A Traitor's Tears

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  ‘No,’ Brockley said thoughtfully. ‘No, it proves nothing. But it’s another pointer. Not a strong one, but …’

  ‘It’s a straw in the wind,’ Dale said emphatically. ‘It was him. I know it was! And somehow or other it’s got to be proved.’ Her protuberant blue gaze was turned towards me. ‘You’ll find a way, won’t you? You’ll show the world the crime was done by Wyse, and set my Roger free?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘I’ll try.’

  I wished I knew how.

  ‘I really think,’ I said fastidiously, as we stood holding our saddlebags and letting our shoulder satchels slide to the floor, ‘that it would be doing this place a great favour if the Spinners took it over! Whatever one can say about their honesty, they do know how to run an inn. They have some standards.’

  I stared across the floor of the taproom in The Boar. As ever, there were mouse droppings in the straw and if the cobbles had ever been swept, let alone washed, it probably wasn’t since the previous century. ‘I’m sorry to be leaving you in such a place, but I can get to Whitehall from here quite quickly. Brockley, will you see if there are rooms free? And what sort of supper we can have?’

  Brockley went to find the landlord. Dale and I waited. The taproom was gloomy, with no lights as yet though the day was dull and evening was near. The room was crowded with its usual rough and ready clientele. The smell of unwashed humanity mingled with the reek of ale and old straw. I noticed, though, that the inn did have some customers of a better type, for when a serving boy with a tray of wine opened the door to the parlour that we had once used, I glimpsed a card table, lit by two branched candlesticks, and card-playing gentlemen with smart ruffs and slashed doublets, striped hose and polished riding boots.

  Brockley came back, bringing tankards of ale and the news that yes, there were rooms for us. ‘And there’s pigs’ trotters or beef sausages for supper along with pottage, and some sort of fruit pudding to follow. It’ll do. I said don’t skimp the portions; we’ve been travelling and we’re hungry.’

  We drank our ale, went to look at our rooms and deposit our bags in them, and then went down again to find a table. The parlour now occupied by the card players was the only private room there was and clearly we couldn’t use it this time. Our food arrived and with it, a flagon of wine. I poured for us all and sipped my own, which turned out to be horrible.

  At the same moment, I noticed that another tray of wine had been taken into the parlour, and as I once more caught a glimpse of the fashionably clad occupants, I wondered – and doubted – if they were being fobbed off with the same sour vintage. Opposite me, Brockley had sipped at his own glass and was making a face. ‘Madam, this liquid is … is …’

  ‘Cat’s piss,’ said Dale inelegantly, having tried it in her turn and setting down her glass with a bang.

  ‘Brockley,’ I said, ‘can you ask for a flagon of the same wine that has just gone into the parlour? If the gentlemen in there are meekly drinking this, I am Philip of Spain.’

  Brockley obliged. After a short altercation with the landlord, he came back with a fresh flagon and glasses, and a sulky potboy who removed the first consignment. ‘That’s better,’ I said to the Brockleys, after trying out the fresh offering, which was a considerable improvement. ‘Now, we have things to talk about.’

  Shortly before reaching The Boar we had stopped at the vicarage attached to a big church and asked the incumbent if he knew where the court was. He did. The queen was back from her summer progress and the court was at Whitehall. ‘Tomorrow I make straight for Whitehall,’ I said, ‘and I must see Walsingham and ask to examine that cipher letter for myself. I shall want you to stay here and be as unobtrusive as you can.’

  Privately, I had little hope that examining the cipher would bear any fruit; I was certain at heart that Walsingham had had it checked. But I must know for sure whether Wyse had been falsifying the evidence. It didn’t seem probable that he could have done so undetected but no path, however faint, must be ignored. Not with Brockley’s life at stake.

  I would also tell Poole’s story to Walsingham. It did link Jane, Jarvis and Wyse, however tenuously. I must plead Brockley’s case somehow. I must also try to learn from Walsingham what friends, what interests, Wyse had. My fear for Brockley was steadily growing, and more swiftly than ever since he had talked of killing himself if he were taken back to Lewes. Nor could I hope that he and Dale would be happy in exile. Somehow or other, his name had to be cleared.

  We had finished eating and were sipping the last of the wine, when the door of the parlour opened and one of the card players came out. He looked round, and then made straight for us. In the dull light, he was beside our table before we recognized him. Then Dale said: ‘Master Ryder!’ and Brockley stood up, and so did I, reaching out a hand to the newcomer.

  ‘Whatever brings you here? But I’m very glad to see you,’ I said.

  ‘And I,’ said Brockley with sincerity. ‘How are you, old friend?’

  It was John Ryder, solid, reliable, fatherly Ryder whose stiff hair and beard seemed to have gone a little greyer than they were when I had last seen him, but who nevertheless looked as fit as he always did. He was smiling broadly.

  ‘I thought twice that I’d caught sight of you when the door was opened by serving men. The second time, I was certain. Well, the others are playing a game that doesn’t need all of us to play, so I stepped out to find you. What brings me here, you say. What brings you?’

  Brockley had looked round, found a spare stool and was bringing it over. ‘Sit down, do,’ I said. ‘We’ll all exchange our news.’

  SIXTEEN

  Wild and Impossible

  Ryder was a reassuring sight. There was something about him that seemed to make even the most perilous situations feel less alarming. ‘You first,’ I said to him. ‘It’s a surprise to find you playing cards in this tiresome hostelry. Where have you come from, today?’

  ‘Hertfordshire. We meant to go on to The George at Southwark and be comfortable, but the horses were tired,’ Ryder said. ‘We’re a squad sent out by Francis Walsingham …’

  ‘You’re working for Walsingham, now?’ I enquired, surprised.

  ‘I get seconded from time to time, as you know,’ said Ryder with a grin. ‘I am leading the present expedition – Captain John Ryder, in charge of ten men, including a second-in-command that I think you know – Roland Wyse.’

  ‘Wyse is here?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed. Dealing the cards when I left the parlour. He’s a good card player,’ said Ryder carefully. ‘Good at his work altogether.’

  I sensed that Ryder, too, had reservations about Roland Wyse. ‘I interrupted you,’ I said to him. ‘What took you to Hertfordshire?’

  ‘Master Walsingham’s favourite quarry. Catholic priests bent on leading English Protestants astray,’ Ryder said. ‘One of our number is a former strolling player. He was imprisoned for debt, but – did you know this? – Walsingham visits prisons now and then, looking for useful men. Ones who will gladly take risks, just to get out of gaol. Walsingham does get them out, on condition that they work for him. He has found himself some valuable agents, believe me. This man is an example. He can act any part. We had suspicions of goings-on in this big house in Hertfordshire – some of the servants seemed to have stopped attending their parish church regularly – so we sent our actor ahead to present himself as a man searching for a smallholding to buy, and also as an unhappy Catholic, anxious to choose somewhere where he might hear Mass regularly. He wormed his way into that house and he found that it was a regular hiding place for the priests who are being slipped into the country – and yes, three of the servants have apparently been converted. At least, they’re attending the secret Masses held there. The owner provides the priests with a list of other houses where they’ll be welcome and where they may be able to raise money for the cause of Mary Stuart.’

  I sighed. The tale was all too familiar. It was the sort of thing Matthew was involved
in, all too often. There never had been any hope of lasting peace and happiness with Matthew.

  A serving boy came over to ask if we needed more wine. Ryder ordered it, saying that he would pay, though Brockley interposed with: ‘Make sure it’s the same as what’s in here,’ and handed the lad the flagon we had almost, but not quite, emptied between us.

  ‘Our expedition was a success,’ Ryder said as the boy hurried away. ‘But it was unpleasant. We crept into the house after dark and caught the household at Mass, behind a closed door, and before we burst in on them, we listened outside. We heard the priest praying, loudly and ardently, for the accession of Queen Mary and for the return of the true faith for England. Then we flung the door open and caught them, with candles and incense and all, two French priests and all the servants. There were hysterics from the women, and children screaming. We sent the priests, the master of the house and his steward off to London as prisoners with five men to guard them – I have ten men now but I set out with fifteen. We let the wife and the other servants off with a caution and left them to cope with the children and each other. The wife was distraught, throwing herself about, weeping herself nearly into an apoplexy … No, it wasn’t pleasant.’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t,’ I said, visualizing it. The boy came back with the wine and Ryder paid him.

  ‘I did some questioning,’ said Ryder, ‘and I had the impression that despite the enthusiastic prayers we overheard that priest declaiming, the family actually had little idea of what he was really after. I think the household just consists of devout Catholics – which isn’t a crime unless they refuse to put in their obligatory appearances at the local Anglican church – and I think they imagine that the priests they harbour are simply in England to provide Catholic rites for those in England who want them. I’m fairly sure they don’t fully understand that the conversion of their servants is now a crime, nor do they seem to realize that the houses they direct their secret guests to are places where money may be raised for Mary Stuart. They know about the money but they think it’s just for food and clothing for the priests.’

  ‘In spite of the prayers?’ said Brockley, surprised.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ryder regretfully. ‘In spite of the prayers. Those are just words, you see. Wishes. Not … practical deeds.’

  ‘You mean that quite harmless people are being caught up in something they don’t understand?’ said Brockley.

  ‘Yes. Just that. One of the children upset me quite a lot,’ Ryder confessed. ‘The eldest boy – he’s about ten, I think. You see, our spy in the enemy stronghold, so to speak, had told us that yes, there were priests in the house, and that they would be there for some days, and were saying Mass every night, after dark. He also told us there were three dogs, two big lurchers and a small mongrel. They were let loose at night. To get into the house unheard, we had to deal with the dogs. We provided our strolling player with poisoned meat and on the chosen evening, he fed it to the dogs.’

  ‘That’s horrid!’ said Dale.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Ryder shook a regretful head. ‘Roland Wyse supplied the venom. He offered to bring it in case we had to deal with guard dogs. He knew where to get some, he told us, and he said he’d mixed it with something that would make the animals drowsy so that they’d die without making much noise. There would be noise, otherwise. I had the feeling he was speaking from experience but I decided not to ask what experience.’

  I thought grimly that I could probably enlighten him, but held my peace.

  ‘None of us liked doing it to the poor brutes,’ Ryder said, ‘and that young boy apparently was very fond of the mongrel; it was his special pet. To us, of course, it was as much of a menace as the lurchers. It had a fine set of teeth and a very loud yap. But it broke the boy’s heart. I think he minded the dog’s death more than he minded his father’s arrest!’

  ‘That’s so sad,’ said Dale.

  ‘The boy’s grief for the dog, or his lack of it for his father?’ Ryder asked dryly.

  ‘Both,’ said Dale.

  I changed the subject. ‘You’re bound for Whitehall tomorrow, are you?’ I enquired. If so, Brockley would be pleased, for I could travel with an escort after all.

  ‘No.’ Ryder shook his head. ‘No, we’re going straight on to Dover.’

  ‘Dover?’ Brockley asked sharply.

  ‘That illegal loom,’ said Ryder. You know – the one the cipher letter mentioned. Oh, yes, I know about it; Walsingham told me. He wouldn’t normally trouble himself over anything so trivial as an unlicensed worsted loom but there have been vague rumours about that workshop for some time and then, recently, some anonymous information was laid that was a lot more specific. It was already known that it’s run by a man called Julius Ballanger, who’s a lifelong resident of Dover and has a reputation as being willing to turn a dishonest penny. He has been suspected of smuggling dutiable goods into the country. He is also known to have Catholic leanings. Our nameless informant suggested that the Ballanger weaving shed is another safe house for proselytizing foreign priests. We start for Dover in the morning, to find out. And now, Mistress Stannard, what of your story?’

  Brockley looked at me uncertainly, wondering what I would say. I was wondering, too. It didn’t seem right to undermine Ryder’s relationship with Wyse when the two of them were working together; nor did I want Ryder to know of Heron’s new warrant. I decided on discretion.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but the errand we’ve been on is very confidential. Without permission from Cecil or Walsingham, even discussing it with you might not … well …’

  ‘Is it something to do with Brockley here?’ Ryder asked. ‘Oh. yes, I know about the accusation against him, and that he’s out on bail. That’s so, is it not, Brockley? I’m glad. I find it difficult to believe in your guilt, my friend. I take it that you are innocent.’

  ‘Entirely,’ said Brockley. ‘And we have other suspicions – but as Mistress Stannard says, we ought to be discreet.’

  ‘I won’t ask awkward questions. I wish you a happy outcome,’ Ryder said formally.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. And was glad that I hadn’t begun to talk about our suspicions of Roland Wyse, because the parlour door had opened again and Wyse himself had come through it, and was making straight towards us.

  He arrived at our table, smiling broadly. ‘May I join you? What a surprise to see you here, Mrs Stannard. How does that come about?’ He sat down without waiting for my permission. Ryder looked at him expressionlessly and said: ‘I understand that Mistress Stannard is engaged on a private errand and we should not, therefore, ask her to discuss it.’

  ‘Really? Then we won’t. What are you all drinking?’ He surveyed the table, picked up the flagon and sniffed at it, and nodded approval. ‘An agreeable wine. Shall we have some more? And what about some hazelnut comfits and dried fruits? Where is that boy?’ He craned his neck to see behind him, caught the serving lad’s eye and beckoned imperiously.

  The daylight was fading fast now and the wispy landlady was at last lighting the candles in the wall sconces. However, the uncertain light was still good enough to show me that Wyse’s lordly summons had made the boy’s face turn sullen. Wyse really did have a knack of annoying people, though he would probably retrieve himself by giving the lad a good tip. He was an odd mixture of a man, I thought, and I looked at his stone-hued eyes and thought about his knowledge of how to poison dogs. My suspicions were hardening with each passing moment.

  The boy arrived at our table and that was when the wild idea came to me. It came all in a moment, complete except for one thing, which was the sheer difficulty of putting it into practice. I couldn’t see how to manage it.

  Ryder, meanwhile, was quietly taking the initiative away from Wyse by saying: ‘Let me be the hospitable one, Roland. I’m your superior officer, after all,’ and then turning to the boy to command another flagon and the fruit and comfits that Wyse had suggested.

  As the boy turned away I put a hand on his sleeve, and he
ard myself say: ‘Oh, and one more thing. I wish a flagon of this most excellent wine to be put in my room, with a glass, of course, in case I fancy a drink in the night. It’s the first room on the left, upstairs – the room allocated to Mistress Stannard. That’s who I am. Please see to it straightaway; I can see that the inn is busy and it could easily be forgotten. I’ll pay you now.’

  I pulled out my purse and shot warning glances at Brockley and Dale, who were staring at me in astonishment. I wasn’t in the habit of wanting wine by my bedside. They met my eyes and wiped the amazement from their faces. Whatever I was up to, I could trust them not to interfere.

  I had taken the first step towards setting my trap, though how on earth I would achieve the subsequent steps remained beyond me. They seemed impossible. If only I could imagine a way …

  SEVENTEEN

  A Trap for a Dangerous Mouse

  Just once in a while, providence is kind. Perverse luck afflicts us much more often, but every now and then, fate relents, and the one thing that is needed, is granted at precisely the right moment. Or to put it another way, very occasionally the enemy makes a mistake and, as it were, bows politely and hands one a sharp and shining sword.

  ‘Captain Ryder,’ said Wyse, ‘I am well acquainted with Mrs Stannard, and there is a private matter which we should talk about – nothing to do with any errand she is carrying out at this moment; something between ourselves. This chance meeting has given us an opportunity. Have I your permission to ask our companions to take their card game upstairs? They can go on gambling in the big bedchamber we’re all sharing. Then, if the landlord allows and the lady is agreeable, she and I can have the parlour for a quiet talk.’

  Ryder looked at me. ‘I’m agreeable,’ I said.

  He got to his feet. ‘Very well. I’ll arrange it.’

  Dale said softly: ‘Ma’am, shall I come with you? For propriety?’

  ‘Thank you, Dale, but no. There won’t be any need for that.’