While Foxe had been examining the pendant, Mistress Tabby had continued to examine the dead man, gently parting the front of his shirt to get at the place where she thought the fatal wound must be. When she had found the spot, she probed the wound itself, using a thin piece of stick she’d found in a corner.
‘From the angle and depth of the wound, Ashmole,’ she said, ‘I think it was made by a thin, narrow blade. Perhaps something like an Italian stiletto. Whatever was used, it was done expertly. The killer inserted the blade between the ribs on the left-hand side of the body and drove it straight into the man’s heart. Death would have been instantaneous. This poor fellow, thin as he is, didn’t die from disease or the cold. He was stabbed through the heart with a single strike.’
Her immediate findings were confirmed later, almost word for word, by the local surgeon who gave the medical evidence at the inquest.
‘A single strike, straight to the heart, using a thin blade like a stiletto,’ Foxe said. ‘This isn’t some commonplace killing. This man was killed by a professional. Who would make such a neat job of it? Yes!’
Mistress Tabby waited.
‘Brunetti,’ Foxe said after a moment. ‘It’s got to be his work. He uses some kind of Italian stiletto. Luigi Brunetti, Italian. Makes his living as a hired assassin. You’ve surely heard of him.’
Tabby shook her head.
‘Brunetti came to Norwich with his family many years ago. They were honest folk, my father told me, but their son ran wild. He still lives in the city, more’s the pity, living by his wits. He’s an expert card sharper. He also dresses up and pedals fake medicines. In fact, he’ll do just about anything for money. However, his main trade is committing murders for money. He’ll do it for anyone who pays him enough. A stiletto has always been his weapon. If this was Brunetti’s work, we’ll never prove it. The man is much too cunning for that. He probably crept up on the dead man while he was asleep.’
‘Why should anyone pay an assassin to have a harmless vagrant killed?’ Tabby asked him. ‘While I was waiting for you, the children told me that they first encountered the man some six months ago. Where he came from, they had no idea. There are always vagrants wandering about, so they didn’t bother to ask.’
‘There’s something very odd about this particular vagrant, Tabby.’ Foxe held up the beautifully intricate gold chain with its pendant. ‘How did he come by this, I wonder?’
‘I imagine he must have stolen it, Ash.’
‘I disagree. A homeless vagrant would surely have sold it at once for whatever he could get for it. This man was living rough. Yet he wore around his neck a piece of jewellery that would have bought him accommodation in the best local inn for a year or more. I’m not going to let this man receive a pauper’s burial in an unmarked grave, Tabby. If I can find the family to whom this coat of arms belongs, they’ll probably want the body exhumed and buried elsewhere with greater dignity. In the meantime, I’ll pay for a proper burial myself. I’ll also find who ever had him killed in this way and see he pays the price for what he has done.’
Tabby bowed her head in acknowledgement. ‘I knew I could rely on you, Ashmole dear,’ she said. ‘I feel very uneasy about this man’s death. It doesn’t take the second sight to guess he must have proved a serious threat to someone — probably someone important. It’s vital that you should get to the bottom of this mystery. I can feel it in my bones. A terrible wrong has been committed. It’s crying out for justice and it’s up to you to see that the villain who ordered it gets the punishment he deserves.’
All Foxe could do was nod in agreement.
Foxe now sent Charlie to Alderman Halloran’s house to tell him they had discovered yet another a murder. The coroner should therefore be sent for at once.
Later, when he returned, the boy reported what Halloran had said. ‘The alderman wanted to know if you hadn’t got enough on your plate already, Master. He says Viscount Penngrove has been sending his servant daily to pester the mayor about the state of the investigation into his son’s murder. He wants that investigation put before anything else.’
‘Does he, indeed? We don’t always get what we want in this life, Charlie, my boy, as the good alderman knows very well. Back to your work now. I need time to think.’
Later, when Foxe was telling Mrs Crombie about what had taken place that day, he told her he now regretted telling someone in a letter his life was too quiet. He’d even said he needed a good mystery to solve. Now he had three.
‘Be careful what you wish for!’ Mrs Crombie said. ‘Isn’t that what they say? Anyway, overworked or not, you seem a great deal more cheerful than you have been of late. What brought about the change? Or should I ask who?’
‘You may ask all you like, Mrs Crombie, but I won’t tell you, other than to say my opinion of the Welsh has risen a good deal.’
And with that enigmatic remark, he walked to the door leading into his house and disappeared through it.
Foxe devoted most of the next day’s efforts to finding out who had killed Viscount Penngrove’s son. He didn’t give tuppence for the mayor’s worries, but Halloran had become a good friend and deserved to be set free from his worship’s constant nagging.
In spite of the fresh evidence, Foxe still felt sure he knew, more or less, what had occurred at the masquerade ball. He was less certain of who the killer must be. His faith in his reasoning had been shaken by the almost total lack of evidence to support his original decision. He now had to find the facts which would either convince others he had been correct all along or let him come up with an alternative solution.
The reappearance of Lord Aylestone at the end of the evening was the greatest stumbling block. Most of those present had seen him, if only briefly. All said they knew it was him because his Harlequin costume was distinctive. There were several other people present dressed as a Harlequin, but Aylestone’s costume had been especially elaborate. Foxe decided his next step must be to discover where Aylestone had got his costume. If he could find out where he had hired it, it might provide some further clues. It was a long shot, but there were no other ideas worth following up.
Foxe marshalled what he knew about the family. Viscount Penngrove lived in a fine mansion on his vast estate to the west of the city. That is, he did so when he wasn’t away visiting or at his house in London’s Golden Square. His younger son, not liking the close supervision of his movements when he was under his parent’s eyes, had moved elsewhere. Foxe thought he’d heard Lord Aylestone now occupied a suitably sumptuous set of rooms in Colegate.
He went through into the shop and consulted Mrs Crombie. He was correct, she told him. The son lived in a house not far from the Octagon Chapel with a valet, two maids and a cook/housekeeper to see to his needs.
Foxe knew he would never be admitted to the viscount’s mansion. Still, he had some hopes that the servants at Lord Aylestone’s residence would be more accommodating. Now Lord Aylestone was dead, they would need to find new positions. Foxe couldn’t imagine the viscount treating them with compassion. He was most unlikely to be concerned about them at all. He’d probably give his steward a curt instruction to get rid of them and forget about the whole matter. Would he provide them with suitable characters? It was doubtful. Beyond confirming their period of service, the steward was unlikely to know enough about any household servant to be able to add more. In effect, they would be cast onto their own resources with minimal assistance. Surely any loyalty they felt towards their former master would not survive such treatment.
When Foxe arrived at the house in Colegate, gaining entry and talking to Aylestone’s valet proved even easier than he expected. The man himself answered the door and proved to be the only one of the servants still in residence. As Foxe had assumed, he’d already been given notice. His final task was to bundle up all his former master’s clothes. Viscount Penngrove had ordered they should be burned or otherwise disposed of.
‘Burned?’ the man said to Foxe indignantly. ‘Whoever heard of suc
h waste. Still, that family have got more money than they know what to do with. We’ve all been thrown out without notice! Just the wages what was due to us! I reckoned we was worth something extra to help tide us over till we found new places. Aye, and more besides, just for putting up with Lord Bible-Basher’s moods and tantrums. The clothes will go, sure enough. I intend to take my pick first. Then I’ll sell the rest and share the money with all the other folk who worked here. If I’ve also looked around a bit and found a few other things the family won’t ever miss, who’s to know? Tell me that, sir.’
‘Well I know, now,’ Foxe said to himself. ‘This fellow’s anger has prevented him watching what he says. That’s good. I’m probably the first person who’s offered him a sympathetic ear. His fellow servants will have been worrying about themselves too much. Still, I’ve no doubt his anger is fully justified. I’m not about to peach on him and get him sent to prison.’
He turned instead to the matter of the Harlequin costume Lord Aylestone had worn on the evening of his death.
‘What can you tell me of the costume your master wore to the masquerade ball?’ he said.
‘That was a fine kettle of fish, make no mistake, sir,’ the valet replied. ‘I kept out of it as far as I could, but you can’t help hearing what’s said, can you? Not when all the parties are screeching at the top of their lah-di-dah voices. My master — ’im as were killed — tried all ways to weasel out of dressing up at all, him being so pious an’ all that.’ The valet turned his head and spat on the ground. ‘At least as he pretended. I could tell you a fair few tales about him and his holiness …’
‘The costume?’ Foxe interrupted, not wishing to spend more time than he needed on this task and sensing the valet was dying to spit out as much venom as he could.
‘That? Everyone knew Lord Bile-and-Bible Aylestone hated anything to do with entertainment. He’d tried refusing to attend the ball, but that didn’t work. Next, he tried to refuse to wear a costume, and his father swept that aside too. Threatened to cut him off without a penny, if he didn’t do as he was told. Then even his mother turned on him, declaring he was an ungrateful brat, of no use to himself or anyone else. Told him they’d had enough of him. Since he was too lazy and stupid to find himself some source of income, he could get out of this house and starve in the gutter for all they cared. She and his father weren’t going to support him any longer. They were offering him one last chance. Find a rich heiress, whose family were prepared to hand her and her dowry over in return for an alliance with a noble family. That’s why he was going to go to the masquerade ball, whether he liked it or not. “Find a wife!” she told him. “There’ll be plenty on show. Do that or face the consequences!” She was spittin’ mad!’
‘Seems they’d both had enough of their son’s ways,’ Foxe said gently, just to keep the man going on that track.
‘By God they had! The names they called him! Reminded him his brother was the heir and there was another son older than he was. He could forget about the family estates. If he didn’t do what they wanted, they’d leave him to his own devices — even if that meant living in a hovel and associating with people in trade.’
‘Back to that again,’ Foxe remarked drily.
‘It was the only real weapon they had, sir. Anyhow, when Lord Aylestone tried to whine that he wouldn’t have time to find a costume, his mother stopped that avenue of escape as well. She must have guessed what her son would do. The countess told him she’d attended an evening at the theatre soon after she and his father had returned to Norfolk for the summer. The character of a Harlequin appeared in the pantomime and she had been greatly taken with the costume. She’d already spoken with his father and they’d paid the woman who made the costumes for the theatre to make a more or less exact copy. There was no need for fittings. She’d been told to use some of the clothes they’d sent to her that were still in his former room in their house. Everything was arranged, and that was that! All he was required to do was to find his Columbine.’
After thanking the former valet and slipping a half-sovereign into his welcoming hand, Foxe hurried to the theatre as fast as he could. There he sought out Mrs Vickers, the wardrobe mistress. He found her seated comfortably in her little room backstage, heating an iron to use on a set of ruffs for a production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. A comfortable, contented little woman, well-liked by everyone who met her and always ready to help an actor who’d managed to tear his costume, or an actress who’d made a mistake and needed to conceal her swelling belly for a while. She knew Foxe very well, as did everyone permanent in the place, so she told him what he wanted right away.
‘Yes, Mr Foxe, it’s exactly as you said. I did make an almost exact copy of our best Harlequin costume for that Lord Aylestone to wear. Not my best work, I’ll admit. Seems he refused to let me take his measurements or go to his place for the fittings. It all had to be done in a terrible hurry as well. All I could work from were some shirts, breeches and jackets a servant brought for me. I wasn’t even supposed to take any of them apart neither! I did, of course, then sewed ’em up again, so neat no one would notice.’
‘Why didn’t he borrow the costume in the theatre’s wardrobe, Mrs Vickers?’
‘For a start, sir, it would have been too small and too tight. Lord Aylestone lived well. Better than most actors by a long way. He wasn’t exactly fat, more well-covered, if you know what I mean. If I’d had to alter it, I’d have had to alter it back afterwards. I wasn’t eager to do that, as you can imagine, not even for a peer of the realm. The one I made for him had a larger jacket, longer legs to the breeches and a bigger collar for the shirt. I also had to find him larger stockings and shoes. Aside from that, it was as near identical to the one in the theatre’s storeroom as I could make it.’
‘Did anything else go with the costume?’
‘There was a hat — a new one had to be bought for him — a mask … oh, and a small dagger, which went on the character’s belt. The one in the theatre had a retracting blade — you know what I mean — in case any pantomime called for a mock stabbing. Of course, that wasn’t necessary for Lord Aylestone’s costume. I believe he was to use some knife he already had, with the hilt changed to make it look like a real dagger. I believe his mother insisted. He thought it was unnecessary.’
‘What about the theatre’s original costume?’ Foxe asked. ‘Did anyone ask to borrow that?’
‘No one, sir,’ Mrs Vickers said. ‘We did lend out one or two costumes, but only to people we knew well. Mr Bewell had a shepherd and Miss Marsh a shepherdess. Mr and Mrs Handley borrowed two of the costumes we use for Othello … um … Oh, yes, that nice Mr Wherwell dressed up as a Roman using things we have here. I think that’s all.’
‘Did they all return their costumes immediately afterwards? No damage or marks to be washed out?’
‘None that I recall, Mr Foxe.’
9
The visit to the theatre satisfied Foxe’s sense of duty towards his friend Halloran, so he decided he could justifiably spend a little time on one of his other problems. His choice was the murder of the man the street children called “Uncle”. Mistress Tabby had told him that finding a resolution in that case was now his personal responsibility and he wasn’t going to let her down.
The first step had to be to identify the family whose coat-of-arms he’d found engraved on the gold pendant the dead vagrant wore. Once again, Foxe crossed the marketplace and headed down the hill towards Tombland. He passed through the entrance to the Close surrounding Norwich’s magnificent mediaeval cathedral and there, in the cathedral library, he sought out his friend, the librarian. He was bound to be able to help.
It didn’t take him long. Once Foxe had shown the librarian the pendant and its engraved crest, the man soon identified it. It belonged to the Valmar family: a long-established dynasty of gentle, though not noble, birth living at Hutton Hall to the south of the city.
‘What can you tell me of the current inhabitants of the hall?’ Foxe asked
the librarian.
‘Little enough, Mr Foxe. Hutton Hall was built in the time of the eighth King Henry, I believe — or it may have been Queen Elizabeth. A substantial house, but not an especially grand one, I think. Sir Samuel Valmar is the present head of the family. Rather a stiff-necked gentleman, as I hear. Very attached to the family’s history and what he judges to be its proper position in county society. He’s a baronet and quite wealthy. He was also High Sheriff a while ago. Friend of the bishop, of course, and a thorough-going traditionalist and Tory. Not someone I can see you liking. I certainly don’t. He’s the kind of member of the gentry who looks down on anyone who has to earn his living.’
‘He has a large landed estate?’
‘Not as large as he’d like you to believe! I’d say it was just enough to live modestly. Not nearly enough to let him make the kind of impression he wants to.’
‘You said a moment ago he was wealthy,’ Foxe said. ‘Where does his money come from, if not his estates?’
‘A wealthy wife, where else? Lady Valmar is far better born than her husband. Her family is also much wealthier than the Valmar’s were before she brought them a large dowry. To be honest, I can’t imagine how he persuaded her family to approve the match. I think her father may have been an earl. He was certainly some kind of aristocrat, but maybe it was only a baron.’
‘How old is Sir Samuel?’
‘He must be sixty or so,’ the librarian said. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve probably seen him about the cathedral a time or two, but I don’t recall much about him. His wife I do remember. A tall lady, very much the aristocrat. Her father was what people sometimes call a nabob. He came from aristocratic stock but must have been a younger son. As I understand it, he earned his title and made his fortune through serving with the East India Company. By the time he returned to England, he was governor of some Indian kingdom or other. Very able man, by all accounts. His daughter inherited his brains, which is perhaps why she didn’t marry until a little later than most. Young men of that class want breeding stock, not someone with more brains than they possess. Anyway, as I said, she brought Sir Samuel a considerable dowry. To be fair to him, I gather he’s managed it well and even increased it over the years.’
A Sickness in the Soul Page 10
