I shuddered and did my best to think of something else, picking up the message Colin had retrieved from Cannon Street and studying it for some time before speaking. “You cannot tell me this supports your theory that the messages pertain to the king’s safety. If anything, it is a clear indication of what the king expects from the men in his service. At least if the king were a man like Henry V. I can’t vouch for Bertie’s standards.”
“We ought, perhaps, be more careful about how we address such topics. Heaven knows who else might be hiding in here.”
“Perhaps one of Mrs. Keppel’s spies.” I could hardly repress my laughter at the thought of Bertie’s long-standing mistress directing a covert operation.
“I won’t hear any words against that lady,” Colin said. “She has been nothing but a positive influence on the king. I suspect even his wife would agree.”
I could not argue with him there. Mrs. Keppel, so far as anyone could tell, was good for the king, but I could not help but feel sorry for the queen. She had spent much of her life having her husband’s indiscretions thrown in her face; it must be an intolerable way to live. “In all seriousness, though, Colin, you cannot tell me that this latest missive supports your earlier theory—”
“Now it’s my earlier theory. You have only just started to criticize it.”
“I may have only just started to vocalize my criticisms. I’ve had my doubts for some time. Perhaps you’ve been doing too thorough a job distracting me.”
“Do you think so?” he asked. “I’ve half a mind to throw you over my shoulder, take you upstairs, and put that theory to the test.”
“Do your worst,” I said.
He did carry me up the stairs, but not over his shoulder. That, he explained, would have been far too uncomfortable for me.
1415
22
Cecily awoke the next morning consumed with a sense of dread. She heard mass as always, but today Adeline was there, too. Cecily did not sit with her, preferring a pew further back from the altar; it made her feel as if she could see better, and on days when the sun was out and its light streamed through the stained glass on the back wall, it was as if God Himself illuminated the space.
Adeline, who had waited outside the door when the service ended, took Cecily by the arm as she stepped over the threshold. “I must beg your forgiveness,” she said. “I had taken too much wine last night and said some despicable things. Tell me I can still count you among my most treasured friends.”
“How could I deny such a request?” Cecily said, but her heart hung heavy in her chest. She worked on her embroidery in a quiet corner of Adeline’s parlor that afternoon, not joining the other ladies for a ride in the forest.
“You are quiet today,” Father Simon said. “I’ve been searching for you and twice passed by this room thinking no one in it. Riding is a favorite pastime of yours, and you have denied yourself that pleasure. Is something troubling you?”
“I find staying on an honorable path not always so easy,” Cecily said. “Even conversing with you could be misconstrued. Christine de Pizan warns against forming friendships with men.”
“I am a priest, not an ordinary man, and would be honored to take the role of your confessor. No one, not even Madame de Pizan, would deny you the right to that.”
“I thought I had finally achieved some measure of peace, the first I’d had since arriving here,” Cecily said. “I see now, though, that one cannot escape the burdens of sin.”
“What is the sin of which you speak?” Father Simon asked.
“I am not worthy to be the daughter of the holy woman my mother was.”
“None of us is as worthy as we might be,” he said. “God wants us to always strive to be better. Your mother miraculously survived the plague and spent her life serving the Lord. We are not all meant for that sort of contemplative life. To my mind, your mother’s path was a difficult one, for she lived between the contemplative and active worlds when she wanted to stay only in one. I believe she resisted her adopted father’s decision that she marry?”
“Yes,” Cecily said. “She would have preferred the convent.”
“God had other plans for her, and you were part of that plan.”
“I killed her.”
“No,” Father Simon said. “Childbirth is inherently dangerous. Many women die during it, and it would be wrong to blame the innocent babe. Your mother was called home to the Lord. We are not meant to understand why.”
“She would not have died were it not for me,” Cecily said. “That is my burden to carry. I seek forgiveness through penance, but knew not where to begin until I came here. When I realized what I must do, I rejoiced, but I am finding the path treacherous and difficult.”
“Do not let that daunt you,” Father Simon said. “The most onerous journeys are often the most rewarding. Remember Christine de Pizan’s wise counsel that the good and proper active life cannot function without some part of the contemplative. You must nourish your spiritual side. That will, in turn, feed the active. Never hesitate to call upon me for guidance. As I have said before, it would be my honor to serve as your confessor.”
“I shall remember that,” Cecily said, but even as she spoke she recalled Adeline’s warning that Father Simon was William’s friend, not hers, and that she ought to be very careful about trusting him. Yet it seemed to her he was far worthier of trust than Adeline. Surely, so long as she conducted herself honorably, she had nothing to fear. No one, no matter whose friend, could accuse her of wrongdoings then.
* * *
Until now, no member of the English army—from the highest-born man-at-arms to the lowest cook—had dared defy King Henry’s order to leave unmolested the places through which they marched. No one had burned crops, interfered with women, or stolen even a mouthful of food. That a man had dared to do so now, and in a church of all places, sent a shiver of horror through the army. How could God be on their side now?
The king ordered the soldier to stand trial that very day, and the verdict of guilty of behaving “in God’s despite and contrary to royal decree” surprised no one. The criminal was strung up on a tree, his body hanging before the gathered troops. No one else would dare violate the king’s command.
The wound on William’s face was still throbbing as he watched the execution and then as the body was cut down and buried. It was justice well-served and surely would be pleasing to God. But still, he felt a pall come over him, as if the shroud had been wrapped around him rather than the dead man.
They marched on, more slowly with each passing day. Their supplies were running short, and the extra effort of carrying the large sharpened stakes the king had ordered each archer to fashion and bring helped neither their speed nor their stamina. When they reached Nesle, they were denied food, and the citizens hung red cloths from the walls of the city.
“What does it mean?” his squire asked, but William could only shake his head and agree with the king’s orders that the modest houses outside the walls be burned the next morning. They could not allow the French to get away with such open acts of defiance.
It had begun to seem as if they would never be able to reach the other side of the Somme, and the insult served them at Nesle made William fear their campaign was doomed. But then, as if by some miracle, the scouts found a crossing, a short distance away. The king rescinded his order that the village be burned, and the army set off once again. The crossing was not easy, but it was a success, and that night, at last, their morale began to improve.
Perhaps God was still on their side.
1901
23
Do not think, Dear Reader, that an interlude for the expression of connubial devotion distracted either Colin or me from our purpose. On the contrary, I found it cleared the mind. The next morning, I made a quick investigation (by telephoning my mother to tap into her infinite knowledge of everyone connected to the royal family) of the illegitimate descendants of William IV, the FitzClarences, and felt confident that none of
them would attempt to usurp the crown. One was married to Princess Louise, our present king’s daughter. Another—much to my surprise—had embarked on a career as a novelist, and under the name of the Countess of Munster, had penned a number of successful works. Her ghost stories would be much enjoyed by the boys when they were a bit older. Among the rest of the FitzClarences (there were quite a lot of them) one could find army officers, a vicar, and a rear admiral, but, alas, no one with pretentions to the throne.
I say alas, but, to be candid, did not consider this a blow. If anything, it supported my burgeoning view that Colin’s messages were not meant as warnings to the king. I pointed this out to him in a most spirited fashion over breakfast that morning. He did not agree.
“However,” he said. “You may be onto something. This is the first time we’ve had a message—since the original one—that does not appear to be sent in conjunction with a murder.”
“No bodies dressed like Richard II or Harold Godwinson?” I asked.
“You shouldn’t sound so glib, but, no, no bodies at all. I think Gale is a bit disappointed, but terrified at the same time. One is bound to turn up sooner or later. I’ve searched every church I can think of where I might find the chalice in the drawing on the last note—it looks remarkably like everyone’s idea of the Holy Grail—but have had no luck as of yet. I’m starting on museums next.”
Lizzie Hopman’s funeral was scheduled for that afternoon. As Jeremy was escorting Mrs. Grummidge and Colin had to go to Marlborough House after breakfast, I planned to take the carriage and meet my husband outside the church. It was a dismal day, sleet falling from clouds so dark it looked more like dusk than day. St. Botolph’s was at once a fitting and heartbreaking choice of location. Unfortunately, a not insignificant number of women who shared Lizzie’s profession made a habit of plying their trade (or at least seeking potential clients) in the area surrounding the church, which had led some impertinent people to refer to the sacred building as the Church of Prostitutes.
Today, however, none of them stood outside, though half a dozen, Mary included, walked through the doors to mourn their friend. A handful of men came as well, but, not surprisingly, I knew none of them save Mr. Brown, the new proprietor of the Black Swan. As always, a swarm of boys appeared as if by magic the instant Jeremy pulled up in his Daimler. This time, when he selected one to watch the motorcar, I chose one as well, asking him to identify for me any of the persons he recognized entering the church. This strategy was not as fruitful as I had hoped. He knew the names of three of the women, but none of the men.
Colin arrived just in time for the service to begin, and had brought Mrs. Bagstock with him. After installing her next to Mrs. Grummidge—the two women appeared to be the only mourners genuinely grieving—he slipped into the seat next to me in the back of the church, where I had positioned myself in order to better observe the congregation’s behavior. Despite the old clichés about murderers and funerals, no one revealed much of anything. Truly, it was a sad little gathering.
“Mind-boggling to think that Sir Isaac Newton lived just across the street, isn’t it, my dear?” Colin whispered to me during the vicar’s sermon. “How the neighborhood has changed.”
“You shouldn’t talk during a funeral,” I whispered back.
“I’ve never liked a long sermon, and it’s perfectly clear the reverend didn’t know Miss Hopman,” he said. “Furthermore, I object to him sounding so judgmental. He doesn’t have the courage to accuse her outright of being a prostitute, but he’s making it very clear that he does not approve of the life she lived. As if she had much of a choice in any of it. No one offered her a comfortable vicarage for a home.”
When, at last, the service ended—Colin’s words may have been inappropriate for the situation, but he was quite right about the sermon—pallbearers carried the coffin to the churchyard, where the body would be lowered into a pauper’s grave, a layer of lime between it and those buried earlier. The motley group of mourners stood near the hole in the ground, but not quite around it, their heads bowed as the reverend recited a final prayer.
I had suggested to Colin that we host a small tea after the funeral—not at our house, of course, but in the private room of a suitable neighborhood tavern—but he howled at the mention of the idea. His objections were numerous, the strongest being that there was something unsavory about using such an occasion to glean information from those mourning a death.
At the time, I could hardly disagree with him, but after having observed the decided lack of emotion around us, I wished I had insisted on putting my plan into action. It was too late now, however, so I was left with no choice but to introduce myself to the others after the burial. Lizzie’s colleagues, if I may call them that, bristled when I approached them. Mary alone gave me more than the barest greeting and a rote exchange of sympathy. I noticed that she was wearing the outfit, overcoat included, that I had purchased for her.
The men were even less interested in speaking to me than the women, so I left that task to Colin, but observed each of them carefully. None engaged in any suspicious behavior and none stayed for long after the reverend had gone back into his rectory. Mr. Brown, not surprisingly, was the first to leave, but not before pulling me aside and reminding me that I was not safe in this neighborhood. His breath stank of ale. Only one of the others, a well-dressed older man with a barrel chest and a neatly trimmed white beard, approached me.
“Your husband assured me you would not be offended if I introduce myself. Prentice Hancock. I did not know Miss Hopman well, but she grew up not far from my haberdashery and I have many fond memories of her. Always seemed a bright little thing. I’m sorry to see that her life took such a sad direction.”
“As am I, Mr. Hancock. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Grummidge as well?” I asked, gesturing toward her.
He squinted and shook his head. “I don’t recognize her.”
“You might know her by her maiden name, Atherton.”
“Can’t say it rings a bell. Also can’t say I’m much surprised to hear Casby was responsible for Miss Hopman’s death. Terrible man. I tried more times than I can count to set the authorities on him, but they never could quite catch him. Such a pity. I grew up in the East End and have spent my life doing whatever I can to improve the opportunities available to my neighbors. Not all of them share my good fortune. But I find so few willing to accept even the smallest changes. People like what they know, even when it’s not good for them.”
“Where is your shop, Mr. Hancock?”
“Oh, I retired years ago and sold the place.”
“But you still live in the neighborhood?”
“I do indeed, Lady Emily,” he said. “Can’t rightly claim to want what’s best for it if I’m not willing to be there myself, can I?”
“That’s very good of you,” I said. “I should very much like to speak with you about your efforts. I’m quite keen on doing whatever I can to improve opportunities for the poor as well. Perhaps we could combine forces.”
His broad smile revealed a row of uneven teeth, but it warmed his whole face. The cold wind and pelting sleet had turned his cheeks and nose a rosy color, and I could not help picturing him as a benevolent Father Christmas. “That would be most welcome, Lady Emily.”
I gave him one of my cards, told him to call on me at his convenience, and turned back to the rest of the little group. Mary had disappeared and the weather appeared to be having a debilitating effect on the elderly Mrs. Bagstock. It was time to take her home. I spoke briefly to Mrs. Grummidge, who was clinging tightly to Jeremy’s arm, but did not think this was the time to pepper her with any further questions. Grief was writ all over her pale face.
“I had hoped the funeral would prove more useful,” I said, after we had returned Mrs. Bagstock to her home. “I’ll give Mrs. Grummidge a few days before calling on her again, but given what she has already told us, you must agree that there is now solid evidence that she suffered terrible abuse at the hand of her hus
band. His murder could absolutely have been motivated by revenge, as could that of Mr. Casby’s.”
“I do not deny the possibility,” Colin said. “But we need more, Emily, much more.”
“I hate feeling so frustrated,” I said. We rode in companionable silence back to Mayfair. He leapt out at Marlborough House and I continued on to Park Lane. As Davis took my outer garments, he told me that Nanny had taken the boys to the Natural History Museum, leaving the house wonderfully quiet. Much though I would have liked to curl up with The Infidel and a cup of tea, I instead applied myself to going through the mail, which was piling up in the library after we had neglected it for the past several days.
There was very little of import. We had no invitations, as most of Society avoided London during the winter, preferring instead the comfort of their country houses. Indeed, it was only the queen’s funeral that had drawn us here from Anglemore Park. I had a note from one of the keepers at the British Museum asking me to come see a new piece recently acquired by the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities. It was a fifth-century (BC, I need hardly add) marble bust of a young athlete he thought I would greatly appreciate. I replied to him with delight, promising to come as soon as I could manage.
Below this in the stack were the usual sorts of bills, the latest edition of The Strand Magazine—which had several promising-looking short stories in it—and a note from my mother. Knowing full well that her missive would be less satisfactory reading even than the bills, I opened it first, always preferring to dispatch with the unpleasant as quickly as possible. She opened by chastising me for not allowing her to discuss this when we had last spoke on the telephone and continued with a detailed criticism of my behavior at the queen’s funeral. There was too much jet beading on my dress. My veils were not heavy enough. I had not looked appropriately pale for such a sad occasion. The bulk of her remarks, however, dealt with the disgraceful manner in which I followed my husband out of the luncheon, without so much as a thought for how this would have horrified Her late and much-lamented Majesty.
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 13
