‘Ezra’s right. We shouldn’t tattle,’ said Dr Yonge, and Ezra nodding agreement, turned to us and said: ‘Is that map of any help to you?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Brockley said. ‘I think we should write down the places we’re going to pass through. Thetford, Newmarket, Bishops Stortford … Madam, did you bring any writing things with you?’
‘Indeed I did,’ I said. ‘I’ll fetch them.’
We had a good supper at the inn. The White Hart charged quite reasonable rates and it was plain that unlike Agnes Wyse, they could afford saffron, which had certainly been used in the spicy bread and butter pudding. Joseph ate with us and I told him to enjoy his fill.
In the morning, we set off early. It took only four days to reach London by the new route. I longed to get back to Hawkswood and to little Harry, but first of all, I must go to court and Walsingham’s office, and try to speak to Roland Wyse.
Walsingham’s offices at Whitehall were much like the ones he used in the other palaces. He usually travelled with the court although not always. Since Lord Burghley (though I still thought of Burghley as Cecil) had now ceased to be the Secretary of State and become Lord Treasurer instead, Walsingham had been promoted to share the duties of Secretary of State with another court official, a man called Sir Thomas Smith. I had never met Sir Thomas but had been told that he was older than Walsingham and very learned and from observing the offices they both used, I assumed that they had much in common.
All the suites consisted of three or four well-proportioned rooms with elegant panelling, patterned leading for the windows, and red and white Tudor roses in the ceiling beams. All the rooms were also furnished with plain tables and stools, and fitted with shelving so laden with document boxes and bulging folders and weighty reference books that most of the panelling was hidden. Some rooms also had maps pinned up on the walls. Little that was decorative had been left on view.
After some delay while my credentials were investigated, I was admitted and found Walsingham at his desk, dark-clad as ever, with his black hair as usual cut short. His personal secretary, a quiet, greying individual called Humphrey Johnson, was reading letters at a second desk, and on the way in, I passed through an outer office where three clerks were seated at a table and busy with whatever mysterious tasks were given to clerks in this department. But Wyse was not there.
‘Yes, he came back, but I’ve sent him into Hampshire,’ said Walsingham, ‘with a squad to ask awkward questions in a house there.’
Walsingham’s idea of humour was always grim and apt to appear at unexpected moments. His smile invariably made me think of Death in a jovial mood. ‘These foreign priests,’ he explained. ‘They are constantly creeping into the country, like a plague of mice, trying to convert decent Protestants to their Papist faith. There are seminaries devoted to preparing them. There is one particular order – the Jesuits – that is said to be planning a virtual crusade. None of them just want to spread their faith; they also want to convince our people that our good queen ought to abdicate in favour of that pestiferous woman Mary of Scotland. The house that Wyse has gone to has almost certainly been harbouring them.’
‘When do you expect him back?’ I asked.
‘Soon,’ said Walsingham, ‘though I’m not exactly certain when. If you want to talk to him, I’ll send him down to Hawkswood. I don’t mind sending him off on errands. The truth is, he’s hardworking and fairly competent, but I find it wearisome to have him at close quarters. I don’t think he’s ever liked me much, but some time ago, I began to have the feeling that he really hated me. I don’t know why. I’ve never done him any harm, though I am beginning to feel that I would like to! However, I assure you that I have questioned him myself, about Jane Cobbold’s death, and he remembers nothing to the point. He says he caught up with Sir Edward Heron at Cobbold Hall, took dinner and then got on his horse and started for London. He passed Jack Jarvis’s cottage and stopped to pass the time of day with him, but nothing more. He went into the cottage but only for a few minutes. He saw no strangers, observed nothing out of the way.’
‘And I’ve been chasing him round the countryside just to find that out,’ I said wearily. ‘I’ve just been to Norfolk, hoping to catch up with him there. I managed to have a few words with his mother, but she didn’t know anything useful.’
‘My poor Ursula. You’ve wasted your time. You might have known that we would question him. After all, he does belong to my department. If any of my men are close to a serious crime, I’m bound to make enquiries.’
‘Did he have a chance to look at the cipher letter?’ I enquired.
‘Oh, yes. He decoded it in a few hours. He’s extremely gifted that way, you know. But it told us nothing helpful – either about Jarvis’s death, or Mistress Cobbold’s.’
‘What did it say?’
Walsingham frowned. ‘It’s so unlikely that I’ve lain awake puzzling over it. Unlikely, I mean, because I just can’t see how Jack Jarvis, cottager at Cobbold Hall, rearing chickens and growing vegetables, came to be making for Dover with a letter for an illicit worsted mill – not named – giving details of likely customers and markets, including fairs in France and the Netherlands.’
‘That’s what the letter was about?’ I said, astonished.
‘Yes, it was! Now, who would pick a scruffy, elderly cottager as a messenger for such a purpose? Anyone running such an enterprise and wanting to find custom would send his own agent to collect information and if an agent wanted to send a confidential interim report while he was still out in the field, as it were, he’d hire an ordinary courier and send the letter to his employer’s private house.’
‘Is there an illicit loom in Dover?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes. We’ve known about it for quite a long time. So far, it hasn’t concerned my department. Worsted looms are small ale as far as we’re concerned; we leave it to the weavers’ guilds to bring prosecutions if they think fit. The fact is, people want this new worsted and where there’s demand, someone usually comes forward to supply. The worsted looms will all be made legal one of these days. Though this one may attract my attention before too long. I’ve heard a whisper that this is another place that’s being used as a safe house for Catholic priests coming in through Dover, in disguise. But the letter doesn’t refer to that in any way.’
‘Could the decoded letter itself be in a form of code? A second line of defence?’ I hazarded.
‘I thought of that,’ said Walsingham, sounding slightly offended at the idea that he might have failed so to do. ‘All I can say is that I and my staff tested the notion as thoroughly as possible and either the clear version of that letter is not any form of code, or it’s an impenetrable one. Frankly, the cipher is complex enough to make a second line of defence pointless.’
From the desk in the corner, Johnson remarked: ‘Sir, would Mistress Stannard care to see the key to the code and see for herself how difficult it is? She has some experience of such things, I believe. It might interest her.’
‘Oh, yes. Would you like to see it, Ursula?’
‘Very much,’ I said.
Walsingham gave Johnson a nod, and he delved into a drawer beneath his work table, from which he took a piece of folded paper. ‘I have another copy; Mistress Stannard can have this one. I believe that even Wyse had to sit up all night to break it.’
I examined the key with interest, taking the opportunity to learn, even though I hoped I would never have to use my knowledge for another dangerous assignment. Dangerous assignments had to be over for me now that I had Harry.
‘I’ve never dealt with an alphabetic code before,’ I said, studying it. ‘Yes, I can see that it might well have kept Roland awake all night!’
It seemed that the letters of the alphabet had been shifted, so that, for instance, the letter A was represented by Z, B by A, C by B and so on. But throughout the letter, the method of shifting changed at every tenth word. For the second ten, the shift was in the opposite direction, so that A was represented b
y B, B by C and so forth. For the third and fourth tens, there were other variations. Then the sequence began again. I wondered if Wyse had had a headache after unravelling it. I also wondered aloud how on earth he managed to do it at all.
Johnson laughed and Walsingham said: ‘I make him work. He’s well paid.’
I thanked them for the code and folded it away in my secret pouch. I also thanked Walsingham for asking Wyse the questions I had wanted answered, useless though the answers had been. Then I said farewell and rejoined Dale and Brockley, who were waiting in an anteroom. They looked at me with questions in their eyes. Regretfully, I shook my head.
Home. The last familiar mile, through heath and farmland and an oak wood; and then the sight of Hawkswood’s chimneys ahead. Hawkswood’s chimneys were of grey stone like the walls, but their stones had been set in ornamental patterns and they had beauty, above all when the kitchen chimney was sending soft grey smoke into the air, an announcement to all the world that the hearth was alight and food was cooking. Then came the sight of the gate arch, and a joyful welcome from Sandy and Hero as we rode in. Sandy bayed with excitement; Hero, as usual, greeted us with her short wuff, which was much the same as the wuff with which she commented on the scent of a prowling fox. But when we dismounted, she bounded up to us, to ask for caresses.
Simon and Arthur came out to help Joseph lead the horses away to their reward of trough and manger and an enjoyable rub down. I went in through the door to the great hall, taking the Brockleys with me. And there was Tessie, smiling, and Sybil, and with them was little Harry, toddling forward and tumbling into my arms. I was so glad to be with him again that I was almost tearful.
‘Darling, I hate going away from you! Have you been good? Has he kept well, Tessie?’
‘He’s a sweetheart and full of life,’ Tessie said. ‘He’s trying out his legs, these days, learning what they’re for!’
‘We’ve watched him carefully,’ said Sybil, ‘to see he doesn’t totter into any danger, but he’s got good sense for his age. He’s been no trouble, Mistress Stannard. I think Phoebe has put jugs of hot water in your rooms already; I saw her going upstairs with a pitcher a moment ago, anyway.’
‘Wilder was upstairs just now,’ Sybil explained. ‘From a window, he saw you coming and warned us.’ She laughed. ‘And there Phoebe was, rousing up the kitchen fire for all she was worth and getting in Joan Flood’s way!’
Then came all the agreeable business of washing away the travel stains and changing into fresh clothes. Later, we sat down to an excellent supper – even though it didn’t include spicy bread and butter pudding. John Hawthorn was interested, though, by my description of the one served at the White Hart and said he would try to match it. ‘You guess at cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger, madam? And saffron?’
‘Yes, certainly saffron.’
‘I don’t usually use that,’ said Hawthorn thoughtfully. ‘I think we might lay in a supply, if you agree.’
‘Why not?’ I said. We had had good harvests in the last few years, and done well with rearing and selling young stock, too. We could allow ourselves a little luxury.
But my bright tone did not reflect my feelings. It was a joy to be home like this, hugging Harry and discussing recipes, surrounded by people I cared about. But it wasn’t so long since Hugh had died, leaving a wound in the fabric of my household, a wound that had not yet healed. And now I was afraid that further wounds, further losses lay ahead.
I was so afraid for Brockley and I knew that both he and Dale shared my feelings, all too thoroughly. But we all tried to be cheerful. We passed the evening talking of our journey, describing the travails of our rain-swept ride from Lowestoft to Diss, and our encounter with Agnes Wyse, and the byplay between her and Blanche and Gilbert.
It was Gladys who remarked that by the sound of it, Agnes had come down in the world and probably felt it. ‘And, look here, you, it’s hard for a woman who’s been beautiful, when her mirror tells her she’s past her prime. Don’t I know? I didn’t always have brown teeth and there was a time I could keep my bowels in better order.’
‘Oh, Gladys!’ said Dale. ‘Must you?’
‘Facts are facts,’ said Gladys. ‘But I had a good wash afore supper. And I was a beauty, once.’
I believed it. Her dark eyes were still pleasing and beneath her wrinkled brown skin, the bones of her face were still shapely. I gave her a smile, before gently steering the conversation elsewhere.
Facts are facts. Before long, we would have to face them.
I gathered the Brockleys and Sybil into the Little Parlour after breakfast and set about this uncomfortable duty.
‘We went to Norfolk and to London,’ I said. ‘And we do now know that Roland Wyse saw and heard nothing that day that can help us. He was our last hope, and it’s failed. Who else can we talk to?’
‘There’s nowhere to go,’ said Brockley frankly. ‘I’ve known that ever since you came out of Walsingham’s office. Your face told us all we needed to know, madam. But if we can’t find another lead, another scent to follow, then Heron will have me back in Lewes and up before a judge at the Assizes.’
‘Roger, don’t!’ Poor Dale looked terrified.
‘It’s no good pretending,’ said Brockley. ‘That is what will happen. If no other believable suspect can be found, then Heron will summon me again, and I will probably be found guilty. Madam, I hope you believe me when I say I am not, but I wouldn’t altogether blame you if by now you were wondering.’
‘Roger!’ wailed Dale.
‘I’m not wondering,’ I said. ‘I know you, Brockley. We’ve worked together, been in peril together. You learn about people that way. I have Gladys in my household because when we met her in Wales, she was in danger of being arrested for witchcraft, and you went chivalrously to her rescue. That’s the kind of man you are.’
‘She wasn’t a threat to any of us, madam.’
‘You wouldn’t have harmed her even if she had been. And you have sense. Murdering Jane Cobbold because she’d set some nasty gossip going, concerning me – good God, Brockley, we knew from the start that Jane Cobbold’s tongue would be a nuisance – and we knew that hers wouldn’t be the only one. We’d just have to ignore them all until people found something else to gossip about. Killing Jane wouldn’t help. It would have been silly. You’re not silly.’
‘If you’re sure, madam.’
‘Of course I’m sure! Now then. If we can’t find any further scent to follow, as you put it, then there’s only one thing to do. You and Dale must get out of the country while you can. To one of the Protestant lands – Sweden, Norway.’
‘But the bail money!’ cried Dale.
‘Selling Withysham will cover it.’
‘We couldn’t let you do that, madam!’ Brockley protested. I gave him a fierce look.
‘Brockley, I won’t let you hang! If I order you to leave the country, then just for once, you’ll do as you’re bid! You’ll go – and I’ll dispose of my own property as I please!’
‘But we don’t want to leave you and live in a foreign country!’ Dale protested.
‘You don’t want Brockley to lose his life either,’ I said. ‘Sweden or Norway would be Paradise by comparison with that. And you have passports. There won’t be any difficulty about travelling.’
Many years ago, I had journeyed to France as a secret queen’s messenger. Since then, it had been tacitly understood that I might one day journey abroad again on the queen’s business, and would take my personal servants with me. Our passports were withdrawn for a time when Elizabeth feared that I might return to France because of Matthew, but she restored them when I married Hugh. The Brockleys and I had never since then been without them.
‘But Roger didn’t do it,’ Dale protested. ‘He didn’t do it! There must be something! If he didn’t do it, then someone else did. Whoever it was must have left some trace, somewhere!’
‘I know,’ I said desperately. ‘But what? We’ve found no sign of such a thing! It
’s a dead end. I even took my picklocks and dagger to Norfolk with me in case they came in useful, which they didn’t. Nothing has led anywhere. Nothing has been useful. I – we – have tried everything we can think of and all in vain. I’ll go anywhere, do anything, if only I knew where to go, what to do!’
Brockley’s eyes met mine. His were without hope.
‘You don’t have to leave at once,’ I said. ‘I must try to think. Perhaps I will think of something. But we mustn’t wait too long. I don’t want Heron’s men turning up here to be the next thing that happens.’
But the next thing to happen was entirely different. Three days later, Roland Wyse came to see me.
ELEVEN
Unwanted Opportunity
Wyse arrived unexpectedly just after dinner. Sybil and I had settled down in the East Room to do some embroidery. Both of us enjoyed the art. I was more skilled with the needle, but Sybil could draw and had a real gift for inventing designs. This time, we were making covers for settle cushions. We talked as we worked and as so often at that time, we talked of Brockley’s predicament.
There was always the chance that by continually mulling the matter over, and tossing ideas to and fro, we might chance upon some new way of seeking the truth. With our hands and eyes occupied by the embroidery, while our brains and tongues were immersed in our conversation, we had little attention to spare for anything else and though we did hear Sandy barking, the East Room windows overlooked the gardens, not the courtyard, and we paid no heed until Wilder appeared at the parlour door to say that Master Roland Wyse had arrived and wished to speak with Mistress Stannard.
‘All right, Wilder, bring him in.’ Wilder withdrew and I said to Sybil: ‘Perhaps Walsingham has sent him. Perhaps he has remembered something he heard or saw that day! Perhaps this is the new hope we’ve been longing for!’
A moment later, Wyse was in the doorway, bowing and wishing us good day. I noticed that he was carefully dressed, in a deep-blue doublet and puffed hose, slashed with pale green, pale green stockings and highly polished boots. ‘Mrs Jester,’ he said, ‘may I ask you to let me have a few words alone with Mrs Stannard? I have something to say to her of a most private nature.’
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