The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries)

by Buckley, Fiona

  CHAPTER 23

  The Broken Toy

  “An excellent outcome,” Cecil said. “The mischief never even began. It seems that the purchases made by Crichton and Wilkins—the carpet and the tapestries—were experiments, using genuine money, to see which merchants examine high-value coins carefully, and which just check the amount and then send them straight to the bank. Paige was among the careless ones. His Genoese bankers have politely requested him to be more thorough in future.”

  “We are grateful to you, Ursula,” Elizabeth said.

  We were in the furthest bay of a gallery in Elizabeth’s private rooms at Hampton Court. Other people were nearby but not within earshot. The Queen had placed herself in a window seat, hands folded in her elegant lap. Her dress was dove-coloured satin embroidered with black. In fact, it was a form of mourning, for one of her favourite ladies, Jane Seymour, had died not long ago. Elizabeth had given her a state funeral. I had missed it and was very sorry, for I too had liked Jane. But if today there was no sign of the mischievous feline being who had subtly gibed at Dudley and to whom Barnabas Mew had presented his music box, it was not on Jane’s account. This grave, withdrawn air was because Elizabeth had once more been the target of conspiracy. All her defences were in place.

  “We have been shocked by Mew’s revelations,” she said, “but also mightily thankful because the danger has gone by and not touched us. Our reward will be generous, Ursula.”

  I said, “Did Mew have to be . . . forced to speak?”

  “Dear, tender-hearted Ursula,” said Elizabeth. “No. It wasn’t necessary.”

  “He was only too anxious to tell us all he knew.” Cecil, dignified in a formal blue gown, showed a grim amusement. “And how much he despised Dr. Wilkins. Wilkins was the only one who really believed in the plan. Mew says that Wilkins was sure that any scheme carried out on Mary Stuart’s behalf was a plot in accordance with the will of God and therefore bound to succeed. Mew thinks he’s a fool, though Wilkins was quite careful, in his way: when the plan went into action, he said that they must all make their purchases under fake names. He also meant to arrange for some of the buying to be done through intermediaries, and he intended to use a false name for dealing with them, too. He financed Mew and told him to buy the base metals, but Mew had to present all his invoices for inspection. He did it through Crichton—hence the one that was found in Crichton’s doublet.”

  “Crichton was an untidy man,” I said. “I expect he left it there by mistake.”

  “No doubt,” said Cecil. “To make their false coins they needed both base and precious metals. The treasure your husband had collected included money enough to buy the base metal, and also plate and the like, which they melted down to get the gold and silver. But when they tried to use the precious metals in some of the coins and melted those down too . . .”

  Cecil’s smile startled me. It so closely resembled a leer. “It didn’t give a good yield,” he said. “Most of it was bad money from the fifteen-forties. Except that it was struck in an official mint, it was practically counterfeit coin anyway!”

  “King Henry’s groat,” said Elizabeth. “Cecil has shown his keepsake at the council table, Ursula. One should not speak ill of one’s parents, but my father was . . . not always wise.”

  “The plan would have done little harm, but it might have done some.” Cecil was grave again. “Well, Mew will suffer the rigours of the knife. Perhaps that will discourage other would-be plotters. It may also discourage people from changing sides as he did. The word for such a man, Ursula, is a doublet. Quite a coincidence, seeing that a blackwork doublet had a part in all this too.”

  “He was blackmailed into it,” I said. “I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “He wouldn’t have been blackmailed if he hadn’t stolen that design from Mason,” Cecil said relentlessly. “He’s a poor, shabby little man, I’m afraid. Good quality agents are as rare as pigs with wings.”

  “Now, Cecil,” said Elizabeth solemnly, “that is not courteous to Mistress Blanchard!” Her eyes, just for a moment, danced.

  Cecil said, “Mistress Blanchard is an admirable exception. Nor does she resemble any kind of pig. Your pardon, Ursula.”

  “Granted,” I said, with gravity to match his. “You told me never to trust coincidences,” I said, “and I didn’t. When Mew turned up at Lockhill, it made me suspicious at once. There was one real coincidence, though, was there not? When you happened to be in Bernard Paige’s warehouse while Dr. Wilkins was buying that carpet?”

  “Yes. They do happen sometimes,” Cecil said. “If I had known that Mew was still calling at Lockhill,” he added, “we wouldn’t have sent you there. Would we, ma’am?”

  “We might.” The Queen’s eyes were serious again. “We needed someone there, and it had to be a woman. Ursula was an obvious choice.”

  There was a pause, then Elizabeth said, “The musical box that Mr. Mew gave us,” she added, “has been broken up. The gold and the moonstones have gone into our treasury and the mechanism has been smashed. The sight and sound of it alike offend us.”

  I inclined my head. I had given Meg her box—why deprive the child of her toy?—but I thought it better not to tell Elizabeth that.

  “I believe,” said Cecil, “that Leonard Mason has given up any idea of trying to construct an engine that flies. We live in a splendid age for new ideas, but some of them turn out to be unworkable. Besides, he has been heavily fined for hearing illegal masses. He will have to pay more attention to his land, if he is to keep out of debt.”

  “It will be hard on Ann,” I said with regret.

  “At least,” said Elizabeth dryly, “her husband didn’t break his neck in his wretched airborne engine. And he isn’t in the Tower awaiting execution for treason, as Mew is. It is a pity that two of his fellow conspirators got away, even though one of them is dear to you, Ursula. You have decided against going to France now?”

  “Mr. de la Roche was not actually a conspirator, ma’am,” said Cecil. “Though Wilkins was.”

  “That’s true,” I said, “but no, I shall not now go to France. I . . . might no longer be welcome.”

  “No, perhaps not.” Elizabeth considered me with, I thought, compassion. “But you have a home here at court. Remember that. In time, the thought may heal you.”

  I looked away, out of the windows to where early summer had turned the grass and trees to vivid green and birds were flying here and there, gathering food for their nestlings. Matthew would live. I had that at least to hold on to. He would live: he would breathe the air and see the sky. Sun, moon, stars: when they shone on me, I could think; well, he can see them too. For his sake I could even accept the thought that the hateful Wilkins would also live. Only pathetic, cringing little Barnabas Mew would die.

  Brisk, masculine footsteps approached. Robin Dudley, splendid in dark red with peacock slashings and gold embroidery, was making his way along the gallery, bold and disrespectful as usual, calling to someone over his shoulder, telling a page to run ahead and announce him to the Queen, and throwing a compliment to a maid of honour.

  Elizabeth, hearing his voice, lifted her own. “We are here, Robin! Come and join us!”

  Dudley stroke into the window bay, saw that the Queen had company, and halted. He bowed to her and then stood up straight and searched her face intently.

  “My dear Robin,” said Queen Elizabeth, dismissing the fate of traitors from her mind without noticeable effort. “How very good to see you.”

  “And good to see you, Your Majesty. I half feared you might have run off to Austria already, to marry the Archduke,” said Dudley.

  Early that morning, in the presence of Robin Dudley, Elizabeth had granted an audience to de Quadra, and hinted that a marriage alliance with the Austrian Archduke, a relative of King Philip, was something that she might be brought to consider. De Quadra clearly didn’t know whether to take her seriously or not, and we had all gazed fascinated at Dudley’s dark and handsome face, becaus
e to smile broadly and scowl ferociously at one and the same time is a remarkable feat and we were wondering how he did it.

  “Not at all,” said Elizabeth calmly, giving nothing away. “Such matters can hardly be decided so quickly. Here, as you see, are Mistress Blanchard and my good Sir William. Let us send for our musicians, and have some dancing.”

  • • •

  I obtained permission next day to visit my daughter. I walked with her in the garden at Thamesbank, amid the roses and the topiary and the flowering trees, and thought, hard.

  When I returned to the court, I sent a note to Cecil.

  • • •

  “It can be arranged,” Cecil said, “if I think it appropriate.” I was standing before his desk while he remained seated. His light blue eyes regarded me penetratingly. “But I would like to know why you want to see Barnabas Mew. You never asked to see your Uncle Herbert when he was in the Tower.”

  “He wouldn’t have wanted to see me.”

  “Do you really imagine that Mew will want to see you?”

  “No, but that is just it. I suppose I want to say that I pity his fate, and tell him that I will pray for him.”

  “You could pray for him anyway,” Cecil pointed out.

  “I know, but still, may I see him?”

  “You would find it a harrowing experience. Have you really told me why you are so anxious for it?”

  “I think,” I said huskily, “that if I am to continue to work for you, I should fully understand what I am doing. I can’t bring myself to attend the execution, but please allow me to see this man before his last day dawns.”

  I could see that Cecil was still suspicious, but at length he said, “I will allow you five minutes. No more.”

  • • •

  Cecil escorted me to the Tower himself. He introduced me to the Lord Lieutenant, repeating his orders that I should have only five minutes in Mew’s cell. “I will go with her and remain close at hand. I understand the man is not thought dangerous, but he has cause to regard Mistress Blanchard with . . . a degree of dislike,” said Cecil in his driest voice. “The turnkey should be nearby, too.”

  “So shall I be, since the visitor is a lady,” said the Lieutenant of the Tower, gazing down at me. He was a tall man and I did not reach his shoulder. I could see that he, too, was puzzled by my request. “And the gentleman gaoler will also be with us. The man is chained, of course. We can remain in the doorway, Sir William.”

  The Lieutenant had a modern and comfortable house within the Tower walls. He lived in luxury, from the fragrant rushes on the floor to the embroidered wallhangings, to the silver dishes and goblets in which we were served on arrival with ginger-flavoured cakes and white wine. The basement cells of the Tower of London were quite a contrast.

  A frightening contrast. The steps which lead down to them are a warning of what lies ahead. A turnkey, a short man with a strutting walk, led the way, followed by the dignified figure of the gentleman gaoler in his scarlet uniform, with myself, Cecil and the lieutenant behind. There were a few thin slit windows at first, admitting bright streaks of daylight, but as the steps went below ground level, the only light came from a few flambeaux, thrust into wall sconces. Our misshapen shadows prowled on the walls. It was cold and our footsteps echoed. So did the clank of the heavy keys attached to the gaoler’s belt. He remarked over his shoulder that these cells down here weren’t used that much.

  “Most prisoners are ’igher rank and get tower rooms and servants. We bring ’em down ’ere to scare ’em into answering questions—that’s what the basement’s mostly used for. It’s not that usual to ’ave the likes of this one down ’ere, all the time, like.”

  “That’s true,” said the gentleman gaoler. “The Tower is supposed to be for men of position. A dishonest clockmaker is not,” he added in tones of fastidious disapproval, “what I am accustomed to.”

  “He’s in the Tower because of the stature of his crime,” said Cecil. “It’s the crime that entitles him to be here, not his social standing. Take heart. He won’t be with you for much longer.”

  “Oh, ’e’s no trouble,” said the turnkey cheerfully, pausing to light us round a corner. “Except that ’e seems to ’ave lost ’is appetite. Can’t get ’im to eat, nohow. Pity. ’E’ll be too weak to last long when ’e goes on show.”

  I shuddered, wishing I hadn’t come, and knowing, too, that I couldn’t have lived with myself if I had stayed away.

  We went on to the foot of the steps, turned left and came to a massive, iron-studded door with a torch in a wall sconce above. Our guide selected a key and pushed it into the lock.

  “I shouldn’t think,” said Cecil in my ear, “that your lock-picks would have much effect on that. It must be ten times bigger than anything they’re meant for.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said, feeling instinctively at my hidden pocket and its contents. I was in no mood for pleasantries.

  The turnkey swung the door open and stepped in. “Visitor for you, Mew! A pretty lady, too. Ain’t you the lucky fellow?” He moved aside and beckoned me forward. “ ’Ere you are, then.”

  “We’ll all be just here,” said Cecil, “but take care.”

  I went in. The cell was small and it reeked, of ordure and sweat. A barred grating, high up in one wall, cast a faint daylight into the room. Against the wall furthest from the door, Mew was curled up tightly on a straw pallet, his knees drawn up to his chest as if in a desperate attempt to protect the vitals which must soon be exposed to the executioner’s blade. When the turnkey announced me, the only response was a moan.

  “Mr. Mew?” I said, hesitantly. I went over to him and stood there nervously, longing to get this over, to get away. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shuddered under it, but then looked up at me. His eyes were feral with fear. He was more like an animal than a human being.

  “You!”

  He sat up slowly, as though movement were difficult. Despite the gloom, I could see the untrimmed hair hanging limply round his ears, and when he put up a hand to push it out of his eyes, a chain clanked. He was very thin and his bony wrists were shackled to chains which hung from the wall above the bed. He could move a few steps from the bed but no more. He had adequate clothes and rugs—he was clearly not going to be allowed to die of lung congestion—but everything was filthy and he smelt.

  I had wanted to dress plainly for this visit, but I could hardly go about with Sir William Cecil and the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower, looking like a beggar-woman. My gown and kirtle were unpretentious, thin summer-weight wool, brown over pale yellow, but there was embroidery on my kirtle and sleeves, and my farthingale was quite wide. I felt tastelessly overdressed.

  Mew was waiting for me to say something. I must speak.

  “Mr. Mew, I . . . I had to do as I did, but I grieve to see you or any man in this state. I came . . . I came to say that I crave the mercy of God for you, and a swift end to your pains. I will pray for you.”

  “Am I supposed to thank you?” Mew enquired. “Well, I’ll need prayers. That’s true enough.”

  “You shall have them, I promise.”

  I hesitated, and then I held out my right hand and grasped his, just for a moment. My skin crawled at the feel of his cold, damp palm, and the healed burn scars across my own palms momentarily throbbed at the pressure. I released him, trying not to be too quick about it.

  With a faint attempt at sangfroid, he added, “Sorry I can’t offer you anything in return. You don’t need my prayers.”

  “You could tell me something,” I said. “You could tell me what it was that Dawson overheard at Lockhill. He listened at doors, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, him. Yes. Damned, prying, snooping . . . Jennet saw him. Putting his ear to the door of that back room where they used to hear mass. She told me. She was just gossiping. She didn’t know I was one of the people in the room. Crichton was the other.”

  “So she heard you! What were you saying? I’d like to know—to understand.”
/>
  “Does it matter?” He shrugged and then answered anyway. “I was trying to make Crichton see that the scheme was stupid. It all depended on Wilkins believing in it, but sooner or later he’d see it was no good and realise how we’d cozened him into it. Wilkins is a fool, but he’d be a bad enemy if Mary Stuart ever did get on to the throne and he had power again. I wanted to stop the idea, but they wouldn’t listen. I prayed Mason would kill himself in that gliding thing and then I wouldn’t have to be afraid of him finding out about the music box any more. I encouraged him to build it.”

  “I expect I’d have felt the same,” I said. “Thank you for explaining. I really will pray.” I began to back away. His voice stopped me.

  “Mrs. Blanchard.”

  I paused. “Yes?”

  “The music box I gave the Queen. Does she still have it? Does she ever play it? It was exquisite.” In Mew’s tremulous tones were an echo of former pride. “I’ve never made anything so pleasing. Does she listen to it?”

  “No,” said Cecil, from the door, cutting across the lie I was about to tell. “She does not. Your box has been destroyed, Mew, and no other like it will ever be made. It was a fair invention, but you have tainted it for ever.”

  “But I did take a music box for my daughter,” I said. “You remember? She still has it and plays with it.”

  “Does she? Thank you, Mrs. Blanchard,” Mew said.

  Cecil almost pulled me out of the cell. “That man, if you recall, is a murderer. He nearly got rid of you! And Dale! I wish,” said Cecil, “that I knew what all this was truly about. Were you really so anxious to know what Dawson discovered?”

  “I was curious, yes. And I have been clearing my conscious, Sir William.”

  “And is it now clear?”

  “As much as possible, yes.”

  “You make very little sense,” said Cecil crossly.

  • • •

  On a bench under a sycamore tree overlooking the river, I sat with Cecil. Thamesbank House lay behind us, and in front of us the grass stretched down to the sunlit river. It was a windy sunshine: there were wavelets on the sparkling water and the tree above us tossed in the gusts. On the grass, Meg played with the Henderson children. Bridget was watching the game and sometimes joining in. It was a pity, I thought, that the Mason children could not share this well-ordered household. When I had made my farewells to them, the girls had all cried, and so had I. I missed them.