of its warmth in my throat, because thinking of Hunt made me shudder. ‘Anthony Hunt hates me,’ I said. ‘He hates me poisonously. It chills me inside to think of that. All I did was to try to save my son without committing a serious crime. But when I was in the courtroom at the trial, in the same room with him, I could feel his hatred coming at me in waves. He wanted me to be disgraced – hanged, if possible – and would like to see me dead at his feet. I suppose he loved his brother and would say that was his excuse. But … it gives me the shivers.’
‘You should not be so sensitive,’ said Walsingham. ‘There are plenty of people who hate me that much, but I don’t worry about such malice and nor should you. I know Hunt’s family background. As I said, he has talked! So did Wilmot, but with Hunt it has been a positive torrent. He has filled in all the spaces. It’s interesting. Believe me, they are a passionate family. That’s how it begins. Many years ago, an innkeeper, a childless widower in his forties, fell wildly in love with the young daughter of a master glassmaker in London. Master craftsmen who are members of London guilds don’t usually match their daughters with innkeepers, but Joan Ames was daughter number five and her father was feeling harassed about providing a dowry and finding a husband for her. He’d used up all the sons in his social circle, so to speak. And he himself had a maternal grandmother who came from a respectable clockmaker’s family but had eloped with a strolling player who had a gift for card tricks. More passion, you see. Anyway, Master Ames wasn’t very rigid in his ideas.’
‘Card tricks!’ I said. ‘So that’s where Simeon Wilmot got his knack with cards from. He had such long, agile fingers. And so has Anthony Hunt.’
‘They had long fingers? I never noticed. Anyway, Joan was allowed to marry Samuel and they had a son, Simeon Wilmot – who eventually inherited the in
n – and a daughter, Eliza. You know all about Eliza. She was the mother of Eleanor, who is now in the care of her stepfather. But Samuel died when Simeon was only ten and Eliza just eight. Their mother married again, a Thomas Hunt, glassmaker – it was arranged through her father’s contacts – and Anthony Hunt is their son. Thomas Hunt was a healthy and vigorous man with a liking for spirited horses. One of them threw him and broke his neck for him when Anthony was two. After that, his mother, Joan, showed no desire to marry a third time. So there were the three fatherless children. Simeon was the oldest and seems to have felt responsible for both Eliza and his half-brother Anthony. In turn, they very nearly worshipped him. To an extreme degree. As I said, they were a passionate family. And there,’ said Walsingham, ‘you have it. Passionate in love, passionate in hate. You stepped into the path of an avalanche.’
‘I was dragged into it!’ I said with asperity. ‘So was Harry. And poor Philip. Poor Eleanor, too,’ I remarked. ‘I mean that. She was obviously very attached to her two uncles, both Wilmot and Hunt. She has already lost one, and now she must lose the other as well.’
‘But her stepfather, Daniel Johns, is conscientious,’ said Walsingham. ‘He has disciplined her, as is his duty. In fact, there was a kind of deal done with Sir Edward Heron.’ I nodded, having witnessed it. ‘Heron has a soft place in his heart for young girls and he settled with Johns, who sees himself as responsible for Eleanor’s welfare, that she should not be prosecuted but would not escape unscathed. I have spoken with Heron, and he tells me that Taverner has backed out of the betrothal. But Johns will find Eleanor another suitor before long, and when she has a family of her own she will not need to pine for her uncles. You too have a soft heart, Ursula, I believe?’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, wondering about Walsingham’s own heart. I had not met his family but he was said to be a devoted, even passionate, husband and father. It was difficult to imagine.
‘And now,’ he said, as the manservant came to offer us slices of meat and some beans in an aromatic sauce, ‘I hear that you have accepted the task of looking after the Frost girls until their father can rejoin them. I believe that is what he wrote to you about.’
A Web of Silk Page 22
