The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries)

by Buckley, Fiona

  “Barnabas Mew,” I said, “may have been concerned in a murder.”

  “Paul Fenn?”

  “Possibly, but not just Fenn. If I’ve been too reticent, it’s because I don’t want to frighten Dale. Fenn’s death has frightened her already, which is why I’m talking to you alone at this moment. There was another man, a Jack Dawson . . .”

  I explained all I knew of Dawson’s mysterious demise on the river, and the fact that his landlady believed someone had searched the house that same evening. “I’m not going to investigate his death in any obvious way,” I said, “but he claimed to have discovered traces, at Lockhill, of a scheme to aid the cause of Mary Stuart. He then met his death, probably at Windsor. Barnabas Mew links the two places.”

  “It all sounds,” said Brockley disapprovingly, “most confused, madam, and I can’t see that any of it really points a finger at Mew—or adds up to a reason for prying into Mr. Mew’s affairs, either.”

  I said slowly, “I think . . . it’s like a midden.”

  Brockley looked astounded, as well he might. “A midden? Madam, I don’t understand you.”

  “A mass of bits and pieces,” I said. “All in a pile, breaking down at the edges, melting and oozing into each other, creating a bad smell, but . . . fertile. Something might sprout from this heap of dubious oddments; I really think so. At least, I must try to find out.”

  “But, madam, how can you can find out? You can hardly question Mew openly!”

  “I know, but I can do what I did in Mason’s study and search his papers. He must have a room for writing letters and adding up accounts. I must get into it if possible. I’m interested in the extraordinary amounts of metal that he’s been buying. Sir William Cecil told me to look for oddities, and that’s an oddity if ever there was one.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this, madam.”

  “Neither do I,” I said frankly, “but if there is a scheme and it’s allowed to mature—what then?”

  “The English aren’t fools,” said Brockley. “How many people would really want to exchange our Elizabeth for a French-reared chit nearly ten years younger?”

  “Quite a few,” I said. “Those who are so in love with the old religion that they would put anyone on the throne who would restore it, whether it be a prattling baby or a convicted murderer, let alone a pretty princess. And then there are those who are in love with gold and can be bought. What if such people caused something to . . . to happen to Elizabeth. The door would be open for Mary. And what if she came through it with a foreign army? I don’t think Spain is in any position to put an invading force in the field for Mary, but if the prize were sufficiently tempting, who knows what Philip might do? If any action I can take will help to prevent such things, then take it I must.”

  “I follow you, yes.” Brockley nodded. “You may well be right, but . . . I know I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: it’s not a lady’s business!”

  “The Queen is a lady, Brockley.” It had been Elizabeth’s own justification for letting me return to Lockhill. “It’s her business, is it not?”

  Brockley made a noise which I could only call a growl, but then he said, “Just tell me what to do.”

  I described the plan which I had formed, through much brooding, over the weekend. Brockley listened and raised no more objections beyond saying, “Well, you’re right to keep Fran in the dark over this. She needn’t know what Mew might have anything to do with Fenn’s dying—and she’d better not know about Dawson at all.”

  We dropped back to ride one on either side of Dale and explain to her what was wanted. Even without any suspicions that we were riding into the lair of a possible killer, her response was to look both unhappy and sullen.

  “I’ll do my best, but I’m not sure about it. I can’t abide lies and deception and—”

  “You’ll do as the mistress says!” snapped Brockley.

  “I said, I’ll do my best!” Dale’s tone was anything but enthusiastic and she wouldn’t look at either of us.

  “Thank you,” I said, blankly.

  • • •

  Towns are smelly. After riding through fields and woods, one always notices it. Windsor is a small, compact community which has grown up around the castle it serves, but its few streets are as fetid as any street near London Bridge. They assaulted our nostrils with the usual reek of horse-dung, rotting litter from spilt nosebags and carelessly swung shopping baskets, and the half-invigorating, half-repulsive smell of the river, which bore rubbish as well as fresh water downstream to the sea.

  Which had been known, I thought grimly, to convey corpses.

  I knew the town already, and I believed I knew where Barnabas Mew’s shop might be. I led us over the bridge and on into Bishop Street, skirting the castle walls. We passed the public meeting place, which is a roofed shelter with a cross on top, and at the crossroads in front of the castle, I guided us to the right, into Peascod Street. This was lined with houses and shops, and there before us was the clockmaker’s sign I had half-remembered. And, yes, it was Mew’s. We drew rein and dismounted.

  The shop was modern, its white plaster walls patterned with timbers, its roof neatly thatched. Its second storey overhung the street, supported on black timber pillars. Instead of an open shopfront, it had an ordinary door, and a window alongside, with examples of its owner’s handiwork displayed behind the leaded panes. Tethering posts had been invitingly placed at the edge of the roadway. We tied our horses to them and went up the steps to the door.

  It was opened for us before we got there, by a beefy young man who looked faintly familiar. Oh yes, I thought, of course. He was the assistant who had come with Mew to court, and carried the musical box for him. He must have been on the lookout for potential customers. As we followed him inside, I heard Brockley mutter something to him, and I sensed that Brockley had stiffened. I turned to him to ask why, but read a warning in his eyes. I had better wait until we could be private. However, if something had alerted Brockley, then I too must be alert. I looked keenly about me as we stepped into the shop.

  It was in good order, strewn with fresh rushes. There was a counter, with stools for customers, and the wall behind the counter had shelves, displaying various timepieces.

  On our left, a staircase led upwards, and beside it hung a big, ornate clock, set in a gilt surround featuring heraldic creatures and extraordinary curlicues. It had a pale blue enamelled face with gold hands and golden Roman figures, and its works—its weights and wheels and pendulum, also gilded—hung glittering below, complex and beautiful, like a celebration of machinery.

  I noticed that the windows and doors of the shop were well provided with bolts and shutters. Under the window, a chubby apprentice, fair and blue eyed as a cherub although marred by acne, sat at a table, concentrating on an arrangement of tiny cogwheels.

  Wylie stepped behind the counter, and stood resting proprietory hands on it. “How can I help you, ladies, sir?”

  Brockley took command. “Is Mr. Barnabas Mew here?”

  “Mr. Mew is at his ledgers, but I am his journeyman assistant: Joseph Wylie, at your service.” He was an odd sort of clockmaker, I thought. It was a trade which seemed to call for neatness, patience and the deft handling of small mechanisms, but, as before, Wylie’s doublet was strained over his broad shoulders, and the fingers now spread on the counter were as thick as farmhouse sausages. His black hair fell into his protuberant brown eyes, and his face displayed the high flush of short temper.

  This temper flickered in his voice as he barked, “Timothy, set a stool for the lady!” at the cherubic apprentice, who sprang to obey with a speed which suggested nervousness. “Did you wish to commission a clock?” enquired Mr. Wylie.

  “No. We wish to see Mr. Mew.” Brockley was firm. “Mistress Ursula Blanchard, lady-in-waiting to the Queen, desires to see him personally.”

  “Mistress Blanchard!” There were doors in the walls behind the counter and Mew now came scurrying through one of them,
eager and smiling. He must have heard Brockley asking for him. “I am most honoured! But what brings you all the way here when we were bound to meet so soon at Lockhill? I am returning there tomorrow. Did you not know?”

  “Tomorrow? No, I didn’t know,” I said, more or less truthfully, relieved that I had moved so fast. “But it makes no odds. I . . .”

  “Set the stool there, Timothy. Do be seated, mistress.”

  “I am anxious for a private word with you, Mr. Mew,” I said clearly. “Do you have a room for confidential business?” I let my eyes go to the door through which he had come. “Meanwhile, perhaps my waiting-woman might sit down. Take the stool, Dale. Dale,” I explained to Mr. Mew, “felt unwell on the way here. Brockley can stay with her.”

  Mr. Mew eyed Dale with some alarm. “Er . . . what is the malady? Has she a fever?”

  “No, just a headache,” I said. “Horse travel doesn’t suit her. But headaches can be unpleasant. I have them myself sometimes. Could she sit here while we . . . er . . . talk?”

  “Oh, of course, of course. As long as you are sure that there is nothing, well, nothing contagious. Of course, it isn’t the plague season yet but—”

  “I’ve not got plague!” said Dale indignantly. She caught my eye and put a hand to her brow. “It’s just a bad headache. I can’t abide horse-riding for any distance, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps a tisane of camomile or marjoram?” I suggested. “Surely there’s an apothecary nearby?” I know there was: I’d seen one in Peascod Street.

  “Maybe the lad could run out to him, if so,” Brockley said helpfully. “I’d sooner stay with Fran. She’s my wife, as it happens.”

  “Oh, by all means. Timothy, make haste to Master Humfrye’s shop and tell him a preparation is needed for a lady with a bad head due to travelling. What was it you said, Mrs. Blanchard? Camomile or . . .”

  “Marjoram,” I said. “Or both. Here’s some money.” I pressed a few coins into the hand of the spotty cherub and watched with satisfaction as he departed. That had got rid of the apprentice, anyway. “Now, Master Mew . . . ?”

  “Oh, yes. Would it be on the Queen’s business?” His voice fell to an eager whisper. “Wylie, mind the shop! Through here!” said Mr. Mew, beckoning me round the end of the counter to the door which I had guessed led to his office.

  Once there, I continued to glance sharply about me while Mr. Mew dusted another stool for me to sit on, and begged me to tell him how he could be of service.

  He evidently took trouble to make his shop welcoming for customers, but out of their sight, paid little attention to comfort. The back room was a dismal place. Its plain brick walls were adorned only by a dull hanging of painted cloth, over part of the wall on the right-hand side. The hearth was lit, but only with a small fire which did little to relieve the cold, and the window overlooked a regrettably untidy garden.

  I was interested, though, in a long shelf which held ledgers and a box with a brass lock. Also of interest to me was the table in the middle of the room, where lay an open ledger and various other documents. A casual tilt of my head told me that they were bills and invoices.

  “I’m not here directly on the Queen’s business,” I said, “but it springs from that presentation you made to the Queen—the musical box, I mean. You yourself wish that to remain confidential, I believe? That is why I wanted to see you here, and not at Lockhill. I want to give my little daughter a music box as a present. I can’t afford gold, but perhaps you could suggest something less costly which would still look pleasing? If it were satisfactory, and were shown about at court . . . well, who knows who else might want one? Perhaps Her Majesty might!”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Mew was plainly disappointed that Her Majesty wasn’t ordering one forthwith, but he rallied. Business was business. “The casing could be polished wood, or silver or bronze. Personally, I think that wood, with a pleasant grain, is as charming as anything. I could make a musical box in polished walnut, with gold hinges, perhaps.”

  There was a pause. Mr. Mew presumably supposed me to be visualising a walnut box with gold hinges. I pursed my lips and looked doubtful. “Could you give me a quote for walnut, and also for a silver casing?”

  Mr. Mew picked up a slate from his desk and did some calculations, while I strained my ears for sounds from the shop, wondering what on earth Dale was doing, or rather, why she wasn’t doing it. Get on with it, Dale! Mr. Mew came up with some figures. “Well, I could just afford the silver,” I said doubtfully, “but it is rather costly. Perhaps I could see an example of a walnut casing . . . whatever’s that?”

  Outside in the shop, someone was moaning. There came a thud, and then Brockley called me, his voice urgent. I rushed to the door and flung it wide. Dale was lying on the floor in a most artistic faint with Brockley crouched beside her and Wylie gazing down at them in alarm. Brockley shook Dale, whose head lolled unresponsively, and looked up at me with a convincing air of fright.

  “Madam, she’s collapsed! My wife’s collapsed! She just slid off the stool and—”

  “Oh, my goodness. Carry her into the office. What if a customer comes in and sees her lying on the floor like that?” Mew could hardly have been more obliging. “Wylie, take her feet . . .”

  “Brockley and I will manage,” I said. “Mr. Mew, would you or Mr. Wylie go after your boy and tell the apothecary what has happened? If we wait for Timothy to come back, there’ll be delay. Ask the apothecary what he advises!”

  “But, surely, madam, if you were to send your man . . .”

  “I can’t leave Fran while she’s like this!” said Brockley, sounding convincingly like a panic-stricken husband, if not altogether like a respectful manservant.

  “No, no, of course you mustn’t! Help me into the office with her. He’s her husband, Mr. Mew, and we’ve never seen her like this before! Please go to the apothecary or send Mr. Wylie. One of you can still guard the shop,” I added, ruthlessly organising Mew’s business for him.

  “And you know where the apothecary is. I don’t!” Brockley said, as he and I bore the sagging Dale through the door of the office. “Hurry, man! Fran, Fran, wake up! Oh, madam, what can be the matter with her?”

  “Lay her here.” We set Dale on the floor and I took off my mantle and folded it tenderly under her head. “Oh, Mr. Mew, please do something about asking the apothecary what to do! Or fetch a doctor!”

  Between us, we gave Mew little chance to argue. He found himself, willy-nilly, leaving the shop to Wylie and rushing off in the wake of his spotty-faced apprentice. I shut the door between us and the shop, and there we were, with the back room to ourselves. Dale sat up and Brockley helped her to her feet.

  “Well done!” I said.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Dale rather stiffly, but she did look quite pleased with herself.

  In a low voice, Brockley said, “Madam, there’s something you should know. It’s about that Joseph Wylie.”

  “Yes. Something caught your attention as we came into the shop,” I said. “What is it?”

  “I’ve seen him before. Madam, he was your muffled-up boatman, the day you were told you were going to meet Mr. de la Roche and you were taken to that boathouse.”

  “What?” I stared at him and Dale’s mouth opened. “How can you tell?” I said. “He was wrapped up like Cleopatra in a carpet!”

  “When he got up and handed you into his boat, I saw his back view. I recognised the set of his shoulders. I recognised his voice, too. It’s him all right.”

  “Oh, my God!” said Dale, and turned white.

  Brockley looked as though he would like to seize my arm in one hand and Dale’s in the other and run us straight out of the building. I felt just as horrified as they obviously did, although I had been suspecting Mew of worse than mere abduction, as had Brockley. But we were here now.

  “So we know we’re in the right place,” I said. “Don’t let’s waste any more time. Quickly. Search!”

  They looked at me, but I stood m
y ground and they obeyed me. Both were reasonably literate and I set them to looking through the bills and invoices for anything that didn’t seem quite right for a clockmaker, such as huge quantities of metal, or payments for mysterious services rendered. “Or to messengers to or from France—or for any mention of France at all,” I said.

  I turned my own attention to the shelves. Here, the most inviting target was the box. It was locked. Now, for the very first time, I needed the skills acquired from Alexander Bone.

  I at once discovered that theory and reality are two quite different things. No matter how carefully you practise a skill, the first time the real world asks you to do it, you find yourself dealing with the unexpected. Master Bone had left me six lockable boxes to practise on, with locks of varying sizes and designs, but this one seemed to be nothing like any of them. My hands shook with nerves as I probed and nothing either moved or gave way. I tried first one pick and then another, in vain, cursing silently at the waste of time.

  I was about to give in and give up when I felt something yield, fractionally. Holding my breath, I pressed harder and slid a second wire in. I forced myself to be calm. The lock clicked softly and surrendered.

  The result was hardly worth the trouble. All the box contained was a copy of the lease under which Barnabas held his premises. I noted that extensive cellars were listed in the description of the property and wondered where the entrance to them was.

  Disappointed, I closed the box. I tried but failed to lock it again, and stopped trying, for fear of doing damage. I stepped to the table and picked up the ledger. “Anything?” I asked the others, in a low voice.

  “I fear not,” said Brockley. “What about you, Fran?”

  Dale, who was peering at a pile of invoices, shook her head, then she stiffened, listening. “That’s the street door!”

  Brockley pushed his wife down on to the stool, and rapidly arranged her with her elbow on the table and her head in her palm. Outside in the shop, we could hear Mr. Mew’s voice, giving orders to someone.

  Brockley took up an anxious stance behind his wife. “Madam!” he said to me in a fierce undertone. “Put that ledger down!”