Another Time, Another Place

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘So everyone was waiting for Amy to die?’ said Hyssop.

  I hesitated. ‘On the face of it, yes, but can I come back to that?’

  She nodded, scribbling on her pad. I noticed she took notes by hand.

  ‘There are rumours that Elizabeth is pregnant by Dudley. The Spanish ambassador actually reported that Dudley was trying to kill his wife so he could marry the queen. In 1559, Amy moves to Cumnor Place, which in those days was in Berkshire. She’s comfortable there – she has at least ten servants, including a maid, Mrs Picto, who is a relative of hers, a Mrs Owens, and a Mrs Oddingsells, whose exact relationship is unknown.’

  I brought up several images of Cumnor Place. ‘It’s unclear how accurate these are. The house was modernised soon afterwards and very little remains of the original.

  ‘On Sunday, 8th September 1560, for some reason that has never been established, Amy orders her entire household to visit the fair at Abingdon, leaving her completely alone in the house.’

  I brought up a large-scale map of the area showing Cumnor Place in relation to Oxford and Abingdon.

  ‘She gives everyone the day off. Except there’s a problem. Mrs Oddingsells is quite offended because Sunday is the day set aside for the common people to visit the fair and no person of quality would be seen there on that day. There’s a bit of an argument and, presumably to mollify her, Amy invites Mrs Oddingsells to dine with her that evening. Apparently this works because Mrs Oddingsells departs – although not to the fair. She and Mrs Owens spend a quiet afternoon playing cards in their private rooms.

  ‘The day passes peacefully and then, at some point, the servants return and discover Amy Robsart lying dead at the foot of a flight of stairs. Cause of death is a broken neck, although she has also suffered two fairly minor injuries to her head.’

  I turned to Captain Hyssop. ‘Your thoughts?’

  She put down her pen and closed her eyes. ‘The two women – Owens and Oddingsells – heard nothing?’

  ‘There are reports that at some point they thought they heard a crash but it wasn’t loud enough or close enough to warrant investigation.’

  ‘Were there any signs she’d been attacked? Signs of a struggle? Disarranged clothing? Defensive wounds?’

  ‘Apart from the head wounds – no. Although – and I think you might find this interesting – even though she’d supposedly fallen down a flight of stairs with enough force to break her neck, her headdress was still more or less in place.’

  ‘Could she have been killed elsewhere and placed at the foot of the stairs?’

  ‘Very possibly.’

  ‘How far did she fall?’

  ‘Another interesting question. The staircase – made of stone – is described as a pair of stairs. The building of the time is gone now but we do know the stairs were curved around a central newel post – so some sort of spiral staircase. It’s thought there might have been a half-landing – a flight of steps, some sort of landing, and then second flight of steps – which would account for the description of a pair of stairs.’

  She nodded. ‘I see, but surely that means neither flight could be very long.’

  ‘That’s right. Probably around only eight steps in each.’

  ‘That’s not very many.’

  ‘No, but I’ve fallen down a flight of stone steps and they’re not forgiving. I thought I’d broken every bone in my body and I was covered in bruises.’

  ‘But Amy wasn’t. Covered in bruises, I mean.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I believe bruises can develop after someone has died.’

  ‘They can, but not apparently in this instance.’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘This is interesting, isn’t it?’ She looked at me. ‘Your theory?’

  ‘That she was murdered, but not by her husband.’

  ‘Then whom?’

  I hesitated. ‘The queen.’

  ‘To ensure she could marry Dudley?’

  ‘To ensure she could not marry Dudley.’

  She sat for a moment. ‘Oh. Yes. I see. That’s the point you wanted to come back to just now, isn’t it?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s popular and romantic to see Elizabeth and Dudley as a pair of tragic lovers who could never marry, but I think Elizabeth was much too hard-headed to give power away. She’d come too far and endured too much to make herself subject to a husband. Marriage, remember, placed a wife in legal submission to her husband. Elizabeth had no intention of marrying Dudley. She had no intention of ever marrying anyone. She’d seen how her sister’s marriage to Philip of Spain cost her a great deal of support. She saw how Mary laboured to please both country and husband. And later, of course, there was her cousin, Mary Stuart, who notoriously wanted it all – throne, husband and child. The acquisition of the last two cost her the first. I think Elizabeth had already worked out that perpetually single and perpetually available was the way to go.

  ‘I also suspect a large part of Dudley’s charm was his unavailability. She was all set to play the marriage game with every prince in Europe. The last thing she needed would be Dudley hanging around her neck like a dead albatross. Consider this. Amy was dying – but then what? Dudley would be free to marry her. Factions would develop. He would begin to accrue power. Elizabeth was still in the early stages of her reign and not that secure. So, Amy had to die in a manner that precluded Dudley from ever being in a position to marry her, Elizabeth. With his wife mysteriously dead, suspicion would fall on Dudley, which meant Elizabeth could safely distance herself from him. In fact, her ministers would urge her to do so. I go with those who say Elizabeth never had any intention of marrying anyone. She was popular and she was loved but as soon as she gave birth to a male heir, she’d be out. Kings were the proper way to go. A queen was an affront to all right-thinking people, i.e. men. And she knew it. And no matter how much she loved Dudley – she was her father’s daughter. Queens do kill inconvenient men. Her cousin, Mary Stuart, killed her own husband.’

  Hyssop nodded. ‘Interesting.’ She turned to Sands. ‘And your theory?’

  ‘Meeting a lover,’ he said, promptly. ‘She cleared all her household out of the way so he could visit in secret.’

  ‘Even more interesting. Mr Evans?’

  I was surprised but pleased to see she thought Security should have an opinion. And she was right – they’d been on as many jumps as us – some History was bound to have rubbed off on them.

  Evans grinned. ‘Dudley panicked. Elizabeth was being besieged by suitors. He was convinced she would choose one of them. Everyone was – because marriage was the only proper state for a woman. As soon as she acquired a husband, he, Dudley, would be out. He wasn’t bright and he wasn’t subtle. He arranged for Amy to be killed. Remember, his man, Sir Richard Verney, was unexpectedly discovered not far away. I think Dudley sent Amy a message – arranging some sort of reconciliation perhaps. He urged her to get rid of her household so they could be alone together. Amy waited quietly. Someone knocks at the door, she runs down the stairs to greet him, Sir Richard steps out of the shadows, a gentle shove – no more Amy.’

  ‘Risky, though,’ I said. ‘Shoving someone down the stairs doesn’t always mean a broken neck. She might have just banged her elbow.’

  ‘Not if he broke her neck first.’

  ‘And then threw her down the stairs.’

  ‘Or just placed her at the bottom. Remember the headdress.’

  ‘And you, Captain,’ I said. ‘Your theory?’

  ‘Having read the material,’ she tapped the files, ‘I’m inclined towards the accident theory. There was no need for murder. She was dying of cancer and she had brittle bones because of it. Possibly she caught her foot in the hem of her dress – as you say, the staircase was almost certainly made of stone and one of those breakneck spiral affairs – and if it was bright sunshine outside then it was probably quite dark inside
– and she snapped her own neck. After all,’ she said, ‘it’s not the fall that kills you – it’s the landing.’

  I closed my file. ‘Let’s go and find out, shall we?’

  We assembled in Hawking Hangar, outside Number Eight and checked each other over. No jewellery, wristwatches and so forth. None of us are allowed tattoos. We all have long hair – even the blokes have what we call the historian shag. There was a vague rumour that Hyssop had attempted to impose a more structured hairstyle upon her team and her team had resisted the imposition. I don’t know how Dr Bairstow had heard of it – except he hears everything – but in an apparently casual meeting on the gallery he’d informed her that it was her section and she must do as she thought fit, of course, and if she truly felt the advantages of smart-looking Security guards outweighed the risks of them undertaking an assignment with an obviously anomalous hairstyle, then she should have at it.

  She hadn’t – had at it, I mean – which was encouraging. There was no doubt however that some of our working methods were coming as a bit of a shock to her. Now she was staring up at St Mary’s staff lining the gantry, waving and making rude gestures.

  ‘What are they doing up there?’

  ‘Seeing us off. If we return safely, they’ll be back to witness that too.’

  I didn’t mention that bets had been placed on how she’d do and that the considerably larger crowd on our return would be there either to collect their winnings or pay up.

  She frowned. ‘Not a particularly good use of their time.’

  ‘I find it fosters inter-departmental team spirit,’ I said swiftly, and she hadn’t been with us long enough to realise what a load of old cobblers that was.

  ‘And you tolerate this?’

  It had been my idea. Enthusiastically adopted by the History Department and most of St Mary’s, for whom anything is better than working. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, don’t they have projects and deadlines to achieve?’

  ‘They do.’

  She paused. I could see her trying to frame the next question tactfully and then giving up. ‘Shouldn’t they be getting on with them?’

  I shrugged. ‘I tell them what I want. I tell them when I want it. Anything more might be overloading their tiny brains.’

  ‘And that happens? Don’t you monitor or check their progress? What happens if someone has a problem?’

  ‘They come and talk to me about it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Trust me – none of my department has any difficulty kicking their way through my door to bring me a problem.’

  She frowned again. ‘Do you think you might sometimes be too accessible?’

  Oh, for God’s sake.

  ‘Let’s get you checked over, shall we?’ I said, smiling politely and not murdering her even a little bit.

  As I said, all female historians have long hair because, for much of History, women with short hair were heretics/witches/unclean/dangerously ahead of their time and, typically, Hyssop had short hair.

  ‘Hi,’ I’d said when we met for our fitting in Wardrobe. ‘I’m glad we’ve bumped into each other. I wanted to ask if you had any plans to grow your hair?’

  I deliberately kept my voice light and friendly and most importantly – non-critical. I wasn’t going to let her push me into being the bad person in all this.

  I suspect the same thing had occurred to her.

  ‘Well,’ she said, automatically putting up a hand to touch it. ‘I have considered it. The thing is that it’s almost uncontrollable when it’s long. It’s just a giant ball of frizz. I can’t help thinking that any contemporaries catching sight of it would scream and run for the hills.’

  ‘I appreciate the problem,’ I said, trying hard because so was she. ‘How would you feel about shoulder-length?’

  ‘Shall we see? I warn you – it’s very possible you’ll be telling me to get it cut because I’m frightening the horses.’

  I’d laughed longer than her feeble joke deserved and said, ‘I look forward to seeing this legendary hair of yours.’

  We’d both gone on our way and people came out from behind the furniture.

  Women could show a little hair in Tudor times and I made a microscopic adjustment to Hyssop’s headdress – a cap worn on the back of her head. The green velvet veil hanging down her back hid her frizzy curls. We’d discussed a hairpiece, which she’d rejected with loathing, and I didn’t blame her because with St Mary’s luck it would almost certainly drop off at the wrong moment, causing massive alarm and consternation among the contemporaries.

  The Elizabethan Sumptuary Laws of 1574 hadn’t kicked in yet, but there were still stringent rules over who could wear what. Fortunately, it was summer, so the eternal worry over who was entitled to wear which fur – ermine, mink, fox, vair and so forth – didn’t apply.

  Both Hyssop and I wore the traditional linen petticoat with stiff bodices to the waist, wide kirtles and matching sleeves. Mine was dark green with a little embroidery around the neckline and Hyssop’s was a similar design in russet. I wore an old-fashioned gable headdress appropriate for my only very slightly advanced years.

  Sands and Evans were dressed in simple brown doublets and hose. We all looked sombre but respectable, which is about the best we can ever get. I thought we were all good to go. Hyssop, however, was unhappy with her shoes.

  If we can’t wear our boots – always first choice for the discerning historian – then we tend to go for plain brown leather lace-ups which, like our pods, fit into almost every century.

  She was scowling at her feet. ‘I would prefer something more modern.’

  ‘I daresay you would,’ I said, effortlessly skipping over all the occasions when I’d worn my own boots, ‘but these are an effective compromise and over time they’ll become scuffed and dirty and grow to the shape of your feet and look authentic. Nothing screams fake louder than brand new. To say nothing of having your throat cut and your body thrown into a ditch because someone wants to steal your smart new shoes. Now, are we all set?’

  I knew Dieter had talked her through pod procedures so she knew what to expect. Number Eight is a great pod. My favourite, in fact; we’ve had some exciting times together. In my new-found role as a tactful, nurturing person, I didn’t mention any of them.

  The console was to the right of the door. Someone had already laid in the coordinates. Now Leon had gone, it was Dieter who checked them over with me while the others made themselves comfortable.

  ‘We were up most of the night,’ he said, in full techie martyr mode, ‘but, finally, the toilet is working again. Keep it that way. Other than that, everything’s switched on, loaded, charged up, ready and working. Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and he exited the pod. I closed the door behind him and suddenly the inside of the pod was much smaller. I watched Hyssop tense. ‘Nervous?’

  She nodded. ‘Apprehensive.’

  A good answer. If she’d said no I wouldn’t have believed her. I still remembered my first jump. I’d nearly burst into flames with excitement and terror.

  ‘There really shouldn’t be any difficulties with this one. Hardly anyone will be around. We enter the house – if challenged, we’re looking for Mrs Picto, whom we know has gone to the fair. Pausing only for a quick Oh, what a shame we’ve missed her, never mind, we’ll try again tomorrow, we vacate the premises before anyone becomes suspicious, regroup outside and think up another approach.’

  ‘Why not just ask for Amy Robsart? We know she’s there.’

  ‘We could do that – and if everything else fails, then we might have to – but direct interaction can be tricky. Suppose hurrying down to meet us causes her to fall an hour too early. Suppose she was supposed to do something important in that hour and now doesn’t? And if she does manage to get down the stairs successfull
y, she might not go back upstairs again. Suppose she spends the whole afternoon on the ground floor and therefore never has the accident.’ I smiled. ‘The secret to a successful assignment is to be as unobtrusive as possible.’

  Evans coughed and turned away, possibly remembering the one or two times when St Mary’s hadn’t been quite as unobtrusive as we could have, and Sands, stowing our gear in the lockers, grinned at me.

  I sat her down between Sands and Evans. I didn’t think she’d have a panic attack – she wasn’t the type – but you never know how this sort of thing will take some people.

  ‘OK – everyone set?’

  No one said no, which was good enough for me.

  I checked everything over. Greens across the board. ‘Computer, initiate jump.’

  ‘Jump initiated.’

  The world went white.

  Our touchdown was smooth, which, since we were trying to impress our temporary new Head of Security, was good. Because I couldn’t help wondering: to whom was Hyssop reporting? Other than Dr Bairstow, I mean. Well, whoever it was, they’d be hearing about our textbook landing.

  Sands activated the screen and we crowded round to have a look.

  It wasn’t raining, which is always one of the first things I look for when wearing a long, woollen dress. In fact, it was a lovely day. Warm blue skies, golden sunshine so typical of late summer.

  Secondly, no one was screaming. Another important point. No one was running. And nothing seemed to be on fire. It was all good.

  We’d landed in a churchyard. I could see Sands gearing himself up for a joke about St Mary’s cutting out the middleman and just jumping into an open grave now, or even – quelle horreur – informing Hyssop he worked for Cunard. I made haste to intervene. ‘Mr Sands, report, please.’

  ‘We’re exactly where and when we should be, Max. Around 1500 hours on the afternoon of 8th September 1560. We’re in the corner of the churchyard to the east of Cumnor Place and one of the entrances to the house itself should be . . .’ he panned the camera, ‘over there.’