By two o’clock, however, the prosecutor had yet to finish his speech, no witnesses had been sworn in, and the jury was becoming restless. The judge announced that the court would adjourn and reassemble in an hour. As the galleries emptied, Seward glimpsed Mistress Savage coming through the crowd towards him. He signalled that he would follow her, and made his excuses to Clarke and Earle before joining her outside.
“How is Mr. Beaumont?” she inquired, with no perceptible emotion.
“He has been recovering at his family home,” Seward replied, continuing more honestly, “He still has no idea of all that you did to help him.”
“Let us keep it that way. Falkland must wish that he were here, more than ever.”
“Why so?”
As she bent her head towards him, Seward scented again the expensive perfume that he had once noticed on Beaumont’s clothes. “Doctor, this too should be a secret between us, with one exception: Mr. Beaumont needs to know of it. Digby informed me that His Majesty is sending a Commission of Array to London, authorizing all citizens opposed to Parliament to take up arms for the royal cause. The plan was hatched last year, but the time did not seem opportune to execute it. Now His Majesty believes that the Queen’s recent arrival in England will stimulate an upsurge of enthusiasm in the capital, and win over those who are still hesitant to join him. In Parliament, Edmund Waller has undertaken to act as an intermediary between the citizens and any members of the Lords or Commons who would declare for the King. And Falkland has accepted to organize the correspondence between Oxford and London.” She stopped, regarding Seward with her intense hazel eyes. “Perhaps His Majesty was inclined to test him, by assigning him such a vital role in the uprising. It is likely to come to fruition in May.” “A perilous endeavour,” observed Seward.
“And what occurred to me is this: to whom may Falkland turn, to manage these secret communications?” Beaumont, Seward thought; and how difficult it would be for him to refuse this other duty, since he had shown himself so keen to assist Falkland with the conspiracy. “Yes, him,” she said, in a whisper. “He has proved that he can be trusted, under the greatest duress. If only he were not so useful.” Abruptly she put on a smile, which Seward guessed was for the benefit of Digby, who was strolling up to them.
“What sublime weather!” Digby cried. “More like July than the middle of March. Who is your distinguished companion, Isabella?”
“Digby, may I present Dr. William Seward of Merton College.”
Digby examined Seward with interest. “I have heard of you, sir. Are you not renowned for your knowledge of astrology?”
“It is one of my pastimes, my lord. I cannot claim any expertise.”
“Oh no? In any case, it seems a tricky business. Her Majesty the Queen consulted astrologers before setting sail for the English coast, and they warned her against making the journey because of some unfavourable conjunction of the planets. But she prayed to our Lady of Liesse, et voilà, she was safely delivered to our shores.”
“A happy miscalculation on the part of her astrologers.”
“Or else divine intervention. Isabella, should I ask Dr. Seward to see into your stars?”
“Please don’t,” she said, with a bright laugh. “I prefer to be surprised by fate.”
“As do I,” Digby concurred. “Is Dr. Seward preparing you to take a place at Merton? With her brains,” he said to Seward, “she could outwit any of our undergraduates.”
“The day has not come when women are allowed such a privilege,” she murmured.
Nor will it ever, thought Seward, if there is a God in heaven.
“If it does, I worry for us men,” laughed Digby. “Doctor, have you had a chance to read a copy of my new broadsheet, Mercurius Aulicus?”
“I have not.”
“Its concerns are more mundane than the rotations of the planets, but it is informative nonetheless. I shall have the latest issue delivered to Merton, if you like.”
“I thank you, my lord.”
“So what’s your opinion, will Colonel Hoare be spared a traitor’s death?”
“I hope not.”
“I wonder why Mr. Beaumont is not in attendance,” Digby said to Mistress Savage. “I thought he’d have liked to see his foe brought down.”
“Digby,” she said, taking his arm, “listening to all these speeches has given me a terrible thirst. Let us find some refreshment before we return to the courtroom.”
“Certainly, my dear. We shall see you in there, Doctor,” Digby called back to Seward, who bowed and watched them go, chatting merrily as if they had not a care in the world.
V.
On his third morning at Faringdon, Laurence could play the invalid no longer; he had only ten more days to find Radcliff’s letters. When Madam Musgrave poked her head into his room late in the afternoon to ask how he was, he announced that he wished to dress and come downstairs. She looked surprised, but later expressed her great pleasure as he descended on trembling legs, disappointed at how much weaker his muscles were after being bedridden again.
She invited him to the fireside, advancing his chair nearer to the blaze.
“Has Lady Radcliff had any word from her husband yet?” he inquired, with an air of polite concern.
“She has not, poor girl,” said Madam Musgrave, “though Walter must have told him her news by now. I urged her not to worry too much, sir. Nothing can be amiss with him or else Walter would have informed us, even if Sir Bernard has not the grace to write himself.”
There was a pause, during which Laurence searched for a way to steer the conversation towards his desired object. “You have a very beautiful house,” he remarked. “Has it been in your family long?”
“No, sir. My husband’s father, Marmaduke Musgrave, bought it upon its confiscation from a Catholic nobleman, back in the reign of Queen Bess. The fellow had apparently been plotting some mischief against her.”
“What happened to him?” Laurence asked, thinking of certain other conspirators.
“He and his wife fled to France. Others in their household were not so lucky. You see, Mr. Beaumont, the house was used as a refuge for priests sent from the Spanish Netherlands to convert us all back to popery. They had a priest’s hole built into the walls, and mass was held every Sunday in a bedchamber on the third floor, near the secret entrance. After they left, one of the priests was discovered, still hidden. A servant had betrayed him, and he was hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn,” she concluded, with grim relish. “My servants believe that he haunts that chamber. They’ve heard knocking and the sound of footsteps.”
“Have you ever heard him?” Laurence said, smiling; he could not picture Madam Musgrave frightened by anyone, living or dead.
“No, but I rarely go up there; all those stairs are too much for my old knees. The last time was months ago, when I placed some valuables in the hole so that no soldiers from either army could come stealing from me.”
“Very wise. Soldiers are a greedy lot.”
They stopped talking as Kate entered the hall, and Laurence rose to bow. She appeared to him as haunted as any spectre, with dark circles about her eyes and a blotched, unhealthy complexion.
“Mr. Beaumont,” she said, in a rather accusatory tone, “you must be much better.”
“I am, thank you, Lady Radcliff,” he said, faking a wince as he sat down again.
“Such a change we’ve wrought in him since he arrived,” Madam Musgrave observed, beaming at him. “We were just speaking of the priest’s ghost, Kate. Have you been witness to his knockings and bangings?”
“I have not, Aunt, and I hope I never am,” Kate answered, her face grave.
“We must ask Sir Bernard, the next time he calls on us, if he saw any strange apparition when he put his coffer in there,” said Madam Musgrave, winking at Laurence, who could hardly believe his ears. Then her expression changed and she flushed a bright pink.
“What coffer?” Kate asked, frowning at her.
“Oh
my dear,” she exclaimed, “I was not supposed to tell you!” Laurence glanced from Kate to her, tantalized, waiting for her to continue. “He left it with me last September. He said it contained some family relics from Longstanton, and a present that he wished to give you on your next birthday. He wanted to surprise you with it. How indiscreet I’ve been! Promise you won’t say a word to him about this?”
“Certainly, Aunt,” Kate said, after a hesitation.
“You know, Kate,” Madam Musgrave went on more softly, “when we were in fear of his life after Edgehill, I was tempted to fetch it for you anyway, in case he might have stored a copy of his will there, which he would have been sensible to do.”
Kate nodded; her eyes were now on Laurence.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked her, as though to resume a lighter conversation.
“I do, sir,” she replied. “The Bible tells us there are such things, that can be raised by witchcraft.”
“Hmm. Well God knows, I’ve seen enough dead people, but not one has come back to haunt me.”
“You should spend a night in the hole, sir,” suggested Madam Musgrave, in her former bantering tone, “and try to catch the spirit at his pranks!”
“I should,” Laurence agreed, thrilled at the ease with which he might achieve his goal. “You must take me there some time.”
Over supper, he framed his request more directly, but Madam Musgrave must have taken it as a joke. “If I can spare a moment to indulge your whim, sir,” she said, laughing. “I’m short of labourers at one of the busiest seasons, what with the new crops coming in and the sheep starting to lamb.” She then embarked on an agricultural discourse, encouraged by some courteous questions on Laurence’s part.
Meanwhile Kate was pushing her food about on her plate, just pretending to eat. Something was bothering her, Laurence felt sure.
There were no cards after the meal. Madam Musgrave hurried them off to bed, saying that she must rise at dawn to oversee her fields. Laurence retired with her well-thumbed copy of The English Husbandman under his arm. “Any landowner should be familiar with it, and you did express an interest in the subject,” she had said, pressing the volume on him as he went upstairs.
In his chamber he flicked through the pages, listening until the house was quiet, and restraining himself for another hour, as an extra precaution. Then he took off his boots, lit a fresh candle, and slipped out of his room and down the passage, remembering the last time he had prowled about hoping to steal Radcliff’s letter from Kate. But on this occasion he climbed the narrow, winding flight of stairs up to the third floor, where he had never yet been. He could distinguish several closed doors along a similar passageway, and next, to his amazement, a quivering ray of light at the very end; the priest would need no illumination to conduct his nocturnal rounds. Blowing out his own light, Laurence advanced to the last door, which was wide open.
Within he saw a huge bed frame, bereft of its canopy and hangings. All four walls were wood-panelled in a linen-fold pattern. On a carved mantel above the fireplace stood a single lit taper. Kate hovered there, clad in a long white nightgown, her back to him, running her hands methodically over and over the mantel’s decorative knobs and curlicues. Her repeated attempts yielded no result and she uttered a short, frustrated sigh; her taper was guttering, casting sinister shadows across the room. She would soon have to stop searching, he estimated, or else be left in darkness.
He retraced his steps, tried the latch on one of the other doors along the corridor, and entered. Although the door closed quietly, inside he tripped on what he guessed to be a pile of broken furniture, stubbing his toes. He was too late to muffle a yelp of pain: so much for concealment. Then, inspired, he grabbed a heavy piece of wood and let it drop with a satisfying thud to the floor. He picked it up again and struck it at the rest of the pile, producing a clattering sound, after which he groaned mournfully several times. This was enough: he heard a gasp and the patter of bare feet along the corridor and down the stairs. He waited, lest Kate summon up the courage to return, but after a while, hearing nothing more, he emerged.
Without the advantage of his candle’s light, he had to extend both arms just to negotiate the corridor. Once in the other chamber, he felt along the panelling to the fireplace, and repeated the same motions as Kate. He had no more success than she, and he started to tire from the unwonted exertion. Reculer pour mieux sauter, he told himself. Tomorrow he would ask Madam Musgrave again, and if she would not oblige him in his inquiries, at least Kate had supplied him with a vital clue.
The next day he was up before the maidservant could arrive with his breakfast, though too late to corner his hostess; she had long since set off for the fields. He found Kate at table, and judging by her haggard face, she had probably not slept at all. Immediately he was ashamed of the cheap trick he had played on her.
“You look tired, Lady Radcliff,” he said, sitting down beside her.
“I passed a wakeful night, sir,” she admitted, locking and unlocking her slender fingers, and twisting her wedding ring about.
“Here,” he said, and poured her some ale, of which she took a tiny drink. “Is something troubling you?”
He waited for her to speak of the ghost. But what she said next was most unexpected. “How well are you acquainted with my husband?”
“I’ve only met him on two or three occasions, with Ingram,” he said, shrugging.
“Do you recall when you came last October to bring me Sir Bernard’s letter, how it fell and you picked it up for me?” He nodded. “You gazed at it as if it meant something to you.”
“It meant nothing to me at all.”
“I believe it did. At Christmastide, Sir Bernard asked me whether you had read what was written on the cover. When he asked me, I evaded his question, because I remembered yours as you clapped eyes on the script. You asked me pointedly if the writing was my husband’s.”
“It wasn’t a pointed question, just an idle one.”
“I am not sure I believe you. At any rate, I now wish I had opened that letter. Because I think it would have explained why he is lying to me,” she finished, with a catch in her voice.
Laurence blinked at her in astonishment. “Lying about what?”
“He claimed he was absent at Longstanton – oh, so many times, to me and to Walter,” she replied, and told Laurence how his steward had informed her otherwise. “I should have confronted him straight out, this Christmastide. I was too cowardly. Instead I implored my brother to ask you what you knew. But he has not asked, has he?” Laurence shook his head. “A Mr. Poole, who is Sir Bernard’s lawyer, called while we were at Richard’s house, apparently to get his signature on some papers to do with the estate. Again he lied before Walter and me, saying he had been there. And he was not the same after Mr. Poole left, as though he had received bad tidings.”
“About the estate?”
“That is one possibility,” she said, darkly. “When Walter brought you to the house a few days ago, I made him promise to demand an answer from Sir Bernard. I have heard from neither him nor my husband since.” She broke off, wringing her hands. “I am in such distress! I would rather my babe be stillborn, if –”
“If?”
“If he is hiding from me the truth – that he is in secret league with Parliament!”
Laurence started. “Good God. Why would you jump to such a conclusion?”
“Longstanton has been untouched by the rebel armies, when all the neighbouring households loyal to the King have suffered. Don’t you find that peculiar?”
“Not necessarily –”
“And why was I only to read his letter when I could be certain of his death, if it did not hold some shocking revelation? Oh, if I still had it! But he asked for it back.”
“Why didn’t you read it after you spoke with his steward?”
“It was sealed. Sir Bernard would have found out.” She was tugging at her wedding ring so violently that it flew off across the table, and La
urence had to retrieve it for her. “Mr. Beaumont, I have a strong feeling that what is in the coffer holds some clue to this mystery. And that is why he did not tell me about it! You must help me find it in the priest’s hole, and open it for me.”
“But you don’t need my help,” he said, though what he was about to suggest alarmed him. “Have your aunt fetch it for you.”
“She is so interfering! She will want to know why I asked for it, against my husband’s expressed wish. And what if my fears are confirmed?”
“Lady Radcliff, I don’t even know where this priest’s hole is –”
“Within a bedchamber on the third floor! There’s a device somewhere on the fireplace that you must press to spring the door.”
“Can’t you enter it by yourself?”
Her gaze faltered. “Please,” she begged tremulously, “come. I – I cannot do it alone.”
What to say, he thought. Should he refuse to assist her, she might yet screw up her courage and succeed where they had both failed. “Let me consider it,” he told her; he must not sound too eager, since she was already suspicious of him. “I’m a guest in this house, and it does seem a bit dishonourable that I should invade your aunt’s property without her permission. It’s different for you.”
She looked about to protest when, most fortuitously, he heard Madam Musgrave’s loud voice calling his name, and the approaching clump of boots.
“Sir,” his hostess cried, marching into the hall, “I require your help!” She was wearing a skirt of motley red and brown hue and a rough jerkin. The colours on her skirt were stains, of blood and dirt, and her face was streaked with sweat and more dirt. “My birthing skirt,” she said, indicating the garment. “It brings me luck every year. Yet now my finest dairy cow is in calf, poor creature, too early in the spring for my liking. You must lend a hand – or an arm, to be precise.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, “but I don’t know anything about cows.”
The Best of Men Page 49
