by Karen Harper
He’d said that as if he had a bitter taste—pure poison—in his mouth, but she nearly melted to a warm puddle on the cold cobbles anyway. She’d be willing to give him all the years of her life to prove that and to learn to say it better. She believed it already, though, because he’d never said the like before, not to her or anyone else all the times he’d had his trysts and tumbles, not that she’d heard of, anyway. And she’d been watching Ned real close for years.
“It’s not just, just,” she said, fighting for words herself, “that I look like and can sometimes sound like the woman you adore and can never have—Her Grace?”
“I do adore Her Grace, so I shall amend my vow. I shall still keep her on a pedestal but keep you in my life and in my bed, if you will allow it.”
“A marital bed, Ned Topside.”
“Of course. Didn’t I say that? I do want much more of you than your fair brow and those seashell ears you’ve let me fondle and kiss before. I’ll ask you again later, when death is not our business but life—together.”
“Now that was the prettiest speech you ever gave in any play, my love, and I’ll hold you to it,” she said as they set off again.
Holding hands, even in the thickening crowd, they rushed toward the vast grounds of Whitehall. Just as they broached the Kings street entry, Meg heard a cry. “That’s her. There! Seize her!”
She wondered if a female cutpurse was loose in the crowd. Or had one of the queen’s own guards spotted someone suspicious trying to get into the palace?
A burly man stepped between her and Ned and chopped his arm down to break their grips. From behind her, two other men took her arms and turned her away from Ned, who was shouting her name.
Everything blurred. Sounds, sights, smells. The world began to spin out of control.
“Margaret, alias Meg, Milligrew,” an agitated voice intoned, “you are under the aegis of the chief constable of the City of London for questioning under duress for the murder of one Hannah von Hoven.”
“Ned!” she screamed as the crowd, the accusations, the entire scene seemed to suffocate her. “I demand to see the queen!” she shrieked. “I am a servant of the queen. I demand to see the queen!”
But she was hustled off so quickly in the opposite direction, she knew that no one who could help could hear her.
Chapter the Fourteenth
AS SOON AS THE QUEEN RETURNED TO HER ROOMS in the palace, she summoned Cecil. “My lord, we must send some guards to watch Marie, and Sally, of course, for safety’s sake. I have let out to Dirck van der Passe that there was an eyewitness to Hannah’s murder. I doubt he is the murderer, but word could spread. If Anne Gresham protests her daughter being closely guarded, that is just too bad, for someone could creep into Gresham House to get to Marie.’S blood, I’ve proved that.”
“Perhaps Lady Gresham won’t be there when the guards arrive, as I sent for her nearly an hour ago.”
“Good. But not Marie and Sally?”
“I had no idea—”
“Sometimes it seems that everything conspires against us,” she cried, smacking her hands into her skirts. “Are Ned and Bates back yet with word of the glove perfumer?”
“Ned sent Bates back to say they’d had no luck, but Ned was going to pass himself off as Celia’s friend at her old residence.”
Elizabeth heaved a huge sigh. “Which means Meg might miss them both. My lord, send Bates at once to Gresham House at the head of a mounted and armed entourage. He was there with us that night, so he knows the way. Charge him to protect the girls until I arrive to fetch them in my coach, for on second thought, they would be even safer here.”
Cecil rushed from the room before she realized she’d forgotten to ask where he’d put Thomas and to tell him that Hosea Cantwell was being held here. At least, the Gresham family would soon again be under the royal roof, where she could keep an eye on them and interrogate them further.
She untied the handkerchief that held the dark powder. Was it her imagination that the substance seemed to glow in the shadows? She carried it into the early afternoon sunlight pouring through her window. Now she could see that the grit was composed of three distinct substances: white specks, perhaps sugar, as well as a dark brown—the chocolata?—and a coarser tan grain, the latter, no doubt, the ground poison herb.
If only Meg were here to identify it. Who had so carefully prepared this mixture, then given it to poor Pamela and convinced her to try it? Or had a drink made with it been forced down her throat before she was drowned? Strangest yet, surely not many knew cuckoopint herbs were poison. That made her fear the van der Passes might yet be involved, though Dirck had merely confessed to drawing away Hannah’s customers. Was he guilty of eliminating her and then dispatching someone he feared was an eyewitness?
Cecil hurried back in with Ned. “Did Meg find you?” she began, then saw that Ned was not only disheveled but bloodied.
“Hell’s gates, man, what happened?” she cried, rushing to him. It must have been something extreme. Ned was always protective of his appearance, and now his eye was nearly swollen shut and his nose had been smashed crooked.
“The chief constable’s men—took Meg.” He was gasping and breathing through his mouth. He had a split lip, too.
“Took her?”
“Accused her—of Hannah’s murder, arrested her. I tried to stop them—big louts—all of them.”
“Perhaps,” Cecil said, “after the two days he was promised, Whitcomb felt he had a right to question Meg.”
“He had no such right! Ned, where did they take her?”
“I know not. I tried to follow them, but they hit me. I fell and—Doesn’t Whitcomb have a jail or interrogation rooms somewhere?”
Elizabeth summoned more guards and commanded them to inquire in the city guildhall where to find the chief constable, then to demand in the name of the queen that Meg Milligrew be released.
“Whitcomb’s trying to spite me, just the way Cantwell did,” she told Cecil, and began to pace as Ned went out to tend his bruises. “I defied the Parliament, so they are trying to vex and challenge me in any way they can. I have Cantwell being held here, so I will have you interrogate him.”
Elizabeth put both hands to her head, pressing hard as if to keep her thoughts steady. “I fear Whitcomb will try to accuse Meg of Pamela’s death, too, for I believe the residue I found there was a deadly concoction made from sugar, chocolata powder, and Meg’s poison cuckoopint. He might know naught of that, but he’ll see the roots on the floor at the second murder scene, just like at the first.”
“But you said you had the chocolata drink at Gresham House, so that leads back to them, too.”
“If Meg or Anne Gresham—or the van der Passes, for that matter—is proven guilty, I face great loss. If it’s Thomas, the entire kingdom will suffer. I must move now, but I’m not sure in which direction. As soon as we discover where Meg’s being held, I’ve a good mind—”
The knock on the door startled them both. Clifford opened it.
“You’re back!” the queen cried. “Did you fetch the local constable to the murder site?”
“Yes, and he sent information forthwith for the chief constable, as you had thought he would.”
“Send someone back to the local man and ask him where the chief constable is now. Hurry!”
“Also, Lady Anne Gresham is here, Your Grace, demanding to see her husband,” Clifford said, as he turned toward the door.
“She can’t have arrived already from my summons,” Cecil said, frowning. “Not enough time has elapsed, so she must have come on her own.”
“I pray the girls are safe.”
“Shall I show her in here or take her to her lord?” Clifford asked. “I heard he’s already here under watch.”
“We shall do both,” Elizabeth declared. “Have her held in the hall for a moment, and bring Thomas in the back way to await her here—but send that man to the local constable first,” she insisted. Clifford nodded and rushed out.
“Exactly. Though I regret it has come to this, you and I will eavesdrop on their reunion behind the door to my withdrawing room. My lord, I am getting desperate, and we must not only stir the starch pot again but slosh it all out on the floor.”
“I had naught to do with Hannah von Hoven’s death,” Meg insisted, the moment the two big guards half-escorted, halfshoved her into the small, dim room where Chief Constable Nigel Whitcomb sat in a large chair behind a small table.
“I must admit those charges were not correct, mistress,” he said, with a thin smile twisting his lips.
Thank God, Meg thought. He must have realized his great error. Her biggest worry then was that she’d seen two of his big oafs turn on Ned and beat him in the face with their fists just before they blindfolded her.
“Well?” Whitcomb said, his tone still goading. “Not going to ask the chief constable what he means by incorrect charges? My, but you’re clever with the queen’s herbs, eh, even ones that can be used to dispatch your rivals in romance?”
“What? I demand, if the charges were wrong, that I be released forthwith, so that I—”
“You’ll demand nothing!” he shouted and banged his fist on the table. His beard quivered when he spoke. “The charges were wrong because now I have a second murder of another rival I vow I shall link you to. Cuckoopint on the floor of both your deeds—did you not think I would know or could not discover what it was and that it could be deadly? Her Majesty believes she can gainsay and buck me—all of Parliament—but she cannot protect you now, mistress.”
Meg’s insides cartwheeled. “A second murder—you mean Pamela Browne’s?”
“I mean you accidentally dispatched Pamela Browne, I judge, instead of her twin sister, whom your former betrothed, Stephen Jenks, has deserted you for and—”
“No! That’s a lie from the pit of hell!”
“Best watch your tongue about the pit of hell,” he threatened, pointing a stiff arm straight at her. “Those judged guilty of murder are executed in this land, young woman, and I shall have great bearing on your conviction. Speaking of warrants,” he went on, looking suddenly more amused than angry, as if he were toying with her, “the additional one against you will be drawn up as soon as I can visit the second murder site myself, for I’ve had to rely so far on the local constable’s description of things and his questioning of those there.”
“I didn’t kill Pamela Browne. Stephen Jenks, the man you mentioned, the queen’s own man, will testify to that—that I was happy for him and Pamela’s twin sister, Ursala. Just as Ned Topside, the queen’s chief player, will tell you that—”
“I understand at your arrest you were holding hands with the aforementioned Topside, so I’ve no doubt you’ve also cozened him to support your false claims. I expect all Her Majesty’s servants would stand behind your story, as the queen herself tried to do.
“I once meant to work with Her Majesty,” he went on, “even tried to placate her with an offering of a portion of the first dead woman’s estate. But she is stubborn to the core, much too willful for a woman, who should listen to the men of her Parliament, however high she thinks to sit in this land.”
Meg gaped at the man. His words could be construed as treasonous. If he detested Her Grace so, she had no doubt he’d like to make a scapegoat—or sacrificial lamb—of someone who loved her dearly.
“Anne!” Thomas Gresham cried as Elizabeth heard the door to the corridor open, then close. The queen had ordered that Anne be brought in, then left alone with her husband.
“Why are you here?” Thomas demanded. “Is Marie here, too?”
Their voices carried easily through the door set slightly ajar, the queen thought with approval, and Cecil nodded from the shadows as if to second that. Good, he could hear, too.
“I wasn’t sent for but came of my own accord,” Anne said. “And I didn’t want Marie out in the streets, even with me, so of course I didn’t bring her. I have something to tell you, and since you are lingering here, I had no choice but to—”
“I am not lingering but have been detained. The queen has questioned me further about Hannah’s death,” Thomas admitted. “But, for the good of our daughter, I am asking you to stand with me in this, not against—”
“For the good of our daughter?” she said, her voice bitter. “I’ll tell you about the good of our daughter. If you’d just listen for once, I need to inform you that this morning I dismissed that horrid watchdog of yours, Nash Badger, at least exiled him from our house. If you want him at the site of the exchange, that’s your business, but Marie just told me about the letters he carried for her. The man’s betrayed us. If he had come to us at once, her running away and getting in this plight could have been avoided.”
“He was no doubt only trying to please Marie—as we both do. Have you forgotten not only how beguiling but woebegone she can be?” His voice grew tender when he spoke of the girl, though Anne seemed to have enough venom for both of them.
“Beguiling? Then, I fear, she must have inherited that trait from her other mother—the one you wish lived instead of me!”
“Let’s not start all that ag—”
“You’re always on Badger’s side—on your own side! I never could abide him, with his tobacco-drinking breath and stinking hands. I finally got out of Marie that he’s secretly been carrying her letters. Did you know about those? Well, did you?”
“Marie gave the queen a draft of such a letter, and Her Majesty read it to me.”
“Oh, fine, you never tell me anything, either. You and the queen are closer than you and I! Have you been trying to protect Marie or Badger?” she raved. “Or, more to the point, yourself in all this?”
“Never mind shifting the subject. I’ll tell Badger to keep clear of you, but I need him at the house as a jack-of-alltrades and even a bodyguard when I go out. Look, Anne, I know that tobacco smell is—”
“He’s taken to trying to cover it up—and those smelly hands—with perfumed gloves, at least when he goes out. Perfumed gloves! I’m sure he’ll be laughed to scorn if he wears those at the construction site.”
They went on arguing, Thomas telling her she had to put the past aside and stand by him now. He warned that she herself might be considered a person of suspicion in Hannah’s death if she continued to be so vitriolic. Anne exploded at that, but the queen was beyond heeding her ravings.
For, several moments ago, more jagged-edged pieces of the puzzle had begun to fit horribly into place. Badger’s incongruous gloves could link him to Celia for more than just serving Marie. Badger had access to the chocolata as surely as Anne and Thomas had, for he had found the imported cakes for Thomas and had even carried the brew made from them in for the queen to taste. Thank God, that was not poisoned, as poor Pamela’s quaff must have been.
Besides all that, Badger had always seemed to hover close, from that day Elizabeth had first visited Thomas at the construction site of the exchange. Did Badger intend to protect his master at any price, and so had secretly decided to silence Hannah before she caused him harm? Or had Thomas hired him to do so?
Even though Cantwell was waiting to be interrogated, the queen knew she had to find and question Badger. But first, she had to get to Marie and Sally to be certain they were safe from him. He must know that Marie was regaining her memory. She had already caused him to be questioned by the queen about the letters and dismissed by Anne, partly at least, for secretly carrying them. He might fear the girl could identify him or would tell others more—the very reasons Ursala might have been targeted for death.
Elizabeth drew Cecil away from the door before she whispered, “Badger may be the link not only to Celia but to the killer.”
“At the least, it’s dangerous to have him at large, especially since the Greshams are both here.”
“I’m going to Gresham House now, and not in my coach. One of my barges, a working one without all the royal tr
appings, will be faster. Anne may have thrown Badger out of the house, but the girls are there alone until Bates and my guards arrive. You stay here, question Hosea Cantwell, and try to deal with the Greshams.”
“Your Grace,” he said as she started away, “remember badgers bite.”
“I appreciate your coming down to see me—both of you,” Nash Badger told Marie and Sally the moment they joined him in the Gresham gardens. “I know it’s a bit brisk today, but I see you two clever girls are well protected from the wind by your cloaks and hoods.”
Despite the biting smell that always came from Badger, Marie was glad he was still around. The housemaid had told her and Sally that her mother had scolded the poor man terribly and had ordered him to leave, but that must have blown over now. She was puzzled, though, that he wasn’t with her father. Both her parents had left the house separately, so why was Badger still here?
“We saw you gesturing to us when we looked out the window,” Marie explained. “We’re not to venture out, but the courtyard doesn’t count.”
“Precisely, Mistress Gresham. You always were a sharp one, and Sally also, eh, girl?” he said with a nod and a smile.
Marie knew that Sally liked Badger, too, not because he’d done errands for her but because he treated her as if she didn’t have a mark or scar on her face. Some of the other household servants had been shocked by her appearance and had whispered behind her back.
“You do know, do you not,” Badger said with a glance up at the second-story windows, “why they don’t want you to go out, especially today?”
“No. They don’t really tell me much about—important things.”
“Ah,” he said with a sigh. “Well, I warrant it’s because your poor departed Aunt Hannah’s body is being laid to rest today in Southwark at the parish church of St. Saviour, just across London Bridge. They no doubt wanted to be certain you didn’t go there to pay your final respects to the twin sister of your dead mother—your real mother.”
