I saw Holmes’ expression sour at this suggestion of necromancy. I hastily intervened. “A man need not be able to perform magic to believe he does. The perpetrator surely knows that these signs will add to a general rumour that the queen is plagued with sorcerous malice.”
“The progression was completed with sol,” reflected my husband, England’s greatest astrologer and celestial philosopher. “Certainly it is with that symbol that the supposed curse bit. Unless one assumes that terra forms part of the set too, and a worse final stroke is still to come?”
“The hint of occult trappings is significant,” the Angel conceded without emotion.
“However, it cannot lead us to whoever placed these items, nor tell us how. Or why? There are so many suspects it is impossible to even guess. How many arrests did Walsingham make these last few weeks as fear mounted? How many loyalties have been tried? How many secrets betrayed? If these pins are indeed cursed, they scatter their malediction far and wide.”
“They do,” Holmes agreed.
The door rattled. A young girl peered timidly round the timber. She wore a sombre, high-necked dress with no jewellery; court mourning garb. She was surely no older than I was when I first went to Windsor, a tender seventeen. “I am sent to Doctor Dee?”
The child was frightened. “Come in, Lady Jenet,” I requested as kindly as I could.
“Yes, come in,” Holmes told her. “Come and tell us why you slipped a fake pin into the queen’s pillow that night. Or better yet, let me tell you.”
Jenet’s brows rose. “What? No. I never…”
“Observe the tiny bulge beneath this girls neck-hem,” Holmes advised John. “The faintest rattle of muffled beads?”
John quickly followed the Angel’s reasoning. “Lady Jenet conceals a Papist rosary under her clothes! The Hastings must be secret Catholics, I deem—and as such have ample reason to wish Protestant Queen Bess an uncomfortable fright with silver hatpins.”
Jenet backed away. Her eyes were wide with horror at her discovery. Catholic plotters went to the gallows, the headsman, or the stake. “No!” she told us, desperately. “They never—they wouldn’t! It was me that bethought of it, none other. Only me.”
John accused her. “You forged, or had some helper forge, a copy of the genuine fourth pin you had discovered before as you undressed the queen. Why?”
The maid-in-waiting dropped to her knees. “I’ll confess. Anything you want. It was me. I am a witch! I am possessed of a demon! No other helped. No other instructed. It was me, all me. Burn me—but blame no-one else!” She began to sob.
Holmes was relentless. “Mistress Jane, you hypothesised that our fifth, anomalous pin was planted after so long a pause to keep her majesty and the court disturbed, to fan fading rumours of divine displeasure against queen and administration.”
“I was five years at Windsor Castle. I know how court gossip works,” I replied.
Holmes stalked round the weeping girl, lunged suddenly, and hooked the concealed prayer beads from the girl’s neckline.
“Give those back…!” blurted Jenet. She reached futilely for the confiscated necklace. It occurred to me how unwise and foolish it was to wear a rosary at Hampton Court, however well concealed beneath formal mourning dress. Surely the girl did not wear her talisman always? Had she donned it before her interview in the hopes of divine protection? To prevent its discovery in its usual hiding place if her chamber was searched? Or was I missing something?
Holmes lifted his lens to inspect the rosary clasp. “I see now that Lady Jenet had another motive for her deeds. Observe the engraving, doctor. E F-H. Might we posit Elsbet FitzHammond, this lady’s predecessor-in-office, who was dismissed on suspicion of planting the pins?”
“How came you by this necklace?” John demanded of Jenet.
“A gift!” she whimpered, kneeling almost double now in her fear and distress. “Given to me as a remembrance.”
“You claim to have this from Lady Elsbet?”
“I…no, of course not.”
“Then how do you explain the inscription?”
Jenet reached the end of her resources. She lost all power of coherent speech and collapsed weeping, sprawled across the tiled floor.
“Lady Elsbet would only own such a dangerous item if she were Papist,” my husband argued. “To pass it to you would be to deliver herself into your hands, for this rosary’s discovery would betray her to those who hunt such secret Catholics—Walsingham, for example.”
I had to intervene, to save the sobbing girl from her implacable interrogators. “John, Holmes, you don’t understand how it can be at court. When a young girl comes to such a great household to serve a high lady, shyest and least at first amongst so many noble retainers, that newcomer can be overawed. It is easy—and common—for such an impressionable girl to develop an admiration, a devotion, to some older and more experienced courtier. As Lady Elsbet once did with Drake.” I dared a glance at John. “As I did with the queen’s astrologer.”
My husband blinked and did not meet my look.
I went on. “As I think Jenet did with Lady Elsbet.”
Now John stirred. “You think the girl had a passion-crush for the former senior lady-in-waiting?” John knew well that women can couple together amorously in their own fashion to the release of pleasure—another lesson we had learned at Trebona under Madimi-Kelley’s malefic carnal guidance.
“Poor Jenet may have placed the fake fifth pin to ‘prove’ that her object of desire was innocent of the charges that had cast her from court,” I reasoned.
Holmes regarded the quivering, hysterical mass that had been his suspect. “Nothing more can be got from her for now. We will return to this witness later. Let her be placed under watch, but say nothing of what she’s confessed to Burleigh or any other. Our investigation has scarcely begun.”
The Angel of Truth led us on to the chapel where Sir Francis’ body lay. No sombre choir monks interrupted our study. In these Protestant days such indulgences smack of Papery. John, Holmes and I were left alone with the bier and coffer that held the fallen Secretary of State’s mortal remains.
The spirit wasted no time in niceties but immediately stripped open the corpse’s tunic and began an inspection of his wounds. To my dismay, John peeled down Walsingham’s hose.
“Here is the pin mark,” Holmes noted. “It penetrated the heart well enough, but as best I can tell—after these benighted fools have sponged and scented away the evidence—there was no great effusion such as a beating organ would have gushed from the lesion. A stiletto prick could kill a man, but with a three-inch pin it requires proximity and absolute accuracy.”
“Here,” John beckoned the Angel to the dead man’s nethers. “Walsingham’s balls. Feel them.”
Holmes did so without demur. “A great lump,” he found.
“Like unto a third testicle. When Sir Francis visited me at Mortlake he was much changed from the hearty man I had known before my Continental sojourn. He’d came to consult me on the witchcraft pins, of course, and to thank me for certain intelligences I had conveyed to him during my travels by means of coded letters. He brought a sum of gold to assist Jane and I in repairing our home after its vandalism and looting, and passed to me the names of certain men to whom I might look to find my missing books.26 In return I consulted on his failing health. He confided that he was having gut pains and difficulty pissing.”
“A testicular tumour such as this one could certainly impede his passing water,” agreed the Angel. “One might wish for the opinion of a reliable modern man of medicine but…it is entirely possible that Walsingham’s deterioration and death could be attributed to blockage and infection of the urinary tract. Or this growth might be one signifier of many other malignant tumours beneath his flesh.”
“Caused by sorcery?” I ventured.
“Caused by nature,” Holme
s scorned. “If we could cut open the carcass…”
“I beg you not to try,” John told the Angel hastily. There was a limit to the license we might claim. “Is there aught else to see here? If we are not to desecrate the flesh of England’s spymaster and the queen’s favourite?”
There was not. Holmes led us back to the room he had commandeered for interviews. Weeping Jenet had been cleared away to some annex. The Angel demanded, through John, conversations with an eclectic roster of men.
First was the Master of the Queen’s Wardrobe. “Who had access to Her Majesty’s gowns before she dressed? How were they stored? How were they guarded?”
The portly gentleman stuttered out his information. The monarch’s gowns were very valuable, kept in locked storage in the privy wardrobe safe from men and moths. A guard stood sentry in the lobby outside. The Master and some few ladies-in-waiting had keys. When her majesty dressed there were always several ladies in attendance. It was these women’s duty to see that Gloriana appeared immaculate. An unauthorised addition to her underclothes or outer mantle would most certainly be noted before she was allowed to leave. Her senior Lady in Waiting, formerly Elsbet, now Jenet, was responsible for a final check.
“It is impossible that those pins could have been there when her majesty left her dressing rooms,” the Wardrobe-Master insisted. “The only feasible way would have been for her senior lady to affix the pin during final inspection, and Sir Francis—God rest his soul after his long labours—put Lady Elsbet to the question and found her innocent.”
“Say rather he could not prove her guilt,” John clarified, then thought again. “Walsingham was ruthless enough to wring the truth from any man or woman, though. If he released Elsbet FitzHammond he must have been satisfied.”
Next was the Warden of the Queen’s Bedchamber. I recalled this fussy little man’s counterpart at Windsor, a sly grabby fellow we ladies took good care to avoid being corned by. This specimen was altogether different; I doubt whether ladies interested him at all.
“The queen’s private chambers are guarded at all times and points,” this functionary assured us. “There are many plots against her majesty’s life. Security is vital. None may enter without permission. Few have that privilege.” He reeled off the names of ladies in waiting, some more common maids and footmen, and certain trusted guards who had permission to intrude.
“On the night when the pin appeared on her majesty’s night-gown, the 6th of January, I believe, did the queen receive any visitor to her chamber by night?” Holmes enquired. “A suitor, perhaps?”
The Warden of the Queen’s bedchamber spluttered at the suggestion that the Virgin Queen might receive a midnight caller in her bower. Yet even in my day at Windsor there were certain rumours repeated to me by Lady Howard that…
But this is not relevant to my present account. The Angel demanded and received assurances that no stranger had violated the monarch’s room that night. Only Lady Elsbet and three other maids had attended her.
Walsingham’s private secretary was a cultured, well-spoken man with a fashionable forked beard. He never met Holmes’ eye. The Angel questioned him on his former employer’s business. “Sir Francis was said to be the best-informed man in England,” our spirit noted. “What happened to his files and notes after his death?”
“All my master’s papers were bundled together and dispatched to the Tower of London for the queen’s pleasure.”
“Nothing abstracted? Nothing burned?”
“In the last days of his illness Sir Francis disposed of certain documents himself, feeding them to his bedroom hearth.”
“He was a knowledgeable man. Well read?”
“Yes. He corresponded with many of the great thinkers of our day.” The secretary’s shifty gaze flickered over John for a scant moment.
My husband chimed in with questions. “When was the pin in his heart discovered? At the moment of his death?”
“It was concealed beneath his outer jacket. It was only when he was stripped for his shroud that the item was first seen.”
“There was not enough blood to betray the wound?”
“Underlinens were soaked, but the lining of Sir Francis’ mantle had absorbed the effusion so it was not evident to the eye. The discharge was not great.”
I remembered Holmes’ earlier comments. “Not enough for it to have spurted from a beating heart?” I checked.
“I would have thought not,” the secretary opined. “Of course, some thought the spirit that had murdered the Secretary of State might have feasted upon his blood.”
“The stains were discovered was after he had been laid out at his home and the queen and court had hastily visited to pay their respects?” Holmes checked.
“Yes. When he was brought to the chapel here and stripped in preparation for his shroud-clothes. Though even before that some cried poison and others cried witchcraft. Sir Francis Walsingham has been England’s bastion against black magic and Spanish and French aggression for many years. Even in these last few weeks that her majesty has been tormented by the curse-pins he rooted out many traitors. He has cleaned England of those who seek our ruler’s harm. Countless enemies would wish to see his death.”
The Angel was tireless. He continued on until night fell and sconces were lit to illuminate his interrogation room. Humbler servants were summoned to add their testimony: guards, serving girls, footmen, coachmen, butlers, heralds, scrubbing women, sweeps. Each lady in waiting was questioned without knowing what the others had said. Even the scullions charged with laying out Sir Francis’ corpse were called to speak.
As the night ground on I found a moment to break from taking notes and speak in undertones with my husband. “It’s close now to twenty-four hours since you conjured the Angel of Truth. How long can he continue to manifest?”
John shook his head. “In truth, wife, I am still not certain how I brought him to us, or what I did differently from any time I have performed the rites before. You know that I have enjoyed some success in bringing forth spirits…”
“Enjoyed?” I challenged the conjurer’s choice of words.
“Well, Madimi was…You know I am sorry for Madimi, Jane.”
“So you have said,” I answered bitterly. “You have rarely shown it, though.”
John swallowed. “I have taken Theodore for my own, raised him in my household.”
“Theodore might be your own. Not Kelley’s—or whatever demon he claimed rode him as he tormented me.”
John glanced at Holmes as the Angel interrogated the Keeper of the Queen’s Jewel Box. “This is not the time to speak of such things, Jane.”
“No, the time was long ago, John. Before you avoided my bed. Before that one drunken night when you got me with child again. Before you closed me from your heart and counsel as a soiled thing unworthy of your regard—soiled by your consent and command, John, never by any will of mine.”
I saw the guilt in my husband’s stare. The rite of Uriel still cast its shadows over his heart.
I took a deep breath. “The Angel of Truth…Holmes…He said that you still had regard for me. Still loved me.”
Dr John Dee looked away. “I will need to make a careful study of Bacon’s manuscript. The Angel was somehow brought here by that.”
There was to be no answer to my deepest question.
“I have surreptitiously appropriated certain artefacts from the Angel,” John whispered. “A hair, a thread of his gown, a cup he touched which bears the grease-imprint of his fingertips. From these I can perhaps devise the alchemy to treat Bacon’s codex so it will bring Holmes to me.”
“Holmes is already here.”
John rubbed his forehead. “This Angel comes from outside time. Outside our time anyway. If I prepare a summoning for him over the months to come then it may bring him to us last night.” He reached out and touched my cheek, a gesture of affe
ction that was strange and alien in our cold contemporary lives. “Keep careful note of everything he speaks and does, Jane. There is no other but you I can rely on for this…and none I would rather have at my side to rely upon.”
We were interrupted. Holmes dismissed the jeweller and rose to stalk the room.
“Have you concluded your interviews?” my husband ventured.
“Not quite,” the detective spirit replied. “There are three more people I must see, and such is their importance that I deferred their questioning until I was fully informed of the detail our minor witnesses could afford. Now I am prepared to speak with William Cecil.”
It was perhaps a sign of Baron Burleigh’s worry that he consented to meet with Dr Dee and Sherlock Holmes as the clock bell tolled eleven. He came alone and found my husband and our angel awaiting him at a writing table. I shall never forget that image of those two brilliant men, painted by candlelight, seated side by side in rapt attention. Holmes’ gaunt, hawk-like countenance and John’s wise intent gaze both focussed on the Lord High Treasurer.
“What have you discovered, astrologer?” Lord William demanded. He may have sneered.
Holmes pressed his fingertips together. “We are close to revealing our conclusions, but some few anomalies must still be explored. You opposed the late Sir Francis’s recent policies regarding the appearance of these pins, I understand.”
“Of course,” scorned Burleigh. “Any rational man must see that England’s future depends upon a balance of interests. We are, and shall remain, a Protestant nation, but we must have relations with Catholic Europe. Perhaps, had Drake’s foray prospered to punish the Spanish for their Armada, it might be different; but with religious war in Holland27 and our queen expelled from the Catholic communion by the Pope we cannot afford to be so broad and blatant in our persecutions.”
“Walsingham arrested several people these last few weeks, as concern for the queen’s wellbeing mounted,” John observed.
“And left me with the mess to clean,” the Lord High Treasurer spat. “Sir Francis was apt to become so enamoured of his tangled plots that he forgot their wider consequences. He entrapped poor Scots Mary with his Babington conspiracy and had her head.28 With one blade-stroke he inspired a hundred counter-plots against Elizabeth and her state. I do not wish to malign the dead, but the man was an adventurer—irresponsible and heedless of the collateral harm his exploits caused.”
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