Uneasy Lies the Crown

by Tasha Alexander

  Then, the dark figure of a man appeared from behind the building. He was running and waving his arms as he shouted.

  “There’s someone inside!”

  1421

  46

  Once again, Cecily had watched her husband set off to France to fight for their king, after the army, headed by his brother the Duke of Clarence, suffered a scathing defeat at the hands of French and Scottish forces near Anjou. Clarence had been killed, and King Henry was ready to take his place at the head of his troops once again.

  Cecily was heavy with child, a babe who would be born when its father was far across the Channel, but she had become accustomed to such things. Following Christine de Pizan’s advice, she had learned to run every part of their estate, and she knew she was capable of managing any difficulty that arose in her husband’s absence, down to and including defending it with the weapons she had insisted he teach her to use. Not that she expected to ever be called upon to do so.

  She would miss him, as would his sons. But her work here was as important as his in France. She was securing the foundations of their family. Generations from now, the Hargrave family would still reside on the beautiful land granted to them by the king, land earned by her husband’s fierce bravery. They had already expanded the manor house twice, and she was considering new methods of farming she had learned about from travelers who came from the south. A pang in her abdomen caused her to double over. She sank to her knees and called for the midwife. Hours later, she cradled her daughter in her arms.

  * * *

  Meaux, currently besieged by the English army, showed no signs of falling as easily—if one could call any victory by siege easy—as nearby Dreux had. Once again, the bloody flux and shortages of food plagued the army. One of the French leaders, the lord of Offémont, led a group of men into the English camp, hoping to make a surprise attack. God was not on the Frenchman’s side that night; Offémont fell from the walls, and the sound of his plate armor crashing against stone alerted the English to the scheme.

  Better still, a lowly cook took the mighty Offémont prisoner. The English all rejoiced at their enemy’s defeat and humiliation.

  It was only after that insult that the brutal man inside the city walls began to see that he would not be able to hold the city indefinitely. He was called the Bastard of Vaurus, and there was not a man among the English who had not heard tales of his cruelty. Now he decided to set the city on fire, preferring destruction to defeat.

  King Henry’s spies told him of the Bastard’s decision, and this spurred the noble leader to attack without delay. The citizens of Meaux did not stand in his way; perhaps they preferred him to their vicious lord. Victory was not immediate, however, and the fighting continued for week after week.

  But it did come, eventually, and at an uncommonly high cost. King Henry himself had fallen ill during the siege. No one doubted he would recover with speed, but William, seeing the gray tint on his liege’s face, could not help but worry.

  1901

  47

  The man rushed forward and pushed against the factory’s door with his shoulder, over and over again until it gave way. Colin had run after him, first trying to stop him and then, after a brief exchange of words, followed him into the burning building. I knew he had to be Gilbert Barton, not only because of our suspicions about him, but because he was so much shorter than my husband. Inspector Pickering started for the building, but I grabbed him by the arm.

  “There is no point in putting your life in danger, too,” I said, sounding inconceivably calm. Terror consumed me, but it was as if my voice alone had no understanding of what was at stake.

  A crowd had gathered around the perimeter of Holbrooke & Sons, keeping what they all hoped was a safe distance from the flames. Snow started to fall, the large white flakes incongruous with the glow of the fire. Loud pops and the sound of wood splitting assaulted the silence of the night. I crossed my arms tightly and wished I could tear my eyes away from the scene, afraid of what I might see.

  “He will come to no harm,” Inspector Pickering said.

  Fortunately, I did not have to reply, for almost the moment he spoke, Colin stumbled out of the building, holding a child in his arms. It was Sarah, or so I surmised when I saw her mother push her way through the crowd calling for her.

  “She’s not hurt, just scared,” my husband said, gently handing the girl to the woman. Tears streaming down her face, she clutched her daughter to her chest.

  “What about you?” I asked, now that Sarah was safe.

  “I’m perfectly fine.” His face was black with smoke and he coughed as he spoke. “No permanent damage.”

  A second man staggered out of the building. He collapsed on the ground, clutching at his throat. Colin and I rushed to him, Inspector Pickering close on our heels.

  “I would never have done it if I knew someone was inside,” he said, his voice weak and raspy.

  “Are you Gilbert Barton?” I asked.

  “I am.” He was struggling to breathe. Burns covered much of his body and his face was hideously disfigured. “It is, I’m afraid, time for me to confess to a multitude of sins.”

  “Not now,” I said. “First, we must get you to hospital.”

  “I won’t make it that far.”

  The sound of bells announced the arrival of the fire brigade. Colin went straight to them. “The fire was started with a small explosive device located in the back of the first floor. There was one person inside, but she’s out now.”

  I looked back down at Gilbert Barton. He tried to lift his hand, but the effort was too great. I wished I could offer him some sort of comfort, but feared that even the gentlest touch would cause him pain.

  “Please listen to me,” he whispered. “I must tell someone what I’ve done.”

  * * *

  When Colin and I arrived home, Inspector Pickering in tow, Davis met us at the door, explaining that Jeremy had turned up on the doorstep and insisted on waiting for us in the library. I had guessed as much when I saw the motorcar in front of the house.

  “Good Gad!” he exclaimed when he saw us. We reeked of smoke and Colin’s clothes were singed. “You all look like something the cat would refuse to drag in.” As if on cue, Ailouros, who was curled up in front of the fireplace, hissed. “I’m glad you’re back, however, as I’ve discovered the most extraordinary thing. That Hancock bloke—the one who looks like Father Christmas—had an absolutely massive fortune, acquired, not surprisingly, through illegal means. At least that’s what everyone’s saying. I’m certain you were right, Em, about him running the King’s Boys. The details of his will have been made public—everyone at my club was talking about it—he’s left every penny of it to that young lad, Moggy, who took such an interest in my motorcar with the instruction that the boy carry on Hancock’s good works.”

  Colin grunted. “Someone had better take the boy firmly in hand.”

  “No doubt someone will,” Jeremy said. “But what have the lot of you been up to? You’re an absolute fright.”

  We told him about the fire and about Gilbert Barton, who had managed to recount for me the sad tale of his crimes before he died outside the factory he had burned to the ground. “He knew it to be unsafe, for all the reasons little Sarah told us, and wanted it destroyed when no one was there. But the girl went there today, to clean the place up a bit. Our conversation had frightened her, and she decided that if she could at least empty out the heaps of rags and lint that were accumulating out of sight, there would be less of a risk of fire. Barton, of course, had no idea she was there, until he noticed a light moving inside—the same light we saw. He had already lit the fuse of his explosives, and knew he had very little time before the building would be consumed. So, he ran back inside to fetch her out.”

  “Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it,” Colin said. “When I reached him, he had found Sarah, but they were trapped by some of those very rags that she knew to be dangerous. The flames were too hot. He manage
d to toss the child to me, high enough that she was not harmed, but the only way out for him was to run through them. The burns he received proved fatal.”

  “Poor bloke,” Jeremy said.

  “You might feel differently when you hear the rest,” Colin said. “He admitted to all four of our murders. He killed Grummidge and Casby in the room you found in the Tower passage, knocking them both unconscious before taking them there.”

  “Which is why there was river water in Grummidge’s lungs,” I said. “Mr. Crofton’s murder proved more complicated. Mr. Barton had decided he wanted to poison the man’s food, so talked a grocer into hiring him as a deliveryman. With only a skeleton staff in the house before the Croftons arrived, he was able to chat up the kitchen maid who was working and learned that while Mrs. Crofton despises mushrooms, her husband adored them and had them once a week at lunch in a dish the cook specially prepared only for him. Mr. Barton substituted toadstools for the mushrooms in the first order after they came to London. The cook never noticed. More than a week later, Mr. Crofton was dead due to the slow-acting poison.”

  “Barton had followed him to the man’s club daily, ready to act at the first sign that the poison was taking its toll,” Colin said. “Crofton had taken ill gradually, but on that final day, collapsed as he was walking a few blocks from his club. Barton acted as if he would help him get medical assistance, but instead took him to the hidden room in the Tower. Once he was dead, he dressed him as Richard and then posed the body in the Savoy Chapel.”

  “How did he avoid anyone seeing him enter the church with a well-dressed corpse?” Jeremy asked.

  “He did it in the middle of the night,” I said. “Picked the lock to get inside, a skill he’d learned as a boy.”

  “When it came to Hancock, Barton lured him to the spot where Dawkins died,” Colin continued. “Sent a note. Hancock came without hesitating, not quite able to believe his former henchman would harm him.”

  “A mistake that cost him his life,” Jeremy said.

  “He was shot through the heart with a pistol. The arrow through the eye was window dressing. It all happened in the space of seconds.” Colin took my hand.

  “Mr. Barton staged the scenes carefully, waiting for the right moment when he was confident he wouldn’t be caught,” I said. “He chose well, because no one ever noticed him.”

  “People are remarkably unaware of their surroundings,” Jeremy said. “I should think a miscreant could drop six or seven bodies at least in front of Bainbridge House before I’d notice a thing. Thank heavens it’s all over—and, honestly, that the poor man is dead. I can’t argue with his thinking. The powerful ought never take advantage of the weak.”

  “On that count, I must give credit to my dear wife’s intuition,” Colin said. “She suspected Barton’s motive long before I did. He was seeking revenge against those who had hurt those closest to him and felt he had no other way to bring the perpetrators to justice.”

  “Mr. Barton was an orphan, treated horribly by a chimney sweep and then abandoned,” I said. “He was eleven years old, had no way to earn a living, and was sleeping under a bridge. Lizzie Hopman saw him one day and brought him some food. She and her dear friend Violet Atherton—whom we know as Mrs. Grummidge—helped him whenever they could. Their other mate, Ned Traddles, introduced him to the King’s Boys. For a time, he considered the gang to have saved him. He had money and was treated with respect by the other members. But eventually, as he rose through the ranks, he saw that the group’s leader, Prentice Hancock, was using him and his friends in an unforgiveable fashion.”

  “Even though he was better off than before, he discovered that Hancock was piling up money gained through the exploitation of the boys in the gang,” Colin said. “They were the ones taking the risks—and spending time in jail—while their leader pretended to be living an honorable life. Most of the boys didn’t even know who Hancock was. He kept his identity secret from all but those at the top. Admitting Barton to those ranks was a mistake, for when he saw the truth, he confronted Hancock, who then threw him out of the gang and did everything he could to heap misery upon him.”

  “He’s fortunate he didn’t suffer the same fate as Rodney Dawkins,” Jeremy said.

  “Hancock tried,” Colin said, “but Barton managed to escape. He’s a good fighter. After that, he had to be careful everywhere he went, and did what he could to change his appearance. He knew if anyone from the King’s Boys recognized him, he’d be dead.”

  “But this fire,” Jeremy said. “I don’t understand why he would choose to do such a thing. Obviously, he couldn’t be sure he would harm no one in the process.”

  “You’re quite right,” I replied. “He had, however, done the same thing numerous other times, burning down factories or mills he knew to be dangerous to workers. On those occasions, no one was harmed.”

  “I confess that I still do not see the connection between his arrests and the arsons,” Inspector Pickering said. “It was as if he was leaving a trail in the hope someone would catch him.”

  “Each time he was arrested, he was able to see how long it took for the police to interfere at the location in question,” Colin said. “He felt this to be a reliable method of deducing how much time he was likely to have when he went back to set the place on fire, crucial information to have if someone spotted him breaking in and summoned help. He was detained and released only yesterday for disturbing the peace half a block from Holbrooke & Sons.”

  “I’m not sure it was such a good plan,” Jeremy said.

  “In the end, it wasn’t,” I said. “But it worked, time and time again.”

  “So why the turn from arson to murder?” Jeremy asked.

  “Ned Traddles’s death gutted him,” I said. “The mining job had been an attempt to live an honest life, and when Barton learned that his friend had been killed as the result of careless safety standards, he was furious. Even more so when he saw the sort of life the owner of the mine led. It reminded him all too much of Prentice Hancock and the King’s Boys—the very things Ned had sought to leave behind him. And then, when his friend Samuel confided in him about Mrs. Grummidge’s treatment at the hand of her husband, he became unhinged with rage. Here was another man, pretending to lead an honorable life, behaving in a diabolical way.”

  “He had hoped that the manner in which he staged the bodies would send a warning to anyone guilty of exploiting the weak and the poor: even a king can be killed,” Colin said. “Unfortunately, it did not have the effect he desired.”

  “So all the worry and concern over poor Bertie’s safety was wholly unfounded?” Jeremy asked.

  “Yes, at least so far as it pertained to these particular murders,” Colin said. “It did, however, catalyze us to take a closer look at the king’s security, and that is a good thing.”

  “A good thing for everyone except the wretched Inspector Gale,” I said. “Forgive me if I criticize your colleague.”

  “There is no need to apologize,” Inspector Pickering said, a grim smile on his face. “I know him too well to admire him. His primary goal is self-aggrandizement. If he happens to stop some criminals along the way, so much the better, but justice has never inspired him.”

  “The less said about it, the better.” Colin frowned. “I’d best be off to Marlborough House. The king, at least, deserves an update. Why don’t you come with me, Pickering? You’ve earned it.”

  The young inspector blinked rapidly, his cheeks colored, and he opened and closed his mouth without managing to say anything. Colin raised an eyebrow and steered him from the room, leaving me with Jeremy.

  “So, tell me, Em, what’s the explanation for the mysterious messages your husband found?”

  I shook my head. “That, Jeremy, I do not know. It’s still an absolute mystery.”

  1422

  48

  King Henry did not succumb to his illness—not at first. But after months passed without recovery, he sent for another physician from England. The qu
een came to him as well, and those in the army who did not know just how ill their sovereign was assumed her visit was intended to ensure a second royal heir. Henry had only one son, a babe not even a year old. But if securing the line of succession was Catherine’s intention, she would have known the moment she saw her husband that there would be no other child. No one could deny the seriousness of the king’s condition.

  Before the summer was over, Henry could no longer sit upright on his horse, and soon after that, he knew the end was near. He called for his advisors, wrote codicils for his will, and arranged a regency for his infant son’s imminent reign. And then he called for William Hargrave, the man who had fought so bravely beside him at Agincourt.

  William steeled himself as he stood before the king’s bed, shocked to see how wasted and gaunt the man’s lean frame had become.

  “Speak no words of sympathy or despair,” the king said. “Our life has always been in the hands of God. We will not balk at His plan. You, Sir William, have shown us your courage and your strength time and time again, and we would ask you to take on a crucial responsibility for us. Prince Henry, my son, is but a small child, and many will want to bring him harm. Who is more vulnerable than an infant king? We can think of no one better capable of protecting him than you. Swear you will keep watch over him, and if it seems he will live longer than you, instruct him to appoint another to take your place.”

  “Of course I will do as you bid, my lord. But—”

  “Do not draw attention to your position. We would have it that no one knows your true place at court, else you, too, will be vulnerable to attack. My boy will have other guards, but we know it is you who will keep him safe. We give you this as a sign of our faith in you.” The king passed him a livery badge fashioned from gold in the shape of a fire beacon with rubies inlaid as the flames. “Give it, in turn, to the one who takes your place when the time comes. Fasten it to your surcoat now, good man, and swear an oath that you will do as we ask.”