The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's

by Buckley, Fiona

  “My lord!” I said. “I am sorry to come upon you like this but it’s an emergency. Something terrible has happened!”

  I then did the best thing I could possibly have done in the circumstances, probably the only thing which would have cooled Norfolk’s entirely reasonable wrath and called forth sympathy instead.

  I broke down in tears.

  • • •

  “Now,” said Norfolk, when he had resumed his doublet as well as his hose and somehow or other had got the two of us ensconced in the parlor. He had also made the scandalized Conley bring a flagon of strong red wine and had watched me gulp some of it down, “now, please, Mistress Stannard, tell me what the matter is and why you think I can help. All right, Conley, you can go away. I accept that you couldn’t stop her and perhaps there is a good reason behind all this.”

  “There is. And I’m truly sorry. I was wrong to rush in on you like that. But I am nearly out of my mind. Are the Brockleys being looked after?” I added, as an afterthought.

  “By good Mistress Dalton, in the servants’ quarters,” said Conley in chilly tones, and withdrew.

  I looked at Norfolk. “You’re the only person I can think of who might be able to help, and every hour of delay means more fear and suffering for someone who can’t defend herself. Please listen.”

  “You can see I am willing to do so. Go on.”

  “My woman, Gladys Morgan . . . ”

  “That terrible old crone who caused such a furore when you were staying here?”

  “She is just old and a little silly. Yes, it’s Gladys. She has been arrested on a charge of witchcraft, and your third secretary, Edmund Dean, has apparently laid information that she cursed the messenger Julius Gale and that his death was due to that, to witchcraft, and not to being accosted and stabbed. And you know,” I said with passion, “that it isn’t true. You know that Gale was stabbed. You saw the wound, did you not?”

  “It was just a slit. Even then, it seemed strange to me that such a small thing could cause a man’s death. I know the coroner said that it could, but there is another possibility, which Dean has also raised. Perhaps the hand that used the blade was under the influence of dark forces. Mistress Stannard, why should anyone want to kill Gale except for pure mischief and joy in evildoing?” Norfolk was all righteous innocence. “He was only a courier. He wasn’t robbed. Even the letters he was carrying weren’t stolen, as we thought at first. They were here all the time.”

  “I don’t believe in those dark forces, my lord, and surely you don’t either. I am asking you to speak to Dean, to insist that he must accept that there was a stab wound and that there is no evidence that any . . . any occult power had anything to do with Gale’s death. Get Dean to withdraw his evidence! Please, order him to admit the truth. I’m afraid for Gladys! She’s old, foolish, and frightened out of her wits. I can’t bear to think of her . . . I can’t bear it . . . ”

  Norfolk hurriedly poured me another glass of wine, before I could dissolve into tears again. “But why should anyone murder Gale?” he said again, wonderingly.

  “Why should Gladys?” I countered.

  My frenzy was passing now, once more enabling me to think. Norfolk was balking; very well, I would apply pressure. “Gale was not on the road to the north, as he should have been,” I said. “Did you not think that strange?”

  “I did, of course, but perhaps he had some private errand—some friend for whom he had a message which he wished to deliver before leaving London . . . ”

  Quietly, I said: “How the letters came to be found in his room, I don’t know. But I think he meant to take them to the house of Sir William Cecil, to be copied before he took them on to their destinations. The correspondence you and Signor Ridolfi have been having with Mary Stuart, the Bishop of Ross, and Regent Moray, has been under scrutiny.”

  “What?” Norfolk was in the act of pouring wine for himself. He nearly dropped the flagon. His expression of horror was almost comical. He looked as though I had hit him with a brick.

  “My lord,” I said, “I have been staying in the house of Sir William Cecil. He was my informant. I assure you that he has no animus against you. But you’re involved in a very dangerous business.”

  He gulped at his wine and then attempted to smile kindly, as a sophisticated man might smile at a child who was pretending to worldly knowledge it couldn’t possibly possess. “What are you talking about? Come, come! I have been considering marriage with a charming woman who would bring me many worldly advantages . . . ”

  I just looked at him, without speaking. I had no need to speak. Norfolk’s own conscience and Norfolk’s own fears were doing it for me. I watched his eyes widen and saw him turn pale. After a moment, I said mildly: “You have been in touch, I think, with the Catholic earls in the north—Derby, Westmorland, Northumberland?”

  “I . . . ” He stopped, nonplussed.

  “Cecil wishes you well and fears you are running a grave risk. He would like to be your friend. He is helping you with a lawsuit, I know; surely that’s evidence of his goodwill. What he would like to see you do,” I said, “is step back from these schemes and plans. Dissociate yourself.”

  “Does he know you’re here? Did he send you?”

  “No. He has no idea where I’ve gone. My daughter, Meg, is still in his house, though, and she knows where I am.” I let the note of warning sound in my voice and Norfolk produced a feeble kind of indignation.

  “My dear Mistress Stannard! You are in no danger in my house!”

  “Indeed, I hope not. But do you not see that you need Cecil’s friendship? He tried to prevent Gladys’s arrest. He would be grateful if you would help to destroy the charge which has been laid against her.”

  “I see. What exactly do you wish me to do?”

  I thought I’d made it clear already, but I obliged him by repeating it. “I want you, sir, to bring Edmund Dean to heel. To bear witness yourself that Gale died by stabbing. My lord, you are the Duke of Norfolk!” I resorted to flattery. “Dean will obey you and the justice who issued the warrant for Gladys’s arrest will surely listen to you!”

  He refilled his glass again and I saw that his hand was not quite steady. “I wish I knew who really killed Gale. I wish I knew why!”

  “To stop him from going to Cecil.”

  “But they had only to warn Signor Ridolfi and get Gale dismissed from his service. There was no need to murder him.”

  “Those particular letters might have amounted to some sort of emergency. Whoever killed him must have thought he had them on him. Who knows? Will you try to save Gladys?”

  Norfolk drew himself up. “What if I say no? I have a sense of loyalty to my inferiors. I would have to make Dean look foolish and he is, after all, my secretary and has served me well. I am sure he is sincere . . . ”

  I said: “I repeat. My daughter knows I have come here. And if you will not help Gladys, I will ask Cecil to go to the queen and tell her everything he has learned concerning your marriage plans and your dealings with the north and if he doesn’t wish to, then I’ll do it myself.”

  He sat staring at me and I saw his lower lip wobble. “All I ask is that you tell the truth and make Dean tell it as well!” I said. “Please!”

  “Naturally, if I am called as a witness, I shall say what I saw when Gale’s body was carried into my house. What else would I do?”

  He was a muddlehead. He had just, more or less, threatened to lie about it because he valued Edmund Dean’s feelings more highly than justice for poor Gladys. I didn’t remind him.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be grateful, always. So will Gladys.”

  Norfolk didn’t answer for a moment. His gaze shifted from my face to look past me, so intently that I turned to look, thinking that someone else must have entered the room. No one was there, however. What he was seeing was a vision born from his own mind. Then he said: “If I must give up my hopes, my dreams, I shall lose her.”

  “Her?” For a moment I was puzzle
d and then I understood. “You mean—Mary Stuart?”

  “Yes. My Mary.” His glance returned to me. Insignificant little man though he was, he had in that moment a curious stature. “You probably can’t understand, but I love her.”

  I said nothing. As on the day when I first arrived at Howard House, I found it impossible to remind him that his adored Mary might well have the violent demise of her husband Darnley on her conscience.

  It seemed, in fact, the right moment to rise, make my curtsy and go. Norfolk called Conley to show me out. “Conley,” I said, as we went through the vestibule, “is Arthur Johnson here today?”

  “No, Mistress Stannard. He is working at the Ridolfi house at present, I believe.”

  “Thank you. Please fetch my servants.”

  He gave me an unfriendly look but did as I asked. I led my companions back to the river. We were in luck, for the tide was turning and getting a boat back the way we had come would not be difficult.

  “What happened?” Brockley asked.

  “I think he’ll testify to the existence of that stab wound and make Dean admit it as well. That should put an end to the charge of encompassing Gale’s death.”

  “That’s a mercy.”

  “Are we going back to Sir William’s house?” Dale asked.

  “No,” I said. “We’re going to Signor Ridolfi. There’s still a charge against Gladys connected with Hillman. I don’t particularly want to have to stand up in court and explain that she put a sleeping draft in his nighttime drink on my instructions! There are two people at the Ridolfi house that I want to see. One’s Edmund Dean. I may as well speak to him if I can. The other one is Johnson.”

  24

  Checkmate by a Gnome

  The boatman put us down at the Ridolfi landing stage. People could not arrive at the landing stage unobserved; there was always someone on the watch and Greaves met us as we walked through the knot garden.

  “Mistress Stannard! Madame sent me out to meet you. She will be glad to see you. Come this way.”

  Perforce, we followed him to the terrace where we found Donna and her maid, a pretty Italian girl, industriously stitching, seated on either side of a worktable. Donna jumped up when she saw me. “But how delightful! Have you come to see how I am getting on without you? I miss you so much! But I have profited from your company! Look!” She held up the work she was doing; a half-finished sleeve of silvery damask with buttons to secure it at the shoulder. “I bought this material from Master Paige—and I beat him down to twenty-six shillings a yard!”

  The average price for such a material was twenty-six shillings a yard. Paige had probably asked thirty shillings and then let himself be hammered down to the price he had meant to charge all along. I smiled at her, admired the damask, and complimented her on her stitchwork, but when Donna invited me to join her, I shook my head. “This isn’t just a social visit, Madame Ridolfi. Something has happened. It concerns my woman, Gladys Morgan.”

  Briefly, I explained. Donna’s maid interrupted me once, exclaiming in bad French that she had been afraid of Gladys and that she was not surprised that the old woman had been taken up for witchcraft, but Donna, quite sharply, told her to keep her place and not interfere. “Naturally, Mistress Stannard will do what she can for her servants! Would I not do the same for you?” The maid subsided and I said, “I must speak to Edmund Dean, if I can. I heard that he was here.”

  “Dean? Not that I know. However . . . ” She picked up a little silver bell from the worktable and rang it. Greaves appeared very quickly. “Madam?”

  “Has Edmund Dean been here today, Greaves?”

  “Yes, madam. He came on foot, bringing a letter from his master. Signor Ridolfi was out, though expected shortly, and Dean wasn’t sure whether to wait for an answer or not. Then a message reached him here and he said he was going off somewhere by river. I didn’t see the messenger and can’t say whether the message was from Howard House or not.”

  “I see,” I said. Well, the Duke of Norfolk would deal with Edmund Dean, or so I hoped. Johnson was now more important. “Is Arthur Johnson here?” I asked. “I must talk to him too, if possible.”

  “Yes, madam,” Greaves said. “He’s working on the topiary. Everything grows so fast at this time of year.”

  “Then if you will excuse me . . . ?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Donna, her nice brown eyes full of regret that I hadn’t come for the sake of her company.

  As we went into the topiary garden, Brockley said, “Madam, will you let me start the talking?”

  I looked at him gratefully. He had done this before—taken over when I had a problem difficult for a woman to solve. Johnson might well turn out to be such a problem. “I wish you would,” I said.

  We found Johnson up a ladder, clipping the mane of a rearing horse. “Can’t come down,” he said when we halted below and Brockley called to him. “Too busy.” His brown gnome’s face peered down at us. “This here mane’s grown out of shape in a week. In summer, I don’t know how I keep up. You want to talk to me; you just do it while I keep on clippin’.”

  “This is important,” said Brockley. “We can’t talk to you properly while you’re up there. You must come down.”

  “You tell me what it’s about and maybe I will and maybe I won’t.”

  “Gladys Morgan,” said Brockley.

  “What about ’er? Rotten old besom, and a witch, to boot.”

  “Come down!” said Brockley. “Or I’ll make you.” He seized the ladder and shook it in a threatening manner, and Johnson descended, backward, stepped off the last rung and stood there glaring at us.

  “What about old Gladys, then? Her and her curses!”

  “She’s been arrested,” I said, unable after all, to leave it to Brockley. “As well you know! But you also know very well that she’s not a witch! Witchy nonsense, you called it once. You said it to me!”

  “Oh, I did, did I?”

  “Yes, you did. I heard you,” Brockley told him roughly. “You only laid information because she turned you down and didn’t appreciate your topiary work enough!”

  “Turned me down? Yes, so she did! A decent man offers her his hand and heart an’ all she can do is laugh at them! Wounded me, she did!”

  For a moment, the feeling in his voice changed from malice to pain and I realized that the pain was real. Gladys really had hurt him. But the malice returned fast enough. His bright old eyes sparkled with it.

  “But it weren’t long afore I were thinkin’ I’m better off without the likes of her because I saw her, I did, putting summat in Master Hillman’s drink, the night afore he said he’d had wild dreams and so forth, and I’d seen her a-pickin’ summat in the herb garden that same evening!” His voice was triumphant now, as though he thought he had checkmated us.

  “I’ll enjoy coming to the trial and hearing you explain what you were doing up a ladder, peering in at windows,” Brockley said. “The window just above is that of the maidservants. I take it you were peeping at them again, for all you claim you were clearing a drain!”

  “So I were. You try and prove I weren’t.”

  “Gladys,” I said boldly, deciding to go for half the truth, at least, “was adding extra spices. Master Hillman had sipped his drink and found that he wanted more flavorings. Gladys and I met him when he came out of his room in search of them. He mentioned where he was going and Gladys said she would see to it for him.”

  Hillman would come back from Scotland in due course and might quarrel with this, but I would worry about that later. If necessary, I would tell him what Gladys and I had really done and why. Cecil would surely back me up. Hillman was Gale’s kinsman and Walsingham hoped he would be Gale’s replacement. He would very likely understand.

  “Then what were that old hag a-doin’ in the herb garden?” demanded Johnson truculently.

  “You will not call Mistress Morgan a hag,” said Brockley coldly. Now that Gladys was in grave trouble, all his gallantry toward her had retur
ned.

  “She was picking herbs for a potion against sick headaches,” I said, truthfully. “My headaches, to be precise. That’s all.”

  “You see,” said Brockley, “your evidence amounts to nothing. We may as well tell you that Edmund Dean is likely to withdraw his evidence as well. You’ll be on your own and we’ll refute you.”

  “What does that mean—refute?”

  “It means we’ll make it clear that what you saw wasn’t what you thought,” said Dale, joining in, shrill in her support for me and Brockley.

  “All right,” said the gnome, showing his gap teeth—so very like Gladys’s own fangs—in a far from genial smile. “So what I say don’t count for nothing. But them as Gladys cursed at Howard House, they’ll likely speak up. I know all about that, from them. I work there, same as I do here. They’ll say how she cursed ’em and they all fell sick . . . ”

  “They ate stew with bad chicken in it!”

  “So you say.” The crafty old eyes smiled unpleasantly at me. “But it ain’t only them. There’s more.”

  “More?” I said.

  Again, that fanged grin, that cunning leer. “Gladys told me this an’ that as well, in the days when it were sweet talk atween us. Like how she cursed folk at those places where you lot live as a rule. Somewhere called Hawks something or other, and somewhere called Withysham, and there were a third . . . Faldene or some such.”

  I felt myself become very still.

  “Makes sense to you, do it?” The sly old eyes were watching me. “Went fer the vicar there, she did, over how he was treatin’ some other crazy old soul. She cursed folk at all three places, she told me, and she laughed at how they looked when she let fly at ’em, and how she made the physicians wild, makin’ potions that were better than what theirs were.”

  “Oh, God,” I said.

  “You may well call on God. So may she. Justice’ll be sendin’ to all them places, to the physicians there and that vicar. They’ll be called to witness, too. Goin’ to go and bully them, are you? Think they’ll listen? More likely to have you up as well, I reckon!”