Uneasy Lies the Crown

by Tasha Alexander

  “What? You’re taking her in there?” The boy pointed to the Black Swan. “I don’t think she’ll like it, sir. And I don’t think they’ll like her. You aren’t a religious reformer, are you, madam?”

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m here to offer assistance to the women who work there.”

  “Sounds religious to me,” he said. “They won’t like it. Not at all.” The other boys laughed. I ignored them and headed straight for the pub’s door.

  Jeremy took me by the arm. “Are you sure about this, Em?”

  “Absolutely. But do please leave the talking to me. I’ve already suffered enough mortification this morning.” He sighed but pulled open the door and gave what could only be described as a sarcastic bow as he motioned for me to enter ahead of him.

  The interior did not look all that different from the pub in which I had met my driver near the Tower. It featured a long, wooden bar, with stools in front of it and gleaming taps behind it. There were tables like one would find in any tavern. It was the people who signaled that this was no ordinary pub. To begin, there was a group of women in the room, dressed in what I can only describe as a style meant to entice the basest of instincts. This in itself did not shock me; I know what goes on in brothels. But at this time of the day? Before luncheon?

  A burly man in a well-tailored suit approached us. “Madam, sir, may I be of assistance?” He looked me up and down in a most off-putting fashion, seeming to gloat at my discomfort.

  “Have you stepped up to take Mr. Casby’s place?” I asked. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Mr. George Brown, at your service. Presuming it’s a service I’m willing to supply.”

  The look he gave me—something between a leer and a threatening glare—frightened me just a bit, but I ignored his impertinent comment. “I’m here to speak with your women about Mr. Casby. I’m sure you can have no objection.”

  “I have plenty of objections,” he said. “First, who the bleeding—”

  Jeremy raised his hand. “Please, watch your language in front of the lady. I am the Duke of Bainbridge and can assure you that I am more than capable of making your life immensely difficult should you prove uncooperative.” Mr. Brown studied Jeremy, as if sizing him up as a potential customer.

  “That’s quite enough, sir,” I said. “If you’d prefer not to give us what we need, we can leave these interviews to the uniformed police, although I imagine your business would suffer as a result.”

  “There’s nothing illegal going on here,” he said.

  I pulled myself up to my full height. “Really, Mr. Brown, you cannot think me naïve enough to believe that. I’m here to do a job and I shan’t leave until it is done.”

  “You’re with the police?” he asked.

  “Not officially, but I assist them on occasion. I shall need to speak to each of the ladies individually. Would you prefer I do that here or somewhere more private?”

  “If you want time with the girls, you’ll have to pay. Conversation is a service, you know.”

  “Not one for which legal establishments charge,” I said and marched to a table in the corner near a window. “Jeremy, would you please fetch me the first young woman.” He looked remarkably uncomfortable, but did as I asked.

  I had no precise expectations about the outcomes of my talks with them, but did my best to earn their trust and convince them to tell me what they could about Mr. Casby. It was clear they were all terrified of him. Two of them actually questioned his death, as if they could not believe any force could remove him from the world. One, called Mary Skypton, who seemed much younger than the rest—although I could not judge whether this was due to her age or to having only come to the Black Swan recently; she had not been ill-used for as long as the others—had tears in her eyes when I confirmed his demise.

  “He’s gone? Really gone?” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Do you think I’ll owe my debt to him to whoever takes over? George there isn’t as cruel as Casby, but I’d rather not work for him. He’s brutal, too, in his way. Might go out on my own instead.”

  “No matter what debt you owe anyone, you cannot be forced to do this sort of work, Mary. It’s illegal.”

  “I don’t see that the law matters much here,” she said. “The coppers don’t care what goes on in places like this.”

  “I care,” I said, “and if you want a different kind of life I will do everything in my power to help you get it.”

  She looked at Jeremy, who was standing next to the table, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, bouncing nervously on his toes, and blew him a kiss. “He’s quite attractive. Do you think he might have a use for me?”

  “That is not what I meant, Mary. You should be considering other, more respectable options. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  “That’s what Lizzie always thought, and look what happened to her.”

  “Lizzie?” I asked. “Tell me about her.”

  “Lizzie Hopman. Her own mother brought her here and gave her to Casby. She knew how bad the life is—she’d done it herself for years. And when she wasn’t bringing in enough customers, Casby asked for Lizzie, said it was the only way her mother could pay off her debt.”

  “What exactly did she owe him? What do you owe him?”

  “Well, you see, he’s not an entirely bad gent,” she said. “He can be—could be, I suppose, now that he’s kicked it—real sweet when he wanted. It’s not easy to make your way on your own, is it? Sometimes you need a little money for rent or food, and when you got desperate, he’d help out. Give you food or a place to stay. That’s why we all live here, you know. We can’t afford anywhere else.”

  “And he forces you to earn the rent?” I asked.

  The girl shrugged. “Well, you’ve got to pay somehow, don’t you? And the rooms here are better than an alley.”

  “Where’s Lizzie? Does she still work here?”

  “Oh, no. She died the same day as the queen. A bit of rough handling that went a little too far.”

  This was too much for Jeremy. He slapped his hand on the table. “Who was the cause of it? I want a name.” He started for Mr. Brown. “Were you here when this girl was killed? Lizzie?”

  “Sir, you have the wrong idea entirely,” the man said, holding his hands up and stepping back. “It weren’t like that.”

  “What was it like?” Jeremy’s hands were balled in fists.

  “Lizzie liked it that way and asked Casby to do it,” Mr. Brown said. “Preferred working off her debt straight to him, if you understand my meaning. Had no one to blame but herself.”

  Jeremy looked as if he might explode. I went to his side, took him by the arm, and spoke in a whisper. “Fighting will not change anything. Consider what he might do to Mary after we’re gone.”

  “Then we can’t leave her here.”

  “Whatcha going to do?” Mary asked. “Take all of us to your house? You live in Mayfair, I bet, don’t you? I like it there. Went once with a fancy gent. You remind me a bit of him.”

  “Where is Lizzie’s mother?” I asked.

  “She died last year,” Mr. Brown said. “Consumption. Not here, mind you, we’ve no disease here. She had a room somewhere between St. Clement Danes and Holy Trinity in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Now, look, you’ve talked to the girls and I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I can’t have a commotion. This is a legitimate place of business, a licensed public house.”

  “There is very little going on here that is legitimate,” Jeremy said. “I shall personally see to it that you lose your license.”

  “See here, sir, those things are none of my business. Clive—er, Mr. Casby—he might have made a bit on the side with the girls, but I’m not going to do that. I’m an honest businessman. Ask anyone. Nobody’s done a thing since Clive died.”

  “He only died yesterday,” Jeremy said. “And I have no faith in the veracity of any of your statements. This establishment will not continue to operate.” Now he took me firmly by
the arm and marched me outside and back to the motorcar. The boy he’d paid to watch it was rubbing it with a dirty rag.

  “Polishing it for you, sir.”

  Jeremy gave him another coin and went to turn the engine crank. His face had gone a sickly shade of gray. I’d never seen him so consumed with fury.

  1415

  12

  Cecily expected her penance would prove difficult, but she had not imagined it would come as it did. Not that she’d had much time to imagine it. The rain had stopped the moment she rose to her knees. She was soaked, but did not care, so full of God’s love did she feel. Instead of walking back to the castle, she went into the woods, some unknown—and, she was certain, divine—force guiding her. She went to the stream and followed its banks until she reached the clearing where Adeline liked to picnic. That was where she saw them.

  Dario Gabrieli was standing close to Adeline, and there was no one else with them. Not a single lady accompanied the baroness. The couple, too, were drenched from the rain, but showed no sign of so much as noticing this. The troubadour had his lute, and was strumming it, singing softly, something about Lancelot and Guinevere. Adeline’s face glowed with rapturous joy.

  Cecily stood, frozen. They had not seen her. Unsure of what to do, what to say, she started to back away, turning and running once they were out of sight. She ran until she reached the castle, then raced to her room and fell again on her knees, praying for guidance. Was this to be her cross?

  She composed herself, changed into a dry gown, and sat at her table, Christine de Pizan’s The Treasure of the City of Ladies in front of her. She opened the book and her eyes rested on a passage at the end of the first part:

  As people are not all the same, there are some men and women so perverse that whatever good correction and instruction they are given, they will always follow their own wicked inclinations. It is fruitless to show them the error of their ways, and nothing is gained but their resentment. We will now describe the instruction of the good lady who has in her charge and control some young princess or lady and the attitude that she ought to adopt in the event that she should see her mistress go astray in a foolish love affair and refuse her wise and good advice.

  She knew then what God wanted from her. She must save Adeline from committing a grave sin.

  * * *

  Would this be the final assault? The king had commanded his archers to prepare flaming arrows. He had ordered the army forward, across their defensive ditches to the gates of the city. What followed passed in a blur of blood and screams and pain and death. The French proved themselves formidable opponents, but the English pressed on. William raised his sword again and again, slashing and stabbing, ignoring all cries for mercy.

  Then, everything changed. He felt a sharp, searing sensation erupt in his cheek, more like heat than pain. He tasted blood. And he fell to the ground. The sounds of the battle faded to a dull din. He could hardly see. With great effort, he tried to stand, but could not get to his feet. So he crawled through the dirt, dragging himself with his arms, pushing with his legs, away from the walls of Harfleur.

  A blow landed across his back, dampened by his armor. He rolled over, managed to raise himself to his knees, and lifted his sword, striking his attacker with an upward jab. He could feel rage coursing through his body, and suddenly the pain from his wound no longer troubled him. He saw the king, fighting with his men, and with a ragged cry, “For Harry!” William ran back to the front line, prepared to go on as long as necessary, not stopping until his king had achieved victory.

  1901

  13

  After we left the Black Swan, I expected Jeremy to drop me in front of the house and refuse to come inside, having no desire to see Colin, but on this count, he surprised me. When Davis opened the door for us, Jeremy immediately inquired as to whether his master was home, and when the butler answered in the affirmative, demanded to see him at once. Davis’s face remained as impassive as ever. He murmured, “Of course, your grace,” and went to fetch him. I all but dragged my friend into the library, pressed a glass of whisky into his hand, and insisted that he take a seat, half-afraid of what he was planning to say to my husband. Colin appeared in short order, looking rather bemused. I wondered what Davis had told him.

  “Forced you to let her drive, did she?” he asked, pouring some whisky for himself. “I could have warned you it would be a bad idea.”

  “Look, Hargreaves, I didn’t let her drive,” Jeremy said, “but when you hear what I did do, you’ll be furious, so you might as well throttle me and get it over with.”

  My husband looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and sat across from Jeremy. “Now I’m curious.”

  “It was nothing, really,” I said. “I wanted to interview the women at the Black Swan and Jeremy was kind enough to take me there in his motorcar. Naturally, he exhibited a great deal of reluctance when I proposed the excursion, but I assured him you would prefer that I undertake the errand in the presence of a gentleman rather than on my own. And as you were not available to escort me…”

  Colin rose to his feet without a word, crossed to the table on which the whisky stood, picked up the decanter, carried it back toward his chair, and refilled Jeremy’s glass. “Bainbridge, I am all too familiar with the futility of trying to dissuade my wife from any of her outrageous schemes. I shouldn’t dream of holding you accountable.”

  “The place is a scandal, Hargreaves, worse than I could have imagined. The women are all but slaves. Something must be done.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Colin said. “And I give you my word that when the rest of this business is sorted, I shall personally see to it that it is taken care of.”

  “I’m much obliged. And I suppose I should be off.”

  “No, stay,” my husband said. “You’ve proven yourself useful in the past and I may need to call on you again. You may as well know what we’re dealing with.” He gave a brief summary of the events of the previous days, including the contents of the messages that made up what we now considered some sort of diabolical scavenger hunt. The potential threat to the king made it no longer possible to keep this a secret from anyone who might help. Jeremy looked more alert than I’d seen him in years as he listened, nodding occasionally.

  “What can it mean, other than to suggest that someone wants to do the same to Bertie?” Jeremy said. “Or King Edward, I should say. I’ll never get used to that.”

  “I don’t agree with your hypothesis,” I said. “I did initially, but upon further reflection am convinced the last clue flies in the face of our theory. The writer, through Shakespeare’s words, shows us the king stopping his enemies, not being broken by them. And remember that the late queen said the first note was meant as an instruction.”

  “Yes,” Colin said, “but she did not write it herself and may only have been passing on what someone else had given to her. She trusted that I would be able to understand the message and act upon it.”

  “Hargreaves is right,” Jeremy said. “This is a strongly worded threat. How else could we interpret it?”

  “I’d say it’s more like a message of hope,” I said. “The king is safe and strong, even when threatened by traitors.”

  “And what about that awful sketch on the one you found in the Tower?” Jeremy asked. “What’s it meant to be? A lump of some sort?”

  “A rock, I believe. I thought it might be the Stone of Scone, but an embarrassingly thorough search of Westminster Abbey proved me wrong on that count. I found no envelope there. I’ve several other possibilities to investigate.” He pressed his lips together. “When I spoke to His Majesty this morning, he expressed the gravest concerns about the entire situation. Scotland Yard are on full alert and shall do their best to prevent any further murders.”

  Scotland Yard on alert! Well, if I were a murderer, I’d hardly be quaking in my boots. I doubted very much that the wretched Inspector Gale could prevent much of anything. Prudence, however, cautioned me to keep this opinion to myself
. “Richard II and Harold Godwinson are the two other costumes ordered by Mr. Smith,” I said. “Richard’s was far more lavish, fitting for a king who was so obsessed by fashion. Harold died in battle, so Mr. Carson suggested a suit of armor.”

  “No one was wearing plate armor at Hastings,” Colin said. “A mail hauberk would be more appropriate.”

  “I don’t think our killer is concerned with strict historical accuracy,” I said. “He merely wants a visual that will convey the correct information. Any English person, faced with what looks like a slain king with an arrow stuck in his eye would immediately think of poor Harold at Hastings, regardless of his armor.”

  “Even I know that much,” Jeremy said, “although I’m certain I slept through all of history at school.”

  “At any rate,” I continued, “Mr. Carson’s customer did not buy plate armor. It would have cost a fortune. Instead, you’ll be pleased to know, he got a long shirt that looked something like mail, a surcoat with the cross of St. George on it—”

  “The English did not use that in battle until—”

  “Now is not the time for a history lesson,” I said, wondering how I had never before noticed how well-versed in medieval warfare my husband was. “He also had a helmet with a crown attached. Now, who do we think our killer will go after first? Richard or Harold?”

  “Harold would be first chronologically, but given that he staged Henry VI before Edward II, we’ve no reason to expect he’s following a linear timeline,” Colin said.

  “Harold’s death is much more dramatic,” Jeremy said. “Didn’t poor Richard starve to death in prison at some far-flung castle? How would one even stage that? Completely devoid of visual impact.”

  “He wouldn’t be able to actually starve his victim,” I said. “Unless … Colin, can you ask Scotland Yard to check missing person reports? It’s possible that we could intervene before the unfortunate individual is dead.”