The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries)

by Buckley, Fiona

  “The back view of a man all bundled up in clothing? He has only to roar with laughter and deny it. Now, however, all we lack are the details of what this discreditable business actually is. I’d like to know. I’d like,” I said, “to hunt down my quarry and bring it to bay. If you can understand that.”

  There was a further silence. Steadily, I said, “You are both, of course, at liberty to leave my service at any time. I would in that case give you the best possible references and enough money to see you through for some time. Do you wish to leave me?”

  That took them by surprise. I awaited their answer, forcing myself to be cool and remote, to maintain my authority, despite my few years and female sex. If they decided to abandon me, I could hardly blame them. In the eyes of most servants, I had become a quite impossible employer.

  However, they were good metal, those two. At last, in a trembling voice, Dale said, “We only want to keep you safe, ma’am. I’m frightened, and that’s the truth, but I won’t leave you unless Brockley bids me to.”

  “Brockley?” I said.

  “I have no wish to leave you, madam, and I understand why you felt obliged to take this dangerous step. I think it was a mistake, though: he may try again and succeed, and what use will that be to the Queen or anyone else? You should have consulted me, madam.”

  “What would you have suggested, Brockley? I wish,” I said thoughtfully, “that I could have seen Mew’s cellar.”

  “Did the shop have a cellar?” Brockley asked. “There was a staircase, but it only went up, not down, as far as I could tell.”

  “I saw the deeds of the place, in the box I opened. It mentioned cellars, and I think there was a door to behind that wallhanging in his office. That could be the way to them.”

  “If you believe,” said Brockley, “that there is something worth seeing in Mew’s cellar, then searching it is a much better idea than turning yourself into the cheese in a mousetrap, madam. When we get to Lockhill, I’ll take a fresh horse and start back to Windsor.” He looked up at the sky. “The weather’s clearing and there should be a moon. I can ride by night well enough. If I can get into the house, I’ll search that basement. What am I looking for?”

  I had hunting instincts. I knew I had them, and Rob Henderson had recognised them too. Now, Brockley seemed to be developing them. Dale, however, was not, and gasped, “Oh, Roger! Please, no!”

  “Brockley, I don’t expect you to do this alone. I will come with you. It’s my duty. I—”

  “You most certainly will not come with me, madam. I’ll make sure of that even if I have to knock you unconscious,” said Brockley, emerging briefly from his disguise of the perfect servant and sounding for once like the soldier he had once been. “I’ll search that basement on my own, and that, believe me, is that.”

  “I don’t see how you could get in,” I said. “Mew probably lies over the shop, and I saw for myself that all his doors have bolts on the inside. The place would be secure at night.”

  Brockley produced his rare grin. “I didn’t notice the door behind the wallhanging, madam—there you were the one with the sharp eyes—but I noticed one or two other things: for instance, that that back room had a window on a kind of garden and that the garden was a disgrace.”

  “I know,” I said. “He seems to be cultivating dandelions and thistles, but I don’t see—”

  “It wasn’t only the garden. The fence at the back was ramshackle. If I can’t get through or over it, my name isn’t Roger Brockley. I also noticed that although the front windows of the building have shutters, the back room window has not, and the window frame is warped. A sharp knife blade pushed in there would lift the catch very neatly, I should think.”

  Just as it had lifted the latch of Leonard Mason’s cupboard. I felt myself grow hot.

  Brockley, however, went smoothly on. “He’s a silly, careless man, is Mew. He puts shutters on the front windows, because they open on to the street, but thinks the garden and its fence are protection enough at the back. Foolish! Oh yes, I fancy I can get into that house, but on my own, madam.”

  “Roger, please! Please don’t go!” Dale implored him.

  “I must,” Brockley said. “Madam is right. It’s Sir Thomas More’s principles all over again, Fran. The purpose behind this is worth taking risks for. Now, once more, madam—what am I looking for?”

  I had gone on thinking: all the way down the river to Thamesbank and all the way back, and during the night in between. I still didn’t see where the musical box came in, and I still couldn’t call to mind that second fugitive memory which had worried me as I searched Leonard Mason’s study. However, Mew’s curious dealings in metal and Mason’s secretive purchase of tapestries he couldn’t afford, had made a pattern in my mind. It wasn’t the kind of pattern I expected, for I couldn’t see what Mary Stuart could have to do with it. This looked like plain straightforward crime, yet the idea kept on coming back to me. At least it would do no harm to share it with Brockley.

  “You’d better do your searching with an open mind,” I said. “The idea that I have doesn’t fit in at all with what I’m looking for, but for what it’s worth . . .”

  CHAPTER 15

  A Man Called Lenoir

  We went on walking the horses while we talked the details over, even going aside into a field to finish our discussion while still out of sight of Lockhill. We made sure that there was open ground between us and any prowling bowmen, but we saw no sight of any. The afternoon was all but gone when we finally rode under the gate-arch.

  “I’ll slip off quietly,” Brockley said. “I’ll say goodbye here, madam.” I half drew breath to speak, but he shook his head at me. “The job needs doing and it needs a man to do it. Is there anything further that I should know?”

  “No, Brockley. I can only say good luck, and take care. Take great care.”

  “I’ll be home by morning, madam,” Brockley said.

  I left Dale with him, to make her own farewells, and went into the house alone.

  As so often at Lockhill, I was at once enveloped in chaos. The first sight to greet my eyes was Edwin Logan, the gardener-cum-butcher, wrapped in a bloodstained white apron, grasping a meat cleaver and informing Ann Mason that he was that sorry, ma’am, and no offence, he hoped, but he had enough to do, carving up that pig carcass, and he couldn’t put up with that there Dr. Crichton walking in on him and complaining that the topy-airy, or what you may call it, needed attention.

  “And what’s it got to do with him, I’d like to know?” Edwin demanded. “They b’ain’t his yew trees!”

  “Oh dear,” said Ann worriedly. “I do apologise. Of course you must get on with cutting up the pig. The boys’ future schoolmaster is here as a guest, with a friend, and they must have a good supper. I shall speak to Dr. Crichton. The children have upset him today. I saw him striding round the yew garden. Perhaps he took out his annoyance by criticising the topiary. I’ll see he doesn’t disturb you again.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’m sorry!” At the moment, Edwin looked like nothing so much as an assassin with an exceptionally blatant modus operandi, but he was normally a polite enough, though solemnly young man. “But things being as they are . . .”

  “Yes, well, all right. Please go back to your work. You won’t be worried again, I promise.”

  Edwin and his cleaver retreated into the back regions, and Ann, turning, saw me on the threshold.

  “Ursula! Oh, I am so glad you’re back. Everything is topsy-turvy. Not the girls—they’ve been angels—but Dr. Crichton says that the boys have been fiends. And when their father took them to task, all they would say was that Crichton provoked them by finding fault over nothing—I can hardly believe that! Dr. Crichton flung out of the house in a rage, and when I saw him in the yew garden, he wasn’t just striding round it, he was stamping round it! And earlier, we had a message to say that Mr. Mew won’t be joining us after all, and Leonard’s annoyed about it because he particularly wanted to show Mr. Mew his progre
ss in the workshop. What with Leonard in a bad temper, and then Crichton, and now Edwin Logan being difficult, I hardly know whether I’m coming or going. Was everything all right? Have you concluded your . . . business or whatever it was?”

  “Thank you, yes. I had better change my dress. I must look well for supper, since you have guests.”

  “We’ll sit in the gallery beforehand. I must get the fire lit! Leonard is in his workshop showing that horrible gliding thing to our guests instead of to Mr. Mew. Oh dear. I’m sure Leonard and Crichton wouldn’t be so cross now if they hadn’t been in bad humours even before we heard about Mr. Mew, and before the boys started misbehaving. You were there, weren’t you, when Leonard said he’d hammered Crichton’s thumb by accident? Well, the nail turned black, and Crichton was angry about that, and this morning he said he wouldn’t help Leonard any more, which made Leonard angry. And now the little ones are crying. Oh, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another!” Poor harassed Ann rushed away to cope with an outbreak of infant wails, and I went to my room.

  I was shivery. We had all come close to death in that ambush. Was some emissary from Mr. Mew still lurking in the neighbourhood, waiting for a second chance?

  What if they were lurking here in the house? I could assume that I had enemies under this roof, but they would be foolish to attack me actually in Lockhill. I hoped that this wasn’t wishful thinking, but I’d better believe it, or I would flee from the place in fright.

  My room felt safe enough. Candles were set ready and a fire laid. I called Jennet to light them. Presently, Dale joined me, and we set about preparing me to sup with company. I asked if Brockley had gone yet, and she said yes, and told me how he had picked a good horse and pretended that he had permission to take it. However, her voice faltered, and as she combed my hair, I felt her fumble. I met her eyes in the mirror and saw that she was crying. She looked away, but I reached up gently to take the comb from her.

  “Dale?”

  Her reply was a gulp and a quick brush of the hand across her eyes.

  “Are you anxious about Brockley?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. I know it’s not my place to say so, but what he’s doing might be dangerous—that’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Never mind about your place.” I swung round on my stool and looked her in the eye, woman to woman. “Yes, it’s dangerous, and yes, the peril should be mine and not his. If that’s what you’re thinking, Dale, then I agree with you. But he wouldn’t let me take the risk myself.”

  “No, I know, but why,” wailed Dale, “does there have to be any risk at all? A lady like you shouldn’t be tangled up in such things—it’s not right!”

  She buried her face in her hands. I had taken the comb but she still held the hairbrush, and the bristles caught the edge of her headdress, pushing it back to release a straggle of greying brown hair, pathetic and absurd.

  “Dale,” I said gently, “it’s for the Queen, you know. We are all the servants of Elizabeth.”

  “Is it for the Queen?” Dale sobbed. “Is it really? Has he gone into danger for her sake, ma’am, or for yours?”

  “For both, I suppose,” I said. “Dale, I’m worried about him, too, but Brockley is a capable man. He’ll be back by dawn, you’ll see. I think you need some supper. You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.”

  “I had something, ma’am. With Brockley, before he left,” Dale hiccuped, between a sob and a laugh.

  “I’m glad he was wise enough to eat before setting out. Well, you’ve supped,” I said, rising and making for the door, “but you are to have some wine with me now. We both need it.” I put my head out of the door. “Jennet!”

  • • •

  The merchant Bernard Paige had criticised my cream and tawny, and implied that green was a difficult colour for me. Up to then I had liked my tawny and my pale green ensembles, but his remarks had dampened my enthusiasm. However, I had let him sell me some golden yellow damask, and while sewing with the girls before I left for Windsor, I had made it up into a bodice and overskirt which looked much better over the cream kirtle than either of the others did. This evening, I would wear the golden yellow for the first time.

  To go with it, I chose a clean ruff, gold-embroidered slippers, and a pearl pendant with matching earrings. Once, I had had to sell my jewellery to maintain Meg, but since then, the money earned from watching Robin Dudley had enabled me to replace it with new pieces. Dale, who had cheered up a little after taking the wine, packed my hair into a gilt net. I touched my wrists with rosewater, and sallied forth.

  The door to the empty schoolroom stood open, and from the gallery beyond the further door came a flicker of candlelight and the sound of conversation. Someone laughed, and there was a snatch of music from the spinet. Walking through to join the company, I saw that all the Mason family were there. Pen was wearing a very grown-up gown with a lace-edged ruff. I noticed with amusement that she was still being responsible and looking after her sisters. Now that the weather was not so bitter, the heat of the fire could reach the nearer window bays, and Pen had marshalled Jane and Cathy into a bay where they were all stitching away, with Pen overseeing the work, for all the world like a conscientious governess.

  George and Philip, stiffly dressed in their best, were seated near the hearth. They had a chastened air. Crichton, in one of his gloomy black gowns, although this one did seem to have been brushed, stood by the fire, talking to a stranger, a heavily built man with grey hair. He too wore clerical black, and this, I supposed, was the boys’ prospective schoolmaster. The other man, presumably his friend, was seated at the spinet and idly picking out a melody. He had his back to me as I came in, but I could see that he was tall, a rather splendid figure in a crimson doublet veined with silver thread. Hearing the Masons greet me, he turned, rising courteously to his feet.

  “Ursula,” said Ann Mason, “this is Mr. Mark Lenoir. Mr. Lenoir, may I present Mrs. Blanchard, who is staying with us? And this,” said Ann, turning to the grey-haired stranger, “is Dr. Ignatius Wilkins, who keeps a school in High Wycombe, which we hope George and Philip will shortly join.”

  Ignatius Wilkins, schoolmaster, of High Wycombe. There could hardly be two of him. So this was the man, and here he was at Lockhill. He bowed to me. “Delighted, Mrs. Blanchard.” He didn’t sound delighted and didn’t seem the kind of man to experience delight very often. He had a powerful voice, thick with phlegm, and brown eyes which were curiously watchful, looking out from a fleshy face scored with the harsh lines of pride and authority. Even if I had known nothing about him, I wouldn’t have taken to him.

  “And I too am delighted,” said Mr. Lenoir, coming forward and offering me a strong right hand. It was over-strong: the grip of it almost crushed my bones. His voice, unlike Dr. Wilkins’ voice, was warm. He had a trace of French accent, and the dark eyes which looked so intently into mine were hot and hard. “You are charming to behold, if I may say so, Mrs. Blanchard. The court is sadly deprived while you hide yourself in the country. It is hardly kind to deny yourself to those who have a right to gaze on you.”

  “Er . . . th-thank you,” I said.

  Many ladies, especially those who pull their stays too tight, are capable of swooning almost to order, and just then, a swoon would have been a pleasure, but although my knees felt so weak that it was mostly Mr. Lenoir’s powerful grip which held me upright, I did not actually faint. I was obliged to remain one of the gathering.

  Dr. Wilkins’ too-watchful eyes were studying me, and inwardly, I recoiled. I was glad it was not his hand that I was grasping.

  However, in the circumstances, Mr. Lenoir could hardly be described as a comfort. Mr. Lenoir was an even bigger shock than Dr. Wilkins.

  I knew him, and his name wasn’t Mark Lenoir at all. His name was Matthew de la Roche, and since last October he had been my lawful wedded husband.

  • • •

  I don’t know how I got through the evening. I remember being invited to play the spinet, and having to decline b
ecause my hands were so unsteady. Whenever I spoke, I stammered. Matthew managed much better than I did, probably because he would have known in advance that I was here. He played the spinet instead of me, very competently, and the music prevented too much talk, but supper was another matter.

  Leonard Mason obviously wanted to impress his sons’ future schoolmaster, and the meal was served in style in the big hall, where the hearth was lit. The antlers had been dusted, and the dishes—far more of them than usual—were assembled in the adjacent long room and borne to the dinner table in formal triumph by Logan and Redman, for all the world as though we were at a court banquet. And, of course, there was conversation.

  In a daze, I partook of roast pork, and beans in a piquant sauce, and fresh manchet bread, and listened to Dr. Wilkins describing the studies that George and Philip would undertake at his school. I entered into a polite conversation with Matthew and Mr. Mason, about spinet music.

  I received the odd impression that although the two of them were travelling together as friends, Wilkins and Matthew were not in charity with each other. They virtually ignored each other, and I did not think this was just because Matthew, who was opposite me, hardly ever took his eyes off my face.

  Dale was present, although, having supped with Brockley, she did not sit at the table, but waited to one side, ready to attend on me if I needed her. Her eyes had widened at the sight of Matthew. I knew I could trust her not to speak out of turn, but I was aware of her, watching us, all through the meal.

  Last year, I had married Matthew and then run away from him. Had he not fled the country almost at once, he would have died a traitor’s death.

  The marriage was forced on me. I had chosen to abandon it, and with reason, yet the parting had grieved me so deeply that I had written, asking if we could begin again. He had replied and said yes, but his anger, his sense of betrayal, had been there in his answer, all the same. Now that we were face to face, that betrayal hung between us, uncompleted business which must be resolved before we could hope to come together.