As we descended the spiral stairs, I said casually, “If you are the sole importer of the tapestries made by Hans van Hoorn since he joined his present workshop, I believe one of my future neighbours has been your customer recently, just like Sir William Cecil. His hangings depict the prodigal son’s return. Did you supply them to him?”
Down on the ground floor, Christopher Paige had brocades and damasks all over the counter, spilling from their rolls in silken rivers. Brockley was standing politely back, but Rob Henderson and Dale were feeling fabrics with finger and thumb. Paige caught his son’s eye, and Christopher, excusing himself, came to meet us.
“The Prodigal?” Paige was saying. “Yes, I sold that last November. I can’t remember the customer’s name offhand, though. Christopher, can you remember who it was that bought van Hoorn’s tapestry of the Return of the Prodigal, towards the end of last year?”
“My future neighbour’s name is Mason,” I said.
Unexpectedly, the apprentice piped up. “I remember! Mr. Leonard Mason! But he didn’t come himself: he sent some kind of servant to buy for him. A funny man, like a scarecrow, all in black!”
Christopher instantly shot out a hand and cracked the apprentice across the back of the head, though not unduly hard.
Bernard Paige said in scandalised tones, “That is no way to speak of our customers, young Dickon! Customers are to be respected!”
“Customers,” said Christopher, “can come here walking on their hands like tumblers, or dressed in motley. We still don’t make fun of them!”
“Get back to watching the fire, boy!” Paige barked. “I’ll have more to say about this later! Though he’s right, of course,” he added to me, as soon as he judged that the chastened Dickon was out of earshot. “Mason did send an intermediary to make the purchase, a dominie, judging from his clothes. He was a trifle odd to look at—well, dusty, if you know what I mean—” I did—“but he recognised quality when he saw it.”
“And he paid without haggling,” Christopher said. “He had a purse of sovereigns and gold angels with him. He chose what he said his master would want, and paid the bill then and there. No argument about the price and no waiting for the money to be fetched from a bank. If only all customers were as obliging!”
“The man you saw sounds very like the fellow who tutors the Mason children and sometimes conducts business for Leonard Mason,” I remarked. “What is his name, now? I’m sure I’ve heard it, but . . .”
They shook their heads. “I put the purchaser in my ledger as Mason,” Bernard Paige said. “I remember now.”
Raising my voice, I called to Dickon and he came back. “If you can remember the name of the fellow all in black, whom you thought looked so odd,” I said, “maybe you won’t get into trouble after all for calling him a scarecrow.” I cocked an eye at the Paiges, father and son, and although clearly puzzled, they nodded. I was a customer and therefore must be humoured. I looked enquiringly at Dickon.
“It was Dr. something, madam,” he said. “It was a funny . . .” He caught Bernard’s disapproving eye. “I mean a strange name. Sad. Cry something. Cry . . . ton! Yes, madam, that’s it! Cry-ton.”
“Dr. Crichton! Of course! Thank you, Dickon. You’ve a very good memory!” I said.
Dickon went back to tending the fire, and the Paiges gazed at me in a puzzled fashion, as if wondering why I was so interested.
“He seems a pleasant lad,” I said. “I wanted to give you an excuse to let him off whatever you had in store for him for being so cheeky.”
“Ah. You soft-hearted ladies. Well, he will escape with a warning this time,” Bernard Paige said good humouredly. My curiosity was explained, and I had learned what I wanted: Crichton had bought those tapestries, and on behalf of Leonard Mason.
“Well,” I said, “I’ll come back to buy the tapestries when my lease is signed, but could I see the damasks now?”
• • •
Bernard Paige would be disappointed of a tapestry sale, but we bought several costly lengths of brocades and damasks. I had been paid rather well for my prying into de Quadra’s document case, and could afford it, but if I could persuade Cecil to count it as expenses, I would.
The transactions over, we parted from the Paiges with many bows and expressions of thanks on both sides. We dined at an inn and caught the tide for home, rowing upstream through the cold, sharp-smelling fog.
This time, I went into the little cabin with Dale. There were rugs there and we sat together, muffled under them. Dale dozed, but I was trying to think.
My question had been answered, but where did it lead?
I tried to work it out. I had suspected that Mason, or Crichton, or both, had been lying about the origins of the tapestries in the Lockhill dining room, and while talking to Jennet in the parlour and hearing how Crichton ran his employer’s errands, I had begun to wonder if the tutor had been sent to London to buy them for Mason. I had been right.
Yet Leonard Mason was a man who worried about the expense of lighting fires in the long gallery and hesitated to replace a spitboy. Good God!
But what did it mean? Did it necessarily mean anything sinister? And where did Crichton come in? Was he involved or was he only Mason’s cat’s-paw? No, he had to be involved. He evidently disliked my presence at Lockhill as much as Mason did, and he was a Catholic priest who regularly held illegal masses.
I had hoped that finding out the truth about one mystery—in this case the provenance of the prodigal son wallhangings—would somehow lead to fresh discoveries; that it would be like a pulled thread which, if tugged, unravels a knot. However, it had done nothing of the sort.
I was still fretting uselessly when I heard sharp exclamations from Henderson and Brockley, who were outside, standing in the bows. Dale did not stir, but I went out to see what was happening.
The weather was clearing. There was a wind now and the fog was lifting away, swirling like smoke past the face of a pallid sun. The exclamations I had heard were nothing to do with the weather, however. Brockley was leaning over the bow to the port side, and as I emerged from the cabin, Henderson was picking up a boathook and ordering the barge to change course.
“What is it?” I asked.
Brockley pointed, and leaning over the bow beside him, I saw something rolling in the wash from our vessel. I glimpsed pale fabric, like soaked linen, and strands of something like weed, or hair; and then, most horribly, a face, greenish white. It was a body, still partly clad in a shirt and breeches. The breeches had held some air and kept the corpse afloat.
The barge turned, and Henderson reached with the boathook, which caught in the thing’s clothing. Brockley had found another boathook and was leaning beside Rob. He recommended me brusquely to go back into the cabin but I stayed where I was, doing no more than move out of the way as the rowmaster came to their assistance. The barge did not ride high in the water and the rowmaster had long arms. He bent double, leaning over the gunwale, and the boathooks held the body firm while he got a grip on it and heaved. The dreadful object was hauled, flopping and sodden, over the side and on to the deck.
It lay on its back, staring sightlessly up at the vapours and the faint sun. I wanted to gag as I looked at it, but I wouldn’t let myself. There was a dent in one side of its head but the face was still recognisable.
“But that’s . . . that’s . . .” Rob seemed lost for words.
I had glimpsed the face while the body was still in the water, which was why I had not gone into the cabin, but had waited, however sickened, for a closer look. I had recognised its teeth, those excellent teeth, perfect except that two of the front ones were slightly crossed. They were now bared and feral between drawn-back lips, but I had last seen them exposed in a charming smile. Their owner had had thick, fair hair and I could see that when it was dry, this poor thing’s hair would be the same.
“It’s the young man who was in Sir William Cecil’s employ,” I said. “Isn’t it? The one who vanished?”
“Y
es,” said Rob Henderson grimly. “It’s Paul Fenn.”
CHAPTER 11
Council of War
On the following day, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth took it into her head to enswathe herself in furs, travel by barge from Richmond to Hampton, and pay a visit, accompanied by her good friend the Secretary of State Sir William Cecil, to her loyal subjects, Rob and Mattie Henderson of Thamesbank.
The visit had been arranged in advance, of course, albeit very hastily. After an hour or so of carefully organised informality, the Queen and Sir William, together with Rob Henderson, repaired to Rob’s study for a comfortable chat. I was invited too.
“My dear Ursula,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “How delightful that one of our ladies is actually staying here just now. You shall attend on us!”
The study, unlike Leonard Mason’s den, was friendly and full of colour, with crimson velvet curtains to keep out draughts, and brilliant rugs on the floor.
It was a tall room, graciously proportioned, which was to be expected, for Thamesbank was a gracious house altogether. It was not very old, and had been built in the modern style, with brick lower walls, and upper walls of white plaster and black timbering. The garden was a delight, with grassy spaces and cherry trees, a pleached lime walk, formal flowerbeds and topiary, all in a casual jumble like a tossed salad. The topiary yews, clipped into sprightly bird shapes, were dotted about, well apart. The result was ornamental without being oppressive; it was not sombre, unlike the yew garden at Lockhill, with its dark, unrelieved foliage and deep shade.
On the river side of the house was a broad sweep of grass, regularly cut (what with that and the patches of grass in the garden, the Henderson gardeners had to be as handy with the scythe as Old Father Time). The lawn extended to the river and had a path across it, leading to the jetty. From the study window we could see that the Henderson children, with Meg and the nurses, were playing on the grass, enjoying a gleam of winter sunshine. We could hear their laughter.
There was no laughter inside the study, however, where a council of war was in progress.
“I have to say, boldly,” declared Rob, “that in my opinion, Mistress Blanchard should not go back to Lockhill. It’s too dangerous. She is obviously under suspicion, and Paul Fenn was murdered!”
“It could have been an accident,” I said.
“Jackdaw’s death could have been an accident,” Cecil said, “but that both of them were—no, hardly.”
“There,” Elizabeth said, “I must agree. At least we would be foolish to assume otherwise.” She had been established in a dignified armchair, with a fur rug over her lap. Her golden-brown eyes were grave.
Elizabeth and I had a curious bond. I served her as a lady in waiting, and once, long ago, my mother had similarly served Elizabeth’s—until the day came when my poor mother was sent home in disgrace, pregnant by a court gallant whom she would not name, to take shelter with her parents and produce me, the embarrassing family byblow. When her parents died, my mother stayed on with her brother Herbert Faldene and his wife Tabitha, and I was brought up with my cousins, educated—I had to admit that—but portionless, and taught to believe that my future would be as unmarried household dogsbody.
I had put an end to that notion by falling in love with Gerald Blanchard, who was due to marry my cousin Mary, and causing him to fall in love with me. We had fled together and taken refuge with some friends of Gerald’s, in the town of Guildford, and there we had been married.
Our families were furious, but we were happy, and I knew that my mother, had she been still alive, would have been glad for me. She had always done her best for me, and I knew, from one or two things let fall by the Cecils, and from Elizabeth’s liking for me, that she must have served Queen Anne well and with kindness.
There was a tradition of royal service in the Faldene family, so deep rooted that it amounted to an instinct. I had it, too. I was like the rope in a tug of war, with Elizabeth on one end and Matthew on the other.
Cecil was speaking. “I am quite sure that Fenn was killed, and that he was somehow involved in the mystery we are trying to solve. I would guess that when my enquiries began, he fled to his principals for advice and they decided for some reason that he was a liability. Perhaps he was threatening to throw himself on my mercy! At any rate, they disposed of him.”
“Have we no idea where he went?” I asked. “It wasn’t to Lockhill.”
“No, and he didn’t go to his old home in Sussex, where his brother has now inherited the property,” said Cecil, “or to High Wycombe, where Dr. Wilkins usually lives. Rob has told you that he was seen with Dr. Wilkins? We sent men to both places very quickly: one was a travelling dentist who lost his way and called at the Sussex house for shelter, and the other was the father of a prospective pupil for Wilkins’ school, wanting to inspect it. They both returned saying they were as sure as they could be that Fenn wasn’t in either place. On the other hand, we did find a ferryman who took a young man answering to Fenn’s description upstream on the morning he disappeared. He put him ashore, to my surprise, at a boathouse which happens to be mine—at least, I rent it and keep a barge and a dinghy in it which I’d laid up for the winter. Fenn knew of the boathouse.”
“Indeed?” I said.
“I went there myself,” Cecil said. “The boathouse had been tampered with, although whether by Fenn, planning an escape if he needed one, or by somebody else, for some purpose unknown, I can’t say. It was very puzzling. The lock had been cut out of the landward door and a piece of wood nailed over the gap, and two new bolts had been fitted on the outside. None of my boatmasters could explain it, and they certainly hadn’t ordered it. The dinghy had gone, and Fenn could well have taken it.”
“How extraordinary!” I said. Meg’s voice, calling to the others, came through the window, and I looked round Rob’s study, thinking how safe and friendly it was, and how thankful I was to be there.
“It seems to me,” Cecil said, “that we have enough information now to justify a swoop in Lockhill. Leonard Mason can be brought in and questioned, and if there is any written evidence in the house, we’ll find it.”
Oh no, I said to myself. No, I don’t want this. No, please no. I heard myself say, painfully, because I didn’t want to say it, and one half of Ursula was silently screaming at the other half to stop it at once, “But have we got enough? After all, what does it amount to?”
They all looked at me.
“We can’t prove a link with Lockhill,” I said. I much regretted it. I was sure in my own mind that my unpleasant experience in that boathouse was linked with this business, but the hard evidence was still lacking. I remained determined not to speak of that boathouse, since it would be very difficult to do so without admitting that I had hoped to meet Matthew. Even if I didn’t say I meant to run off with him, the inference would be made. “What if you pounce,” I said, “and find no evidence after all?”
“Once we have Leonard Mason in our hands,” said Cecil, chillingly, “he will tell us all we need to know.”
“But will he?” I asked. “He lied about those tapestries, but that isn’t against the law. What if he just explains the lies away? It looks as though he has more money than he’s admitting, but he could say he wanted to conceal it from creditors, or even, for some reason, from his wife! Perhaps he won it while gambling and she would object! Or she wants him to spend it on one thing and he wants to spend it on another. There could be any amount of explanations. The tapestries prove nothing.”
“Ursula,” said Cecil, “you have an ingenious mind. Do you yourself believe that there is a conspiracy at Lockhill?”
“There’s something,” I said. “I do think that. But this web of treason obviously extends beyond Lockhill. Fenn wasn’t murdered there! Nor was Dawson. Don’t we want to bring them all in? Arrest Leonard Mason before we know who the others are, and they’ll be warned. If their names are written down in any compromising documents, then we might have time to seize them, but if we have to wait u
ntil we can wring them out of Mason . . .”
“They won’t be warned if we move quickly and quietly,” said Rob.
“And if we arrest the entire household at Lockhill and the village too?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“She means,” said Elizabeth, following my mind with uncanny accuracy, “that this unseen organisation no doubt has its own methods of communication. The various parties must be able to get in touch with each other. It is reasonable to suppose that someone has been given the task of passing on the news, if there is any kind of swoop on Lockhill. It could be anyone: a butler, a groom, a village youth. And, yes, the conspirators would be warned and could slip through our fingers.”
“Ma’am,” said Cecil reprovingly, “one of the purposes of this meeting is to decide on a course of action which will not further endanger Mistress Blanchard.” Which, being translated, meant: Elizabeth, Your Majesty, beloved and wayward lady of England, whose side are you on?
“I went to Lockhill to look for written evidence,” I said, “and I haven’t yet managed to read Mr. Mason’s papers, but what if there is nothing there to read? It may be more a matter of watching to see who comes to the house; finding out whom Leonard Mason meets. He could have gone to a conspirators’ meeting under my nose, come to think of it! He and his wife went off to Maidenhead one day in the coach, to visit friends. I don’t know who they were. Perhaps the ladies were left talking of children and recipes while the gentlemen talked to Mary Stuart in another room. On other occasions, though, the conspirators may come to Lockhill. I believe it’s too soon for a swoop. We should have someone there, watching.”
“Perhaps we should,” said Rob, “but not you, Ursula. Not now. Not now that Fenn has been killed.”
“Quite. This is no task for a woman,” Cecil agreed.
“My father,” Elizabeth observed, using the informal first person which meant that she was speaking as Elizabeth Tudor rather than the Queen, “believed that ruling a country was no task for a woman. He suffered greatly, for lack of a son. Others suffered too.” Elizabeth never spoke publicly of the mother whom my mother had served: Anne Boleyn, who had been executed by King Henry. I had once heard Elizabeth mention her mother in private, but only once. She did, however, make very occasional oblique references. This was one of them.
The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) Page 13
