The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries)

by Buckley, Fiona

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I came to England,” said Matthew, “to deal with unfinished business, as I said. Specifically, to find out just what use was being made of a large quantity of money and treasure which I collected last year on behalf of Mary Stuart, and left here in the charge of Ignatius Wilkins! I had it at Withysham and I couldn’t take it all with me when I fled. I had to travel light and I couldn’t transport a pile of chests and coffers. I had four sets of gold plate and ten of silver, and a lot of coinage and jewellery. Ignatius was in the district—that part was true—and I handed it over to him. And now . . .”

  “I have put the treasure,” said Wilkins in that thick, authoritative voice of his, “to the purpose for which it was intended: to further the cause of the rightful queen of England, Her Catholic Majesty, Mary Stuart. Skilfully used, counterfeit coin could so disrupt the finances of this realm that the people will begin to murmur against Elizabeth, and meanwhile, if further monies can be collected and an army raised for Mary . . .”

  “Good God!” I said involuntarily.

  “And you set about your scheme,” said Matthew to Wilkins, “as I keep repeating, although you are obviously not prepared to admit that it was wrong, without either permission nor consultation. You merely wrote to me to announce what you had done.” Matthew turned to me. “I am responsible to Mary Stuart for that treasure! To learn that it was being squandered on this silly plan . . .”

  “It is not silly,” said Wilkins. “You will not speak to me, a priest of the Catholic Church, as if I were a child or a fool. The plan would take time to mature, yes. It would start with a quantity of false coin, the first wave of a rising tide, good enough to pass cursory examination, released into the hands of merchants who would take it to the Florentine and Genoese banks. The banks would soon discover it was false and their confidence in English money would be damaged. Later on, we would send in another wave of counterfeit. And then another. Little by little, Elizabeth’s credit would be undermined. She would find loans harder to raise and her merchants would find it hard to trade. Prices would rise. Meanwhile, Mary would be making preparations and her priests would be going about in England, building support for her. The English would suffer hardship and their hearts would turn towards Mary, and God. I saw the hand of God himself in this idea!”

  “It might work,” said Matthew, “if the scheme were big enough, but it isn’t. The treasure was valuable, but not this valuable. Wishful thinking, Ignatius.”

  Wilkins glowered.

  “And venal thinking!” said Matthew. “I haven’t said this to you before. I wanted to see first just how much you had achieved. Well, now I have! And while I lay awake tonight, I took my mind off my fears for Ursula by thinking over what I’d seen. You’ve been deceiving yourself. Oh, I don’t suspect you of being in this for profit, Wilkins—I know you for a true believer and a loyal adherent of Mary Stuart—but I suspect that your fellow conspirators are clear enough about the other purpose behind this.

  “The money will be released into the economy by buying tapestries and carpets and other valuables, or duping acquaintances into buying them for you. The various purchases will then belong to you and your friends. No doubt you’ll sell yours and give the money to the cause, but I wonder if all your associates will do the same? Or will they just pocket the proceeds?”

  The silence that ensued was best described as shattering. It was as though the conspirators had until that moment been one cohesive whole, like a pane of glass, and Matthew had thrown a stone at it, sending cracks across it in all directions. One good push, and it would fall apart.

  Brockley grasped the situation at once and did his best to administer the push. “Maybe,” he remarked to Wilkins, “a scheme like that was the only way your fellow conspirators could think of to get that treasure out of you, my friend!”

  There was a further staggered silence, during which Wilkins stared at Mew and Wylie as though seeing them for the first time, then Wylie laughed. “How did you know?” he said to Matthew.

  “It’s called using one’s brains,” said my husband coldly.

  Wylie laughed again. “Well, we’ve got our hands on a fair amount of that treasure, and as long as these two pretty pigeons here don’t go cooing into Cecil’s ears, we’ll all end up rich.”

  “You . . . !” The venom in Wilkins’ voice was terrifying and Mew quivered on his stool.

  Wylie, however, remained unmoved. “You can’t trump up a heresy charge against us and send us to the stake,” he said. “Nor can you inform on us, not without dropping yourself in the mud at the same time. You’ve still got your scheme. Be content with that and leave us our profits. We’ve earned them.”

  “You have earned a modest commission. That, yes,” Matthew said. “This is a dismal plot, but it’s now so far advanced that we may as well try it. It could achieve something. Elizabeth has been very outspoken about improving the currency. This will make her look a fool, if nothing else.”

  I said nothing. My head throbbed. I knew that it was useless to point out to him the horrors—the civil war, the heresy-hunting—which would be unleashed if Mary Stuart were ever to take the throne. I had said it all to him before, last October, and I knew that he didn’t understand and never would. He couldn’t believe that the English, at heart, were not longing for a Catholic monarch. His mind was full of an exalted vision of an England restored to what, to him, was a true and simple faith. Through his otherwise keen intelligence, that vision ran like a flaw in a gemstone.

  Matthew was kind and Wilkins cruel, but Wilkins had the same flaw, the same singlemindedness which was also simplemindedness. Any attempt to reason with either of them would be in vain.

  Matthew was speaking again. “We’ll make the best of what has been done already. And, yes, a rate of commission will be worked out and you will be paid. That I accept. But any valuables bought in the process must be sold again and the money directed back to Mary Stuart’s service. I gathered that money: I will not see one penny diverted illicitly into any man’s private purse. I must return to France, and when I go, I will leave matters in your hands, but you had better be careful. When Mary is on her throne again—and one day she will be: God will see to it—then you could all find yourselves called to account instead of rewarded. So beware.”

  Not two plots, I thought, just one, all the time. I wondered how Mew, at once prosperous and timid, had been drawn in. I wondered, too, whether Crinchton was in it or not, and what precisely Dawson had heard at Lockhill which had brought him to his death. The fugitive thought I had had when I saw the name Dawson burned into the tray on Mason’s desk still would not surface.

  However, I had guessed at the coining, which was the central plot, and at the way the coins were to be used. The bill for metals and the strange purchases of such things as tapestries and carpets, with their accompanying lies, had formed a true pattern in my mind.

  Now I saw how Mary Stuart had been brought in: as bait for Wilkins. I had missed the clues which linked the scheme to her: Sir William Cecil showing me King Henry’s rotten groat had been one; and so, oddly enough, had Leonard Mason’s comment over dinner, the day I came to Lockhill. He had virtually spelt it out: “A realm, like a household, must live within its means. A ruler who forgets that courts disaster.” By such logical, business-like persuasions, the fanatical Wilkins had been cozened into surrendering the treasure. A pretty plot!

  My head went on pounding and nausea now began to grip my stomach. Matthew’s anger with the conspirators, though, was hopeful. If I could put a wedge into that split and widen it . . . if only, through this pain and nausea, I could think!

  Mew was spluttering. Matthew looked at him, and Mew burst into speech. “I don’t want the money! They said I’d have my share, but I don’t want it. Conspiracy and murder! I hate it all! I was forced into it!”

  From nowhere, the words to make the wedge I needed came into my head. “Did you need so very much forcing?” I asked. “Dawson
and Fenn are dead, and an archer shot at me only the other day. You had something to do with all of it. And what of the attempt to poison me yesterday night?”

  “What?” said Matthew.

  “Oh yes,” I told him. “When Dale was taken ill, it was because she had sipped a posset made for me.” Beside me, I felt Brockley jerk and I added swiftly, “Fran is all right, Brockley! She only swallowed a little. She was unwell that night but better in the morning.” I stuck my elbow into his ribs, and remembering what I had said about Dale and Forrest, he held his tongue.

  Matthew had always been against murder—I knew that from the past. This might, just might, be enough to tip the balance. My head still hammered and the candles hurt my eyes, but, painfully, I went on. “They have no pity on anyone, your associates, Matthew. Fenn was little more than a boy. Did you know?”

  “He was eighteen,” Wilkins said. “A boy? Children as young as seven have been martyrs for the faith, and a grown lad with a beard coming can die for failing it. The Fenns were my neighbours and parishioners in Sussex. Paul Fenn was a younger son of the house. I recruited him when I learned he was to take up a post with the Cecils. I thought it might be useful to have someone in there. As our scheme was put into effect, we would want to know what result it was having, how alarmed the council was, and whether we were in danger of discovery. Regrettably, young Fenn lost his nerve.”

  Ignatius Wilkins, I thought, was like the opposite of a talisman: he was bad luck, walking about on feet. To be either his friend or his parishioner put one in peril.

  “Fenn said Cecil was enquiring about him, and he didn’t know what to do.” Mew was huskier than ever, through fear. “I told you,” he said to Matthew. “It was obvious that he’d crack under questioning. He even said that perhaps the best thing he could do was confess! He was dangerous.”

  “You should have offered to get him away to France,” Matthew said.

  “We did, but he didn’t want to go. He was scared of exile as well. He was just a child, under all those fine airs of his.”

  “You see? They are ready to kill children, or as near as makes no difference!” Trying to ignore my physical anguish, I drove the wedge deeper and saw Matthew’s face darken. “These are the people with whom you are entangled!” I said to him fiercely. “What do you think of them all now?”

  Surely, surely, this would do it. In a moment, I would have to speak. The night must be passing by now.

  Wilkins was staring round, from one face to another, his own full of contempt—but then, contempt for others was his nature. In some stone prison, not unlike Mew’s cellar, his two hapless parishioners, the weaver and his daughter, had been interrogated about their beliefs. They had been too honest to lie, but he had had no respect for that.

  “In this,” he said to Mew and Wylie, “despicable as you are in other ways, you were not at fault. It is a sad thing that the faith must at times be defended by force, and that even women and youths must suffer, but so renegade is human nature, that such is the case. You guarded us from discovery. I will grant you absolution whenever you wish.”

  “You will not,” Matthew said grimly. “Let them live with their guilt. I am opposed to the murder even of those who are not women or boys. I—”

  “But we had to save ourselves!” Mew cried.

  “That Dawson was a damned nosy-parker of a pedlar,” Wylie said pugnaciously. “He listened at doors. He found out too much!”

  “And we didn’t want to harm your good lady, sir,” Mew, bursting into a new fit of husky self-defence, was nearly in tears. “We didn’t know who she was then, of course, but still we didn’t want to hurt her. Fenn said she was a spy, though, and then when I found her poking about in this office . . . What’ll happen if we’re caught! There’s all that in the cellar, and I’ve turned in endless reports to Cecil that there’s no disloyalty at Lockhill! I’ll be called a traitor twice over! What would happen to me?” I gaped at the unlikely reference to Cecil, but no one noticed.

  Matthew was glowering at Mew. I saw that he had no fear of his homicidal partners. On the face of it, they could have killed Brockley and myself despite his objections, and killed him, too, if he tried to threaten them. I don’t think it even occurred to them, however, and not just because they were too much at odds among themselves to act together: they just accepted him as their leader.

  “Well, Ursula,” he said, turning to me, “it seems that you have run into peril of your own choice, and brought your manservant into peril with you. You and Brockley are safe now, however. We shall soon be on our way to France. Wilkins, I shall leave you with full power to make sure that my orders are carried out.”

  I saw with despair that although he now detested the others, he still regarded them as his men. He, too, accepted his place as their leader. The wedge hadn’t gone in far enough. I glanced again at the window. Its blackness was no longer absolute but tinged with blue. Time was running out.

  My ploy had failed, yet it had dne something: Matthew’s distaste, his wish to be away from his fellow conspirators, was evident. A new way of exploiting it sprang into my mind.

  “Matthew!” I said. “I hate being in this house, in this room, with these men. I’d like to leave for France at once, within the hour, for preference. I’ll write the letters for Dale while the horses are being saddled. Are there horses for me and Brockley? Ours are at the Antelope.” If I were once in the saddle and we were on our way, I hoped my head would get better. It would have to!

  “Horses are the least of our problems,” Matthew said. “We’ve got all the horseflesh we need in a paddock at the back, and it’s had a night’s rest. I agree that this place and this company are not for you. We’ll be off at daybreak. We’ll take my bay gelding, Ignatius’s mare for you, Urusla—sorry, Ignatius, but it can’t be helped—and your roan cob, Mr. Mew, will do for Brockley. By the way, Mew, I asked for pen and ink about a hundred years ago. Where are they? Wylie, go and saddle up. Now! I’ve friends between here and the coast, Ursula—they will supply a messenger to take the letters to your tirewoman.”

  Wilkins began to argue, not about his mare but because he said Brockley couldn’t be trusted not to break away and raise a hue and cry.

  “Brockley will do as I bid him!” I snapped, and applied another warning elbow to Brockley’s ribs as I spoke.

  Wylie disappeared and Mew brought the writing materials. Matthew gave me details of where Dale was to bring my daughter. I moved to a table and sat down to write.

  I was going to win, I thought. God willing, I would flee with Matthew. The others would be taken; Matthew would not. And I would be off to a new life with my husband.

  I hoped that Cecil and the Queen would understand and forgive me, and that they would let Meg come to me. I hoped, too, that Dale would not be blamed for remaining faithful to me, and that she, too, would join us soon. Maybe Brockley would forgive me for dragging her into all this.

  My pen pressed on across the paper, writing the words Matthew expected me to write, preparing the two useless letters, which were only for show. I was signing my name to the first when Wylie came back.

  “The horses are ready. They’re in a shed across the alley.”

  “Good,” said Matthew. “Are you done, Ursula?”

  “Yes.” I signed the second letter, picked up the sander and shook it over the wet ink.

  “You’ll want sealing wax,” Mew said. His insignificant features still had that crumpled look of misery, and his voice, though less hoarse by now, was subdued. “I’ve got some in a cupboard here. You—”

  He stopped short, staring at me, his face disgusted, as though he had just found a caterpillar in his salad. I was that caterpillar. “She’s lying!” he said. “About her woman not knowing anything! That woman was in my office with her, when I caught Mrs. Blanchard looking through my ledgers. They were only in there because the woman—Dale, is it?—was conveniently ill! Rather too conveniently! She knows all about it, mark my words.”

  “Wha
t? Ursula?” said Matthew.

  I licked my lips. My headache crescendoed, a nightmare drumbeat. I was about to embark on a back-to-the-wall denial, however unconvincing it might sound, when we heard the hoofbeats thundering through the main street. They were coming fast, and there were so many horses that even here at the back of the house they were clearly audible. They clattered to a halt outside. Feet descended to the ground and someone pounded at the door.

  Pretence was at an end. I looked sadly at Matthew. “Did you really suppose I would not take precautions? I sent Dale for help, but I didn’t think it would come so soon. I hoped you and I could get away.”

  “Leaving these others to their fate?” Matthew demanded.

  “They tried to kill me,” I said. “They nearly did kill Dale.”

  Mew ran to the window and peered round the curtain. He let out a squeal. “There’re men in the garden!”

  In lifting the curtain, he had let a glimpse of candlelight escape. A series of whistles echoed and a familiar voice outside bellowed, “Open up, Mew! Open up or we’ll make you!” Someone started attacking the front door and the shuttered shop window with axes. We could hear neighbours, no doubt enraged at such a rough awakening, shouting in protest.

  My note to Dr. Forrest had been brief, and I could remember the wording as though the sheet of paper were before me:

  Dr. Forrest, I am short of time, but please, I beg you, do what I now ask you. I have the right to ask: I was in Lockhill on the orders of Sir William Cecil. Please send urgently to Mr. Rob Henderson of Thamesbank, near Hampton, and ask him to bring armed men to Barnabas Mew’s shop in Windsor. Brockley has gone there and may be in danger. I am going to see if I can help him. Please do this, Dr. Forrest. Dale will answer any questions.

  Yours in haste, Ursula Blanchard.

  It had worked. Dr. Forrest had moved swiftly, and at Thamesbank, so had Rob Henderson. He and his men must have ridden throught the night to reach us.