Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  ‘Having broken, we can now enter,’ he said with what Matt privately thought an inappropriate degree of levity. ‘You know what to do?’

  ‘Aye.’ They’d been over it so often that Mr Lewis could have set it to music.

  ‘Good.’

  Turning back to the window, Alex began to prise it open with his fingernails until it swung outwards with a mournful groan. Then, drawing aside the heavy curtain, he peered in; the room was in darkness and apparently empty. He nodded curtly at Matthew, placed one foot on the sill and, grasping the frame, levered himself easily up and for the first time in eighteen years, entered the home of his childhood. Then he took the lantern from Mr Lewis so that he could follow.

  When they were both inside, Alex signalled Matt to hold back the curtains while he trod quietly across to the door, placed his ear to it and then opened it to look briefly into the hall. It was blackly silent and, closing the door again, he turned the key in the lock and returned to Matt’s side.

  Mr Lewis pulled the casement to, drew the curtains closely together and only then did he light the lantern. A soft, golden glow illuminated the room, touching the heavily-carved furniture and high shelves full of books and rolls of parchment. Matt glanced swiftly around him, allowing his eyes time to become accustomed to the light. Mr Deveril was already standing beside a large oak desk, systematically discovering which drawers were locked and which not. Only the top left one appeared to have been secured, all the rest opening easily to his touch. Alex smiled to himself, beckoned Matt to join him and drew from his pocket a string containing an assortment of keys, specially collected over the last few days.

  ‘I’ll see to this one,’ he said. ‘You start on the rest.’

  By the time he had found a key which, with only a little forceful persuasion, opened the locked drawer, Matthew had searched through the contents of two others, replaced them and begun on a third. Alex lifted out a sheaf of documents and laid them on the desk-top while he examined the interior of the drawer for false panels. He found none and turned his attention to the papers.

  They proved extremely interesting and he subjected them all to a swift scrutiny, pausing every now and then to read, but when he reached the bottom of the pile he shook his head in response to Matt’s enquiring glance, replaced them tidily and locked the drawer again.

  ‘Fascinating,’ he said regretfully, ‘but not what we’re looking for. I wonder if Arlington and Coventry know they’re being watched.’

  ‘Are they?’ Matt’s hands continued their methodical work.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Alex gestured to the locked drawer. ‘Reports in minute and tedious detail. Where they go, who they see, who they sleep with – and so on. Perhaps Simon is writing their memoirs.’

  ‘Aye. And perhaps he isn’t.’

  Alex did not reply. For a moment he stood, deep in thought, then said, ‘There’s somewhere else I’d like to try. You finish off here – I’m going upstairs.’

  Matt looked up sharply. ‘Have you gone daft? Simon’s out of the way at Court but there are servants here somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ shrugged Mr Deveril. ‘And, if the worst comes to the worst, I can always bob them on the noll.’ And was gone.

  Cat-like, Alex crossed the hall and set his foot on the stairs, one hand lightly skimming the bannister and his mind engaged in summoning every submerged recollection of Deveril House. And, as he climbed, the details came clearly back so that he was twelve years old again, automatically stepping over the place where there was a loose board, adjusting his stride for the trip-step and raising his arm to avoid the carved newel at the turn in the staircase. Then he was at the top.

  He paused for an instant, listening, then turned unerringly to the left, moving soft-footed along what he knew to be a wide corridor but of which he could see nothing. It was pitch-dark; black as total blindness but it did not matter. Alex kept close to the right-hand wall, running his hand along it to count doorways and then side-stepping around the place where a huge china vase had always stood. Idly, he stretched out his fingers and smiled as they met the cool, glossy surface of it. He moved on to the next and stopped, searching delicately for the latch; then he found it, lifted it, went in.

  There was light here, a little, fading in from windows whose curtains had not been drawn but he knew without looking that the room was empty. Other senses, less defined but no less real than those of sight and sound, told him that there was no danger here; nobody in the vast bed, no one waiting in the shadows. Only emptiness.

  He moved unhurriedly to the wainscoting covering the far wall and stood for a while staring at the intricate frieze-work. Then he ran his hands over the upper row of carved devices, counting again to find the section he wanted. A second later the long fingers closed on one of the bosses, twisted it to the left and Alex stepped back to watch as a portion of the panelling in the lower tier slid smoothly back to reveal a dark cavity.

  He needed light now and drew from his pocket a small piece of candle and a tinder-box. Then, shading the flame with his hand, he stepped into the recess.

  It was a priest’s hole, small and cleverly concealed, its existence known only to the immediate family. The Deverils, so his father had said, had never had occasion to hide a priest in it; but they had used it for pretty well everything else – from mistresses to contraband. And it was just the place, thought Alex, to hide a dirty secret … if you happened to have one.

  There was nothing there save a shelf containing a miscellany of objects. Alex began sifting through them, sensibly leaving till last a small, battered and obviously locked casket. And then he heard footsteps; even, unhurried and approaching. In a breath, the candle was out and Alex was across the room to stand behind the door, listening. If this were Simon returning unexpectedly, he had no mind to be trapped inside the cache. But the footfalls passed on and receded. Alex allowed his lungs to relax and went back to work.

  Three leather pouches of gold and some jewellery; a bundle of letters tied with fraying blue ribbon which proved to have been written by Alex’s mother to his father. After the first, he did not read these but simply glanced through to check no other paper had been lodged amongst them. Then he sat for a time, turning them gently in his hands and forcing down his revulsion at the knowledge that he must leave them here in Simon’s possession. Finally he laid them reluctantly back on the shelf and picked up the box.

  As he had expected, it was locked – but not for long. Alex put down his collection of keys, the appropriate one thoughtfully segregated, and began to inspect the contents. More letters; this time from a variety of senders. He went through them, reading each with rapid concentration and laying it back in the box just as he had found it. They were all much the same; letters dating from the time of the Commonwealth, all of them showing clearly where Simon’s allegiance had lain during that time and all of them perfectly useless.

  He dropped a letter into the box and picked up the next, starting to read dutifully but without much hope. And then the air left his lungs and his stomach clenched. He stared at the signature, he re-read the letter; and then he stayed where he was, deep in thought, until the candle guttered and died, leaving him alone and blind in the dark.

  He moved then, slipping the letter into his pocket and performing by touch the necessary actions that would leave everything as he had found it. He restored the remaining letters to the box, locked and replaced it; as best he could, he scraped up the warm, soft remains of his candle, then rose and stepped out into the room, closing the panel behind him.

  When he re-entered the library, Mr Lewis was standing on a chair diligently inspecting the rolls of parchment on one of the shelves and it was not until Alex rose up beside him out of the shadows that he knew he was there. Matt’s eyes, as he looked down, were full of relief but his words were at odds with them.

  ‘I see you didn’t rush. I wondered if you’d maybe found a woman up there.’

  Mr Deveril grinned, his face aesthetically pale in the st
range light.

  ‘Perish the thought. These days I’m a damned monk – see my robes.’

  ‘Or, right now I’m a damned burglar – see my noose?’ Matt asked crossly. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Alex pleasantly, ‘what I was about to suggest. Though not, perhaps, in those exact words.’

  It was not until they were at the riverside looking for a boat which would take them home that Mr Lewis finally brought himself to ask the obvious question.

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  Alex gazed across the water in rapt contemplation of the Surrey bank.

  ‘Something, you might say, and nothing,’ he replied vaguely. And then, grinning, ‘Come home and I shall light a candle of understanding in thine heart which shall not be put out.’

  To which, thought Matt irritably, there was no answer at all.

  *

  Not surprisingly, Chloë knew nothing of these activities and, during the first days of July, was as busy as she could have wished – and far too busy to wonder more than seven or eight times a day what Alex was doing. It had been arranged that the Queen should leave for Tunbridge Wells on the ninth for a stay of at least three weeks and Chloë suddenly realised that this meant she would be unlikely to return to London until the beginning of August – and August, of course, was when she might expect to see The Black Boy again. Weighing the situation carefully, she came to the conclusion that, since she needed storage space for the merchandise, it would have to be found now.

  Accompanied by Mr Lewis, taciturn and disapproving of her stubborn insistence on visiting the wharves herself, Chloë set off on a round of enquiry and inspection and finally found what she wanted; a dry, sturdy warehouse hard by the Three Cranes in the Vintry. Chloë paid its owner two months’ rent and Matt heaved a sigh of relief.

  On the eve of her departure, Mr Deveril sought her out to take a business-like farewell. The formality of his manner made him a stranger. Certainly, this was not the man who had lent her his strength, understanding and unspoken sympathy on the night they had learned of Danny’s death. Nor was it the man whose mere presence could make her heart leap into her throat and whose kiss had made her blood sing. She wondered what he was thinking … and realised she would never know.

  As it happened, Alex’s thoughts weren’t entirely clear even to himself. When he’d kissed her that night on the Falcon Stairs, he’d wanted more than a kiss and known that he could probably have it. But Chloë was no Sarah, to be taken and then discarded; nor did she deserve to be irrevocably tied to him unless they were quite sure it was what they both wanted. And even then, what he had said to Giles was true; he was intemperate, intolerant and impossible to live with. Unless … but he refused to entertain that idea. Only two things were crystal clear. These days, the curve of her mouth or the tilt of her head were suddenly a temptation they’d never been before; and Chloë’s quick mind, forthright charm and innate kindness clearly made her deserving of a better man.

  Hiding his doubts behind a screen of practicality, he began by asking a number of questions about the safety and comfort of her travelling arrangements before coming at last, and with some reluctance, to the point.

  ‘You may possibly have been wondering about our annulment.’

  Chloë, who had been trying not to wonder about the annulment, swallowed, met his gaze and found it unreadable. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ he repeated with a faint glimmer of his usual acidity. ‘I’ve done everything I can – including signing the necessary papers – but, as I believe I warned you, the wheels of the Church grind exceedingly slow. Eventually they must ask to see you and when that happens I imagine the end will be in sight. Alternatively, they may place the matter before the King and if they do that – or have already done so – it might be possible for you to move things along a little by appealing to the Queen.’

  ‘I see.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Is … that what you want?’

  Forcing down a sudden urge to admit that he had no idea, Alex shrugged and maintained his indifferent façade.

  ‘Not particularly. You may do as you see fit. It makes little difference to me since I’m in no hurry to resume my bachelor status. But it occurred to me that – if and when your ship comes in and you find yourself financially independent – you might prefer to find yourself legally free as well.’

  Chloë put a lot of effort into keeping both face and voice neutral.

  ‘Thank you. Like you, I’m in no particular hurry … and I doubt the Queen would help anyway. I know we’re looking for an annulment not a divorce, but Catherine’s so devoutly Catholic that she may not recognise the difference. However, I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Do.’ He paused and then, against his will, heard himself say, ‘I’m likely to be rather busy while you’re away - but when you come back we should probably talk.’

  Just in time, she stopped herself asking about what.

  ‘Yes. I imagine we should.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you in three weeks or so,’ Alex finished pleasantly. ‘In the meantime, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or, in fact, a good many things I would.’

  On which felicitous note, he took his leave of her.

  *

  For the next week after Chloë had gone, in day after day of scorching heat, Alex relentlessly pursued his enquiries. On the one hand, he continued to follow the existing lines of information which kept him in loose communication with Mr Beckwith and on the other, he and Matt devoted a good deal of time and energy to the observance of Cousin Simon. And then, on Monday the sixteenth, when the weather mercifully broke in a hailstorm of epic proportions, a letter arrived from Prince Rupert’s secretary.

  Alex read it thoughtfully, then went in search of Matthew.

  ‘Do you think,’ he asked, ‘that you can keep up the good work without me?’

  Matt surveyed him with mistrust. ‘If I have to.’

  ‘You have to,’ replied Mr Deveril. ‘I’m joining the Navy. Temporarily, I hope.’

  ‘No doubt you’ve got a good reason?’

  ‘I have. I’m summoned,’ said Alex, tossing the letter across to him, ‘to render an account of our progress to His Highness. And since I’ve nothing whatsoever that I can usefully tell him, you’d better pray – as I shall – that I find him in a good humour.’

  ~ * * * ~

  NINE

  Chloë had gone to Tunbridge Wells hoping to find peace of mind and in the first few days there was tranquillity of a sort, brought about by the air of dawdling business that invested the royal household. You never, she discovered, had much to do but you always had to be there, formally gowned and smiling, as you chatted over your embroidery or accompanied the Queen in her carriage or walked with her in the gardens. And you were never, ever alone. Chloë settled in amongst the other ladies like a raven amongst peacocks and for a time the strange novelty of her life contrived to exercise a beneficial effect on her spirits. Then came the letter from her husband and she was carrying hods in Egypt again.

  It was a cool, impersonal letter, written in flamboyant hand-writing and signed with his initials. Chloë had stared at it for a long time, disappointment in her eyes and anxiety in her heart, thinking how typical it was. Anyone else would use their name; anyone else, damn it, would stay at home in his slippers and leave the war to those whose job it was. Hadn’t anyone, she wondered, blowing her nose, ever told Mr Deveril that the things you liked were usually bad for you?

  Wednesday, the twenty-fifth, was the feast of St James the Apostle and Chloë, who had woken with a nagging headache, went quietly to Mass with Queen Catherine and moved through the rest of the day with a vague sense of unease. It was not until Friday, when news came that the fleet had been engaged, that she understood it; and then had to live through four long days before more detailed news arrived with the King and his suite.

  They were only too pleased to talk of the late battle for this time Prince Rupert and the Duke of Albemarle had won a conclusive victory
. Moving discreetly from one gentleman to another, Chloë discovered that the two fleets had finally converged early on St James’ day after previously losing each other during twenty-four hours of gales and heavy seas. The opposing vanguards had gone into action first but the centres were soon engaged and Sir Jeremy Smith of the Blue Squadron had become involved in a confused struggle with the Dutch rear under Tromp; a struggle which Sir Jeremy had presumably had the best of, since he kept Tromp away from the rest of the Dutch fleet and then chased him all the way home.

  Elsewhere, the Dutch van had been driven into retreat in some fierce fighting but the hottest action, so everyone said, had been in the centre. Rupert and Albemarle had conducted a furious mêlée, grappling with the enemy and firing broadside upon broadside against de Ruyter who, though weakened by the loss of his rear and vanguards, was still determined to fight on. No one mentioned Mr Deveril but Chloë gloomily thought that she knew where he would have been.

  She joined the periphery of a little group about George Villiers and listened while he described in hilarious terms how Albemarle had supposedly boasted that de Ruyter would give him but two broadsides and then run. This anecdote was greeted with a good deal of amused ribaldry from his audience. Chloë moved away and found herself confronting the King. She curtsied and waited for him to move on. He did not do so and the cynical gaze rested on her with disturbing knowledge.

  ‘Mistress Deveril,’ he said, raising her to her feet and placing her hand on his arm, ‘you have been talking to all the wrong people.’

  Walking at his side between the stately rose-beds, Chloë decided to say as little as possible. ‘Oh?’