by Jodi Taylor
A gateway led out of the churchyard and we could see the mellow walls and roofs of Cumnor Place, drowsing in the sunshine. No one was around. A tabby cat dozed on a nearby grave, paws neatly tucked underneath him, enjoying the sun. Everything was very rural and peaceful.
Unlike inside the pod, where Hyssop had gone from a standing start to red-hot military efficiency. ‘Right, Evans and I will check things out. Everyone else is to wait here until we tell you it’s safe to proceed with this mission.’
She didn’t seem to notice the pointed silence. Evans looked at me. I wasn’t going to embarrass him by making him challenge instructions from his new boss but she was trying it on again and we had to nip this sort of thing in the bud. I said carefully, ‘No, as we discussed at the briefing, it doesn’t work quite like that. I’m in charge of this assignment – and it’s an assignment, not a mission. There’s no military element involved here.’
Hyssop knew all this. She’d have studied previous assignments and Evans would almost certainly have mentioned it at their own briefing. The new broom was being wielded. I sighed. This had to be sorted now.
‘Standard procedure – as you know – is that a male historian leads the way, possibly with someone from Security if we have more than one. Everyone else in the middle, and me and Markham at the back.’
‘You don’t lead?’
‘When dealing with the past, there are very few times and places where it’s acceptable for a woman to lead. Trust me, striding around the place barking orders to all and sundry is asking to take pride of place on the next bonfire. It’s why we have briefings. So everyone knows what to expect and what to do when we get there.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Alas, yes. We aim to get through every assignment as quickly and quietly as possible – not give Tudor England a lecture on the rights of women.’ I paused. ‘I have to ask – when you were given this job, did they not brief you on this?’ and waited to see whether she would give any clues as to who appointed her and what her remit had been.
She didn’t. ‘Well, yes, but I didn’t realise we operated according to the rules of the Middle Ages.’
I sighed. ‘We do when we’re in the Middle Ages. At the moment we’re in Tudor England so we behave according to Tudor England rules. And it’s the same for Ancient Rome, 19th-century Vienna, 20th-century Sarajevo – everywhere. It’s up to you, of course, Security is your section, but I can’t allow you to risk my people by exposing contemporaries to inappropriate modern behaviour patterns. You go and do things your way and we’ll wait here for your unlikely return.’
Non-return would be more accurate but I didn’t want to seem too negative about her chances of survival. Not on her first jump.
‘Have you ever thought, Dr Maxwell, that this . . . old-fashioned way of proceeding might be the reason your casualty rate is so high?’
I saw Evans sit back down and make himself comfortable.
Refusing to be thrown on the defensive, I said, ‘The reason we occasionally incur one or two minor injuries is that we aren’t supposed to be here. We are the piece of grit in the Oyster of History. We are a virus and History will do what it can to get rid of us. If a thing can go wrong, it will. Hence, we ghost quietly around the landscape, recording, documenting, getting out alive, and not, not in any way imposing our own values and behaviour on people who wouldn’t understand – and definitely wouldn’t be grateful for – a lesson in 21st-century cultural mores. And, frankly, I find it disquieting in the extreme that I need to tell you this.’
I didn’t give her a chance to regroup. ‘Now, we’ll exit the pod. You and Mr Sands will lead the way. Mr Evans and I will follow on behind.’ I turned away from her. ‘As discussed, Mr Sands – through the churchyard and into Cumnor Place. We should find ourselves in the quadrangle and both entrances to the Great Hall will be ahead and diagonally to our right.’
I turned back to Hyssop. ‘There shouldn’t be anyone around, but even if there is, we’re well dressed and respectable and unlikely to be challenged. If we are, Mr Sands will do the talking.’
‘And I suppose I just stand back and do nothing.’
‘Now you’re getting the idea. Well done.’
I moved to the door. The golden rule of conflict resolution – always have the last word. Well, no, the golden rule is to shoot the bastards before they even start to argue, but the second golden rule is always to have the last word.
You can’t keep a good woman down. As we exited the pod, I could hear her asking Sands if he thought his artificial foot ever had any impact on his performance. Unfortunately, Evans tightened his grip on my arm before I could get to her.
The day was very hot. Two of us stood just outside the pod, our faces lifted to the sunshine. Historians don’t get out much.
‘Aren’t you checking for hostiles?’ Hyssop said to Evans, who was also rotating slowly in the sunshine. Like a giant chicken on a spit.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Potentially hostile people, meteorological hazards, political or geological situations . . .’
‘You’d be better off checking for geese, watchdogs and angry chickens,’ I said, and Sands, who lives with Rosie Lee and is therefore accustomed to difficult women, offered Hyssop his arm. She hesitated fractionally and then took it. I noticed she made sure she stood on his left. I assumed she was left-handed and keeping her gun arm free.
I tucked myself on Evans’ left – he was right-handed and a better shot than me although I’m not bad – and off we set, picking our way carefully among the scattered graves. The cat couldn’t even be bothered to open his eyes.
We left the churchyard via a simple wooden gate, crossed a track with wagon ruts baked hard in the summer sun, passed under an archway with the gates pushed back in silent welcome and entered an enclosed quadrangle surrounded by tall golden walls. The roofs were gabled and tiled with moss- and lichen-covered local stone. The tiles had been laid out in the traditional manner with smaller tiles at the top, graduating down to the largest at the bottom, giving a very pleasing perspective.
It was even hotter in this enclosed space and we paused to get our bearings. Working from left to right, the chapel lay diagonally behind us, with its access to the churchyard. Next to that – for some strange ecclesiastical reason – was the malthouse. Then another archway leading into what looked like the garden. The gates there had been left wide open as well, and I caught a glimpse of a neat terrace and a flash of sunlight on water. On the wall facing us was an unknown room, its door firmly closed, and then, occupying the rest of that wall, directly in front of us, the Great Hall with its two sets of double doors, both standing invitingly open. To let in light and sunshine, presumably. To our right was the former buttery, we thought – because it made sense to adjoin the Great Hall. The buttery was the room we were after because it was the room with the fatal staircase. Up on the first floor, and running virtually the length of the house, were the Long Gallery and Lady Dudley’s private chambers.
A lark hung over the churchyard, trilling its little heart out, but other than that there wasn’t a soul or a sound anywhere. Cumnor Place slept in the afternoon sunshine. A little oasis of Tudor rural peace. A million miles away from the dark paranoia of the Tudor court. Except that a tiny tentacle of that darkness might be finding its way to Cumnor Place even as we stood here admiring it.
‘Straight to the Great Hall, I think,’ I said, and we headed towards the nearest set of open doors. They were the usual wooden, grey with age, massively hinged affairs, held open by doorstops of stone into which iron handles had been set.
We knocked very gently because we didn’t actually want to attract anyone’s attention but, if we met anyone, we could honestly say we had knocked. Passing from bright sunshine into deep shade, we paused for a moment to let our eyes adjust.
Hyssop was worryingly quiet. I hoped this was awe and excitement rather t
han criticism and disapproval.
‘All right?’ I said very quietly.
She nodded, her eyes darting from doors to windows and back again. She was watching our backs. Shame I felt I had to watch hers.
I had forgotten how sparsely furnished Tudor houses are. A wooden chest decorated with a linenfold pattern stood under each of the two windows opposite. A well-polished candlestick stood on each. Their contents were unknown and we weren’t going to start rummaging. The windows were old-fashioned – 14th century, I thought – with painted glass that threw pools of colour on to the plain flags.
A substantial, highly polished wooden table ran down the centre of the room. I reckoned it could easily seat a dozen people. An armed chair stood at the head, back to the fireplace, and three lesser, armless chairs ran down each side. The rest stood against the walls. Pewter plates gleamed on the mantel and two large tapestries hung on the north wall where they wouldn’t be faded by the sunshine. The floor was of swept stone. Looking up into the dim heights, the roof was richly timbered and decorated. Apart from the pleasant smell of lavender, polish, wood and warm stone, that was pretty much it.
There was a closed door in the left-hand wall. A corresponding door on the right was propped wide open, giving a good view of a large room with another flagged floor – and – and this was the important bit – the last few steps of that infamous staircase. And we’d been right. They were of stone, curving upwards out of sight. They were old. Each step was shiny and worn. Even from all the way over here they looked pretty lethal. Add in dazzling sunshine, wide skirts, a moment’s carelessness . . . The coroner had recorded Amy’s death as misfortune. Perhaps these stairs already had a reputation . . .
Looking around the Great Hall again, the only thing moving was the dust, caught in the summer sunlight as it streamed through the arched windows. Everything was swept, polished and sweet-smelling. The furniture gleamed. This was a well-run household.
And an absent household. No pots and pans clashed. No servants bustled about. No doors opened and closed. There wasn’t even a dog to bark at us. We’d just walked in and we could have been anyone. Which was interesting.
Evans crossed to the open door and peered through into the buttery. I glanced out of the door to the empty courtyard and opened my mouth to say ‘well, this could be easy’, when Hyssop tilted her head. A fraction of a second later I heard it, too. Hoofbeats. Someone was coming. Not at a flat-out gallop – just a gentle trot. We barely had time to take that in when a rider emerged from under the northern arch, his horse’s hooves clopping loudly in the summer silence, and halted in the middle of the courtyard.
‘Quick,’ said Evans, shoving us all towards the opposite door because we needed to stay as far away from the infamous staircase as possible.
Hyssop eased it open to reveal an empty room. I mean, there was furniture and such, but no people – which was exactly what we were looking for. We all squeezed through, leaving the door open a crack, just as the rider led his horse to the water trough against one wall and then strode into the Great Hall through the second pair of open doors, slapping the dust from his doublet as he came.
He was well dressed in black, his soft leather boots coated in dirt. Pulling off his gloves, he tossed them on to the table and shouted a greeting.
Shit. I looked over my shoulder into the empty room behind me. There was another door behind us opening into the courtyard. If someone came through that way . . . but no footsteps disturbed the heavy silence. No voice was raised in response to his call. The sun still shone, the dust still swirled, we still waited . . .
The newcomer strode across the hall, through the open door at the other end, and into the buttery. He stood at the foot of the stairs, looking upwards. He shouted again. Short and sharp. Somewhere above us, a woman called out.
Sands turned to me, his eyes gleaming, and whispered, ‘Bet you a fiver that’s Richard Verney.’
It seemed too good to be true if it was, but we’d argue about it later. I was quivering with excitement because Verney was Dudley’s man. It was known that he’d been in the vicinity that fatal day but we hadn’t realised he’d actually been here in the house. No one did. I had to say, at this moment, things were not looking good for Dudley. His man, on the spot, on the very afternoon – possibly even at the very moment – his wife died. Dudley hadn’t been high on my list of suspects, but he was now.
Upstairs a door opened and closed.
I felt Sands stiffen. He had his recorder ready. I dragged mine out too and glanced over my shoulder again. Evans was watching the other door and Hyssop was checking the windows. Our backs were safe.
Now there were footsteps overhead. We could hear heels tapping on a wooden floor. Quick and light. We heard them crossing the room above us. A woman, almost certainly. They grew fainter, moving towards the head of the staircase. And then they stopped.
For several long moments nothing happened. I stared up at the ceiling, straining my ears, desperate for some clue as to what could be going on up there. No one appeared on the stairs. Nothing disturbed the silence of the house.
If asked, I would have guessed the footsteps belonged to Amy Robsart and that she’d paused at the head of the stairs to gather up her skirts in one hand and carefully make her way down the staircase, the other hand on the newel post for support. That’s how I would have done it, anyway.
We waited. There was complete silence. No sound of swishing skirts. No sounds of someone carefully making their way down the shadowed staircase.
We waited and waited. What was happening up there? Why was everything so silent? We knew at least one person was upstairs. Was she still there? If not, where had she gone?
Evidently satisfied that someone had at least heard his hail, the rider – if it was Sir Richard and let’s say it was – moved away from the stairs and back into the Great Hall, waiting by the table, his back to us.
He was a tall man, and lean. His dark hair was mostly hidden by his hat, a soft, floppy affair – a bit like a beret with a brim – which he hadn’t yet removed. His hair and beard were shot through with grey hairs. This time next year he’d be completely grey. His face was flushed from the heat. I imagined he must be desperate for a drink.
And then, from above – a cry. Of surprise. Of shock. Of fear.
And then – the unmistakeable sounds of someone falling down the stairs. No, not falling – crashing down the stairs. At some speed. Closer and louder until, suddenly and violently, a welter of arms, legs, hair and petticoats erupted from around the curve to land with a crash on the flagged floor.
For long, horrified seconds, Sir Richard stood frozen. As did we. I was no longer surprised the fall had killed her. I would have been astounded if she had survived.
I had Sir Richard’s face in close-up and he seemed completely taken aback at this turn of events. Then the spell broke. Shouting, ‘Lady Dudley,’ he ran back into the buttery to investigate.
He was wasting his time. We were at the other end of the house and even we could see the body had that broken look about it. If asked, and given the tangle of loose limbs as she fell, I would say she was dead before she arrived at the bottom of the stairs. It had been the fall that killed her – not the landing.
Amy had ended sprawled, head downwards, half on and half off the stairs, her eyes wide open in alarm, staring sightlessly up at Sir Richard as he bent over her.
There was utter silence. A moment when something important has happened and the world needs a moment to readjust. In my head I could still hear the echoes of her fall. We stood paralysed at the suddenness of events. Less than thirty seconds ago Amy Robsart had been alive and now she wasn’t. We’d been expecting this but even so it was a shock to us. But how was Sir Richard reacting?
Actually, he recovered more quickly than we did because, upstairs, loud in the dusty silence – a door opened. And then – silence. The house seemed to
hold its breath.
Sir Richard sprang into action. He pulled out a knife from his belt, leaped over poor Amy Robsart – as unregarded in death as she had been in life – and disappeared up the stairs.
‘Quick,’ I said, because the very last thing we needed was to be discovered here. We’d be magnets for the tsunami of blame and accusations that were about to envelop everyone. I suspected the world would be looking for scapegoats and who better than four strangers?
We were out through the door in a flash.
Hyssop paused. ‘Don’t you want to see who’s upstairs?’
‘More than anything,’ I said, ‘but not so much as to risk being hanged for murder. The sun’s going down. Her servants will be back soon. To say nothing of Richard Verney. We mustn’t be caught here – or even in the vicinity. Quickly now. Before someone looks out of an upstairs window and sees us leaving.’
‘Not back through the churchyard,’ said Evans. ‘Too overlooked. Through the far door, turn right and out through the north entrance. We’ll give everything a wide berth and make our way back to the pod.’
Keeping close to the walls, we whisked ourselves out through the north gate, along the dusty path and across the fields to the road. You could tell it was a road because it was even more rutted than the ploughed fields alongside and with the bonus of added dust. Thick, ragged hedgerows lined the way and would prove useful cover and shade.
‘Which direction?’ I said to Hyssop.
She nodded to our left. ‘That way.’
Behind her back I looked quickly at Evans who nodded a confirmation.
‘I saw that,’ she said, without turning around.
‘Just checking your bump of direction is more reliable than mine,’ I said.
‘It couldn’t be less,’ said Sands.
I gave him a hard stare which was wasted because he and Hyssop had already set out and I was glaring at their backs.
‘So,’ I said, ‘comments on what we’ve just seen.’
‘All right,’ said Sands over his shoulder. ‘Speculation. Sir Richard Verney – who wasn’t supposed to be there anyway – is the one person in the world who couldn’t have killed her.’
