Mistress of Fortune

by Holly West

  I didn’t notice the woman standing in the shadows until I was almost upon her. It took a moment for recognition to sink in. It was Sir Edmund Godfrey’s servant girl, Charlotte.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry, Lady Wilde,” she said. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  I ushered her into the house and asked her to sit in the drawing room, wincing as I lowered myself into the seat across from her. She moved her eyes from my bloodied hands to the shredded silk stockings encasing my bare feet. Self-conscious, I arranged my skirts to hide my legs and concealed my hands in the pockets of my cloak.

  “Tell me what happened, Charlotte.”

  “Mr. Moor dismissed me this afternoon, m’lady. He gave no reason, just told me to pack my things and be off. I think it’s because he knew I’d talked to you.”

  I felt a pang of responsibility for Charlotte’s dismissal but reminded myself it was she who’d sought me out, not the other way around.

  “I’m curious,” I said. “Why did you give me the pieces of paper you found in the fire?”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “To tell you truly, m’lady, I acted without thinking. My mother always warned me it would get me in trouble, and now I guess it has. But I tried to show the papers to Mrs. Pamphlin and she refused to look at them. Told me I should be ashamed for putting my nose where it didn’t belong.”

  “Why didn’t you just destroy them?”

  “I heard some of your conversation with Mrs. Pamphlin and I knew you wanted to know what happened to Sir Edmund as badly as I did. The rest of ’em seem more concerned with keeping up appearances. Do you know what the note said?”

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to decipher it.” My words extinguished the hope in her eyes. “Think back to the night before Sir Edmund disappeared. What did the messenger who delivered the note look like?”

  “He was around my age, twenty or so, I’d say. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him, except—”

  “What?” I prompted.

  She blushed. “He was a mighty handsome bloke.”

  I sighed inwardly, for I’d been hoping for a more useful revelation than that. “Did he say anything?”

  “Just that he had a message for Sir Edmund needing immediate delivery. I gave it to Sir Edmund and it upset him greatly when he read it. He was in such a tether, he threw the note into the fire and then removed a stack of papers from his desk. He threw them into the fire as well. Mrs. Pamphlin begged him to stop, and finally, Mr. Moor came in and tried to reason with him. But Sir Edmund would have none of it—he just kept throwing papers into the fire. It scared me, it did. I thought he’d gone mad.”

  If Sir Edmund had thrown many papers into the fire that night, it was entirely possible that the fragments Charlotte had given me weren’t from the original note at all. No wonder I hadn’t been able to decipher them—there was no way to even know what they’d originally been comprised of.

  “Are you certain he threw everything into the fire? Might he have kept part of it? Put it in his pocket?”

  “If he did, I didn’t see him do it.”

  “Mrs. Pamphlin told me Sir Edmund seemed agitated in the days before his disappearance. What do you think? Had he been different? More nervous than usual?”

  Charlotte paused, thinking about the question. “Now that you ask—he was quieter than usual and distracted all the time. More than once he asked me to fetch him something, and no sooner had I brought it he asked me again, completely forgetting I’d already done it. Mrs. Pamphlin and Mr. Moor were all the time asking ‘Is there anything wrong, sir?’ He’d always just shake his head absently, as though he’d barely heard them.”

  “But you don’t know the reason for his distraction?”

  Charlotte hung her head. “No, ma’am. ’Twas not my place to inquire.”

  “No, I suppose not.” I sighed. “What happened after he burned the papers?”

  “He left the house saying he’d promised to attend a party at his friend Mr. Wynel’s residence. Mrs. Pamphlin tried to get him to reconsider, but he was adamant.”

  “Do you remember what time he left?”

  “It was well after supper, around nine o’clock, I’d say.”

  The note Sir Edmund left at Coal Yard Alley said he wanted to meet Mistress Ruby at ten o’clock the same night. If he’d left his house at nine, I wagered he hadn’t gone to Mr. Wynel’s but to Coal Yard Alley instead. Had he ever arrived at Mr. Wynel’s party or had it simply been an excuse to get out of the house?

  “Did you see Sir Edmund again that night?” I asked.

  “No, not until the following morning.”

  “And how was he then?”

  “He seemed…” Charlotte searched for just the right word. “Determined, ma’am. Like he had something important to do and meant to get it done. I remember being surprised he was in such good spirits since he’d been so upset the night before.”

  “He left right after breakfast, is that correct? And he never returned?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I never saw him alive again. Oh my lady, d’ye think they’ll be able to find out who killed him? I overheard what the constable told the family when his body was found. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  My, she did like to eavesdrop, didn’t she? I’d have to remember that if she stayed in my house for any length of time.

  Sam entered the drawing room looking angry enough to spit fire. “Where the devil—” he said, stopping abruptly when he saw Charlotte. I handed her my handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes with it.

  “Hello, Sam,” I said pointedly. “Why don’t you go help Elijah with the horses? I won’t be much longer here.”

  He scowled but left us alone. “You may stay here a day or two until you find another job,” I said to Charlotte. “Go to the kitchen and ask Alice to prepare a pallet for you, and some food, if you’re hungry.”

  * * *

  I was upstairs, readying myself for bed when Sam returned from the stables. The force of his knock told me he was still angry but I invited him in anyway. Better to get this over with.

  “Where in God’s name did you go tonight?” he asked. “I was frantic with worry.”

  I looked at him through the reflection of the mirror. There was blood on my cheek and my hair had come undone, falling awkwardly to one side. I began to remove the remaining pins.

  “Sam, I’m sorry. Titus Oates attended the party tonight and it was a perfect opportunity to inspect his rooms.”

  “You went to the palace alone? Why would you do such a foolish thing?”

  “There was no time to fetch you. I didn’t know how long Oates would stay away.”

  Sam strode over and stood next to me. He looked as tired as I felt. “That’s ridiculous. I was waiting with Elijah and the carriage, not two minutes from Nell’s house.”

  “If you want the truth,” I said. “I didn’t come to find you because I was afraid if we got caught in Oates’s rooms you’d be arrested. I couldn’t take that risk.”

  His relented then, but only slightly. “Regardless,” he said, “you should never have gone there alone. Have you forgotten the attack a few days ago?” He paused. “What did you find?”

  I brushed my hair while I told him what happened. I omitted the part about losing my shoes—I knew he’d go back to try to find them and it wasn’t worth the risk of him getting caught. “If Oates has the diary, I didn’t find it. I can’t imagine where else it might be.”

  “And the girl?” He hooked his thumb toward the door.

  “That’s Charlotte. She was dismissed today.” There was a question in his eyes and I waved the brush toward the door. “She worked for Sir Edmund—you remember, the girl who gave me the note fragments. I told her she could stay here until she found a new post.”

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea to trust her?”

  “I think she’s honest enough,” I said. “And anyway, it’s just temporary
.”

  “Be careful,” Sam said. “All she gave you were a few burned pieces of paper. You have no idea where her loyalties might lie.”

  I was too tired to argue and besides that, he was right. I turned my back to him. “Loosen my stays, please.”

  “You’d best find a new waiting woman soon, for I’ll not be adding that to my duties.” He left me to do it myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Saturday, 19 October 1678

  In the morning a thorough examination of the scratches I’d suffered the night before revealed they were not as serious as I’d originally thought. In fact, once I cleaned them, they were hardly noticeable. My ankle, however, had grown thicker during the night and throbbed painfully when I put my weight on it. I slipped my feet into the shortest-heeled shoes I owned and hobbled downstairs.

  I entered the kitchen and found Charlotte and Alice working side by side, engaged in happy chatter. Amused, I stood there a moment and watched. They stopped abruptly when they noticed me.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Alice said. “Charlotte offered to help with the laundry and cooking today.”

  “Aye ma’am,” Charlotte said. “’Twas I who insisted on helping.”

  I smiled at them. “It doesn’t concern me who does the work around here so long as it’s done.”

  After a quick breakfast, Sam and I set off for Nicolas Cambridge’s residence in Holborn, which turned out to be a crumbling house on Hatton Street. Heeding my sore ankle, I asked Sam to fetch Cambridge and bring him to me. I watched from the carriage as Sam rapped on the door. An old bald man answered it a few moments later.

  The two men spoke briefly before Sam returned. “The landlord says he’s not seen Cambridge in at least two days. I left a message asking him to come to your house.”

  This concerned me, for it seemed possible that Cambridge’s bold words at Sir Edmund’s inquest had landed him into some trouble. “Did he seem concerned for Cambridge’s welfare?” I asked.

  “Not so that I could tell. Cambridge probably found himself a pretty whore somewhere and couldn’t be bothered to come home.”

  Reckoning that Sam was probably right, I decided we’d next go to see Sir Edmund’s friend, Thomas Wynel. He’d presumably seen Sir Edmund on the night he’d received the ominous summons and thus might offer valuable information.

  Charlotte had told me Wynel lived in Westminster, not far from Sir Edmund Godfrey’s home. As we headed down Charing Cross in the direction of Hartshorn Lane, there was more of a commotion than usual on the narrow street. I changed my mind and asked Elijah to go to Sir Edmund’s house instead.

  We hadn’t gone far before traffic came to an abrupt stop; curious onlookers had crowded the area so that even the busy dockworkers had trouble passing. With heavy cartons balanced precariously on their shoulders, they resorted to angry shoving. When, after several minutes, we were no closer to Sir Edmund’s house, I exited the carriage and made my way painfully on foot. Sam led me through the horde, putting one arm around me whilst shielding my body with the other.

  It wasn’t long before I saw what was causing the clamor—Sir Edmund’s body was laid out on a platform in the street in front of the house. Four sturdy men guarded his corpse, two standing at the head and two at the foot. To my surprise, they wore the Duke of Buckingham’s red and black livery.

  A young man stood on top of one of the cargo boxes, shouting to the gathering crowd and waving his raised fist toward the sky. “Let Sir Edmund Godfrey’s tragic fate warn all who doubt: Protestant blood will spill into the streets and our deaths will be at the hands of the papists!”

  The transfixed mob cheered him on, screaming for more. He was well dressed, handsome, and clean, precisely the sort of person the opposition would want to spread their message. Had Buckingham employed him to incite the crowd? At that point, it wouldn’t have surprised me to see Buckingham himself standing on that wooden box.

  There was another guard stationed at the front door, but I paid him no attention. When I raised my hand to knock, he stopped me. “State your business, madam,” he said.

  “I’ve come to see Mrs. Pamphlin,” I said.

  He made no reply and knocked on the door himself. Mr. Moor opened it and upon seeing me, he pursed his mouth, giving me the sort of disgusted look one might give the filthiest of beggars. “Yes?” he said.

  “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Pamphlin, if I may, Mr. Moor,” I said, using the sweetest tone I could muster.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He began to close the door. Sam moved to stop him but the guard intervened, poised for a fight.

  With so much commotion and no less than five armed men guarding the premises, it seemed foolish to press the point. “Let’s go, Sam,” I said.

  As I limped back to the carriage, someone in the crowd elbowed me sharply in the ribs and I cried out with pain. Sam angrily took hold of the man nearest me and shoved him roughly to the ground. The mob around us swelled with anger.

  “Sam, hurry!” I said, genuinely frightened for our safety.

  Sam did his best to shield me as we pushed through the people and ran to the carriage. He opened the door for me and I jumped inside, slamming it shut behind me. “Make haste,” he told Elijah. He hopped on the back of the carriage, and we nearly hit a hackney as it careened in the other direction.

  * * *

  Thomas Wynel’s manservant informed Sam that his employer had gone to dinner at the nearby Blue Boar’s Head Inn, a well-known tavern on King Street. I entered the tavern alone while Sam remained with Elijah and the carriage. Even that short distance caused my ankle to throb, and I sank gratefully into a seat at a small table by the door.

  I asked the barmaid to bring me some beer and when she returned with it, I offered her a half crown. “Can you tell me which man is Thomas Wynel?”

  She took the coin and turned toward the hearth. “He’s over there, ma’am. The one with the red neckband.”

  Wynel was a distinguished older man with short graying hair and a pleasant fleshy face. He sat with four other men of similar ages, all engaged in a lively conversation. The barmaid brought my beer and I drank it while I waited for the group to finish, reflecting on the unsettling scene outside Sir Edmund’s house.

  The mob’s hatred had been palpable; any Catholic brave—or foolish—enough to show his face there would’ve been ripped to pieces in seconds. Sam and I only narrowly escaped the same fate ourselves. If Buckingham had hoped to gain favor for his cause against the Duke of York’s succession by using Sir Edmund’s death to bait the crowd, his plan had succeeded brilliantly.

  A half an hour or more passed before Wynel and his companions finally said their goodbyes. Wynel slowed to adjust his hat as he passed my table, and I seized the opportunity to catch his attention.

  “Mr. Wynel,” I said. “My name is Lady Wilde. May I have a moment of your time?”

  One of his companions gave him a questioning look. “You go on without me,” Wynel told him. “I’ll be along soon.” He took a seat and rested his hands on the table. “You look familiar, Lady Wilde. Have we met before?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir. I’m sure you find it odd that I’d detain a stranger, but this matter is important so I hope you’ll forgive the interruption.”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “I am—I was—an acquaintance of Sir Edmund Godfrey,” I said. Wynel’s body stiffened at the mention of his murdered friend’s name. “I was told he’d attended a supper at your home the night before he disappeared, and I hoped you’d answer some questions.”

  “You’ll pardon me, madam, but I must decline your request. I will not discuss Sir Edmund’s personal affairs with a stranger.”

  I lowered my eyes. “I’ll confess, Mr. Wynel. Sir Edmund was—he was more than a mere acquaintance to me.”

  “He never mentioned you,” he said, clearly dubious.

  “Discretion prevented it, of course. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t reveal t
his information to anyone else. Like you, I have no desire to see his reputation sullied.”

  Wynel softened his steely expression. “Tell me what it is you’d like to know and I’ll see if I can help.”

  I smiled gratefully. “Is it true that Sir Edmund attended a party at your home the night before he disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did he arrive?”

  “I don’t recall exactly, but after ten o’clock, I’d say. It was well after supper ended, and some of the guests had already left.”

  “Did he tell you why he was so late?”

  “No.”

  “Sir Edmund believed in promptness,” I said, making this assumption based on what I knew of him. “But in the weeks before his disappearance he was increasingly late for our appointments, sometimes missing them altogether. It was entirely unlike him.”

  Wynel nodded. “He gave no reason for his tardiness that night, but he did appear distracted. At first, I attributed it to his melancholia—”

  “His melancholia?” I recalled my conversation with the king regarding Sir Edmund’s possible suicide. He’d mentioned Sir Edmund’s melancholia too, but given the jury’s verdict of murder by strangulation, I’d disregarded it.

  “I’m sorry, Lady Wilde,” Wynel said. “I prefer not to speak of it.”

  “Please, sir. I’m only trying to understand what happened to Sir Edmund. Before his death he was nervous and strangely short-tempered. I asked him repeatedly what the matter was but he told me not to concern myself with it. Now he’s dead and I will not be satisfied until I learn the truth.”

  Wynel took a deep breath, biding his time. When he finally did speak, his voice was quieter than it had been. “Sir Edmund suffered greatly from melancholia—no amount of treatment would diminish it. Perhaps you noticed it. He inherited it from his father, who’d killed his own self because of it.”

  My skin prickled at the revelation. Was the king’s conviction that Sir Edmund had killed himself correct? I’d seen his body at the inquest—it didn’t seem possible that a man could inflict those injuries upon himself.