“Yes, madam. But what of it?”
“I looked at his doublet when I was packing it,” I said, “and there were two buttons missing, right enough, but when I looked again at the one you found, I saw that it wasn’t one of them. The stars embroidered on the black doublet and its buttons are proper five-sided stars with the outlines filled in with silver stitchery while the one we found on the floor has a crisscross pattern in silver thread. It’s similar at a casual glance but not when you really look at it. It doesn’t resemble buttons on any other item of his clothing, either.”
“But . . .” said Dale, puzzled, and then stopped.
“I showed it to Mistress Macnab and asked if it had come from the clothing of anyone in the house,” I said. “I didn’t say where I’d found it—just that I’d picked it up off the floor. She looked at it and said no, it didn’t belong to anyone in her house and I believe her.”
“So, what are you saying, madam?” Brockley asked.
“I thought when we found it,” I said, “that it was evidence that Edward had gone out wearing his best doublet, which might mean he had gone to see one or other of his contacts, Sir Brian Dormbois or Lady Simone Dougal. They sound like the sort of people one wouldn’t normally visit in travel-stained riding clothes. While I was talking to Mistress Macnab, I asked her to tell me as much as she could about anything Edward had said or done after he arrived. I said his wife would want to know.”
They nodded.
“It seems,” I said, “that although Mistress Macnab doesn’t know whether or not he went out on the day after he arrived, he did indeed go out the previous evening—that would have been to the tavern—and was only wearing his brown riding clothes then. She said he wasn’t gone all that long. Now, if you remember, at the inquiry, Adam Ericks said that while he himself was in the tavern, Edward came in, wearing a cross, and by the sound of it, their argument broke out almost at once.”
“Yes, Ericks did say that,” Brockley agreed. “And he asked your cousin who he was, and Master Faldene told him his name. There’s no doubt that Master Faldene was the man Ericks quarreled with.”
“Yes. When Edward came back, Mistress Macnab let him in, but she didn’t see him clearly because of course it was after dark and she only had a candle. She didn’t know until the inquiry that he’d been in a fight. He didn’t tell her. What he did tell her, next day, was that he wasn’t feeling well and he spoke through the attic door—he wouldn’t show her his face. Mistress Macnab may not know whether or not he did go out that day, but the maidservant thinks not. I spoke to her as well. He had all three meals—breakfast, dinner, and supper—in his room. He was called for each of them, but every time he said he was unwell and asked for the food to be left outside his door. I suspect that he stayed indoors all that day, and it does look as though he didn’t want anyone to see his face—didn’t want to be seen with the marks of a fight on him, in fact.”
“That lump on his jaw, madam,” said Brockley. “We thought it was part of—of what his murderer did to him, but it might have been done by Adam Ericks.”
“Very probably,” I said. “But do you see what I’m saying? When he went out to the tavern, he apparently wasn’t gone long, so I doubt if he went anywhere else first, and in any case he wasn’t dressed for visiting. When he got into the tavern, Adam Ericks accosted him at once, so he didn’t have much of a chance to speak to anyone else then, either. The next day, he almost certainly stayed in. What all this means is that he had no opportunity to get in touch with either of his contacts. And in that case—where’s the list?”
There was a silence.
At length, I said: “I was afraid to speak of that list to the provost or in the court. I didn’t know where it might lead. Religious feelings quite obviously run high in Scotland, and when I heard that story about the attack on the chapel when Queen Mary was hearing mass, I was sure I was right to be afraid. I could have found myself under suspicion of spying! It would be said that no innocent person ought to know anything about a thing like that list. I feel contaminated because I do know of it!”
I paused, but they were silent, guessing, I think, what was going to come next.
“From the first,” I told them, “although I came without their knowledge or consent, I knew that I had a responsibility to Sir William Cecil and the queen, as far as that list is concerned. I agreed to chase Edward and get it back if I could, for their sake as well as my family’s. I wanted to destroy it. Only, I have to find it first.”
“And also,” I added, after I had paused again and neither Brockley nor Dale had replied, “Edward Faldene, however misguided, was my cousin. He has been murdered. Well, I want to know who did it, and it seems to me that the list and the murder could be connected.”
“And you intend, madam, to make your own inquiries?” said Brockley, finding his tongue at last.
“Yes, Brockley.”
The pockmarks were standing out on Dale’s face, a sure sign that she was horrified. Brockley was shaking his head. “It would have been better,” he said, “to give full information to the provost and let him do it.”
“I told you. I thought it would be dangerous for me and perhaps for you.”
“And this,” said Brockley, “a private inquiry of your own—isn’t?”
9
Delightful Enemy
Although I thought it most unlikely that he had seen them, the obvious place to start was nevertheless with Edward’s contacts.
“Apart from a button with a silver crisscross pattern on it, they’re the only leads I have,” I said to Dale and Brockley. “I suppose it’s just possible that he saw one of them when he first arrived in Edinburgh, before he came to the Macnabs—or that he sent the list to one of them by a messenger. At least, they may know something about any other acquaintances, or business, or enemies that Edward had in Edinburgh. I must start somewhere.”
The problem was to find them. Helene had given me their names but she hadn’t known where Lady Simone lived, and what she knew about Dormbois wasn’t too helpful, either. He had a house outside Edinburgh, apparently, but was in the service of one of the queen’s uncles. I supposed that he had accompanied the royal Progress.
“We might inquire about them at Holyrood,” I said. “Someone there might know.”
Brockley, however, once he had wearily accepted that I meant what I said, offered an idea of his own. “The minister at the Kirk of St. Giles might have heard of them, even if they’re not members of his own flock. I fancy he would know something about all the foremost people of Edinburgh. If you wish, I’ll go and ask him.”
“Please do,” I said. I looked out of the window. The day had started bright but the sky was darkening. “Meanwhile,” I said, “Dale and I must buy ourselves some clogs. I think the streets will soon be muddy.”
When we returned to the lodgings, carrying the clogs in a bag, Brockley was waiting for us. In fact, he was gossiping in the kitchen with our landlady’s maidservant and her spitboy, but he heard our voices at the door and came out to meet us.
“I’ve been scraping acquaintance with the household, madam. You never know when you might hear something useful.”
“Did you see the minister?” I asked him.
Brockley’s normally impassive face broke into its rare smile. “I did, madam. He knew both Dormbois and Lady Simone. He is not sure, but supposes that Dormbois is with the court, as you thought. Lady Simone Dougal however is here in the city, in fact farther up this very street, nearer to Holyrood. Her home is called Pieris House. It’s just past St. Mary’s Street, the minister said. Not that I need have troubled him, not on account of Lady Simone.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“I mean, madam, that one of her servants has been here with a letter for you.” He held it out. “I rather think, from what the man said, that Lady Simone is as anxious to see you as you are to see her.”
I broke the seal and read the letter aloud. The Lady Simone Dougal would be mo
st grateful if Madame de la Roche, widow of Matthew de la Roche, would be kind enough to call on her on the morrow, after dinner, at the hour of three.
I looked at Brockley. “The hand of fate,” I said.
The smile had gone from his face. “I hope not in ambush,” he said.
“Oh, come now, Brockley!”
“As you were reading that letter out, madam, I was thinking of what we saw in Master Faldene’s room. I am not easy about this. I wish we were leaving at once. One of these days, madam,” said Brockley grimly, “you will end up in a dungeon or dead, and us with you!”
Dale looked frightened. “Brockley,” I said, “all three of us have been in dungeons before now, and I grant you that we’ve come near to being dead as well. But I don’t think a social visit to a well-bred Edinburgh lady is likely to have such drastic results.”
“We’ve visited at least one well-bred lady before, with very drastic results,” said Brockley grimly.
He was referring, as I well knew, to a journey we had once made to Wales, to a castle with a most remarkable chatelaine.
“I’m quite sure,” I said bracingly, “that there can’t be two Lady Thomasines!”
• • •
It poured with rain that night, turning the streets to quagmires, just as I had feared, with rivulets of water running down every slope. I had spent money on clogs, but if you wish to make a good impression on a lady of title, it isn’t advisable to arrive at her door mud-splashed and clumping along in clogs. I therefore sent Brockley for our horses and we did it in style, in the saddle.
Pieris House was handsome. Built of gray stone, it was tall, as so many buildings in Edinburgh seemed to be; and looked quite modern, with its elegant windows and its ornamental towers and chimneys. It stood behind the protection of a gatehouse and courtyard, but the gate was invitingly open, and when the porter learned who I was, it was only moments before we were shown into the courtyard, where grooms came to take our horses, and a butler, dressed as formally as the provost had been, came down the steps from the main door to escort us inside.
Brockley, as was his habit, went off with the horses, but Dale and I were led up a wide, shallow flight of oaken stairs that rose through three stories, before we were taken through a curtained door into a most delightful parlor. Tall windows, set in deep embrasures with cushioned seats, gave a view out to the sea, and the fire in the hearth smelled of applewood. Underfoot the boards were spread with rushes, as at Bycroft, but sprigs of sweet rosemary were scattered among them to refresh the air, and the walls were hung with tapestries. Rich mulberry velvet curtains kept drafts from stealing through the doors at each end of the room. There was a shelf of books, several carved settles strewn with more bright cushions, and a table spread with white damask, on which wine and cakes stood waiting.
And on a couch near the fireside, with an embroidery frame in her hands and a glossy rug of dark fur drawn over her, lay the crippled lady who had smiled at us when we were leaving the inquiry.
“You are Lady Simone Dougal?” I said in surprise.
Remembering my manners, I dropped quickly into a curtsy, but our hostess had put her work aside and was stretching out a hand to me. “No formality, if you please.” She spoke good English but her accent was French. “My dear Madame de la Roche, I am glad that you could come. Seat yourself and take some refreshment, yes, and your woman too. This is an hospitable house, I hope!”
She was as delightful as her parlor, a fragile little lady with a white, paper-thin skin, and eyes, which though sunken with time and ill-health, were still a beautiful summer blue. Her white cap was set on the back of her head and the soft hair in front of it was halfway between gold and white. She smiled at me once more.
“Forgive me for not rising. I had an illness some years ago, a fever like so many other fevers, but when I recovered, I found I had lost the use of my legs.”
“I am sorry. Would you prefer it,” I said, “if we talked in French? I speak the language well.”
The blue eyes lit up. “What a pleasure,” she said in her native language. “I would, indeed. I came from France, you know, a quarter of a century ago, when the present queen’s mother, Mary of Guise, came over to marry the Scottish king. I and one of my cousins were among her maids of honor. We both married here in Scotland, and my cousin’s daughter now serves Queen Mary. Robert and I had no children, alas. If we had, I would have made sure they grew up knowing French. Take some wine, my dear. That too is French, from the vineyards of the Loire Valley, which I believe you know so well.”
“Indeed,” I said, and signed to Dale to pour for us. “Wine for you, Lady Simone?”
“A little, yes. I thank you.” Though she was ailing and well past her youth, she was as fresh and feminine as a primrose. “Chérie,” she said tenderly, “if I may call you so, I asked you here for a reason and not a happy one. But I was so distressed to learn of the shocking death of your cousin Edward Faldene, and it seemed to me, when I went to the inquiry, that perhaps you were not saying all you guessed at. You came to Scotland at the behest of his family, did you not, because they feared he was running into danger. But what kind of danger? Do you know more than you said when you bore witness? Do you have any idea who killed him?”
I regarded her sadly. “Lady Simone,” I said, “if you had not sent for me, I would have come anyway. To ask you the same question.”
We studied each other for several moments, sipping the excellent wine and considering what to say next. At length, I said: “One thing I wished to ask was whether or not Edward came to see you or in any way got in touch with you before he . . . before he was killed. He was out in the town two evenings before, that much we know.”
Lady Simone shook her head. “No, he did not. How is it, by the way, that you knew, before I wrote to you, that he and I were acquainted?”
“His wife, Helene, gave me your name and said that he meant to call on you,” I said cautiously.
“Did she say why?”
I hesitated. Then I said: “It is true that I was wary when I bore witness at the inquiry. In fact, I believe that he may have had a message for Queen Mary, which he wished to pass to her through you. As well as wishing, very much, to find out who murdered my cousin, I would also like to know whether that message reached its destination safely. You see,” I added confidingly, and with regret, because she was so very sweet and I was deceiving her, “I think it possible that he was carrying the message, whatever it was, on behalf of my husband, Matthew de la Roche. You evidently know that my husband is dead, since your invitation to me described me as his widow. Had you met him?”
“I didn’t know he was dead until the inquiry, when you declared yourself as his widow, chérie. I never met him, but I had heard of Matthew de la Roche, yes, for his name is known at Queen Mary’s court and my young cousin sometimes visits me and talks of court affairs. I must offer you my condolences. My own Robert passed away only two years ago and I have not yet ceased from weeping. You, of course, wish to see that whatever business your husband had in hand was completed. You are a Faldene by birth, I imagine, and you married De la Roche, so that must make you a Catholic too.”
“But naturally,” I said, and was thankful that as we were speaking in French, Dale probably hadn’t followed this. She spoke a little of the language but not well. If she had understood, she probably wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from looking scandalized.
Lady Simone sighed. “I wish I could help but I cannot. Edward Faldene did not come to me or send any message to me. Was it written down or carried in his head? You found nothing among his belongings?”
“No, nothing. Most certainly, I looked. Lady Simone . . .”
“Yes, my dear?”
“He had another possible contact, a man called Sir Brian Dormbois. I believe he is with the court. If you happen to know anything about him . . .”
“Dormbois? I can’t tell you where he is just now but very likely with the court, yes. He has charge of some of
the retainers of the queen’s uncle Rene. The court is on Progress, though expected back in Edinburgh soon—at the end of next week, I believe. They were going to Fife, on the far side of the firth. Let me see . . . Liz-zie!” Startlingly, the flowerlike Lady Simone raised her voice and emitted a musical but extremely carrying call, and from beyond the mulberry curtain at the far end of the room a maidservant appeared. Lady Simone rapped out something in very broad Scots and the girl, with a curtsy, disappeared, to return a moment later with a small wooden box. Lady Simone opened it, rummaged in it, and produced a piece of paper.
“My young cousin—Mary Seton, she is called—gave me this in case I should want to write to her while she is away on the Progress. It is a list of the places the queen intends to visit and the dates, as near as possible. The weather may interfere, of course; it often does. Ah, yes. I think the court will be at Wemyss Castle now, on the way back, and yes, should return to Edinburgh on Saturday week. Sir Brian Dormbois will come with it.”
“I think,” I said, “that I would like to present myself at the court when it returns—except, of course, that I am not sure if I’ll be able to enter it. I realize that my husband’s name was known there, but it is a fact, as you will have heard at the inquiry, Lady Simone, that I have also served Queen Elizabeth. Perhaps I would not be permitted entrance.”
“Ah. Now there I can help you. A letter of introduction from me will smooth your way. Liz-zie!” The simple device of the handbell was apparently not known at Pieris House, but Lady Simone somehow managed to let out these commanding calls without losing one whit of her grace. The maidservant reappeared and was sent off to fetch writing materials. “And what about clothes?” said Lady Simone. “Did you come provided with dresses suitable for court?”
A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) Page 9
