by Anna Castle
“I can manage,” Francis grumbled, but he let him help find his scattered garments and get him laced up. Francis scrubbed his teeth with a tooth cloth and grimaced at himself in his scrap of mirror. By the time Pinnock returned with his scanty breakfast, he was at least marginally presentable. Another cup of ale and a morsel of bread chased the worst of the fog from his head. Just in time — three light knocks sounded on his door.
Pinnock flung the bedcovers into some sort of order while Tom opened the door, admitting Lady Alice and her maidservant. Their wide farthingales spread across the available floor space, pushing the men to the fringes. The maidservant squeezed around the bed and found a stool to sit on, making the room feel a bit less crowded while preserving the proprieties. Pinnock went outside. Tom leaned against the half window allotted to this bedchamber, one of four partitioned off inside a once grander room.
This room might be scarcely ten feet by twelve, but Francis had it to himself, and it was inside the palace walls; strictly speaking, in the wall itself, being one of the chambers alongside the gatehouse. Not a place of importance, but lesser retainers had to pitch tents on Richmond Green or scrounge lodgings in nearby villages.
“Good morning, Lady Alice.” Francis tilted his head.
“Did Tom tell you what happened?”
“We were waiting for you.”
“Good. Well, Lady Mary Buckleigh and I found Mr. Grenville’s body this morning in the orchard when we went out to pick fruit for the queen’s breakfast.”
“How fares Her Majesty this morning?”
“Well enough, if a trifle cross-tempered. She stayed up till the wee hours after the feast. And of course she’s not pleased about Mr. Grenville.”
Francis sighed. “What happened to him?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Trumpet said. “Sir Walter seems content with the ridiculous story that Grenville fell off a ladder picking cherries and hit his head on the wall.”
“But you are not content with that explanation.”
“No. And neither is Tom. We think he was murdered.”
Francis turned a weary gaze from one eager face to the other. On the one hand, they plainly saw this misadventure as an opportunity to spend time together, which they unequivocally ought not to do. Whatever theory they had devised should probably be dismissed on the grounds of that personal motivation.
On the other hand, he had trained these unrepentant rascals in the arts of observation and inductive reasoning himself. Each had made significant contributions to the ticklish problems he had solved over the past several years. They must have seen something Ralegh missed — something significant.
“I’m listening.” Francis climbed back onto his bed, sitting cross-legged against the pillows. He might as well be comfortable. “Where in the orchard did you find the body?”
Trumpet thought a minute, head cocked. “Near the north wall that separates the orchard from the garden proper. Not in the middle. Closer to the tower in the east wall.”
Francis nodded, able to estimate the location. “What did you see?”
Trumpet folded her hands together and launched into her case. “First, the way he was lying, in a straight line with his arms along his sides, his head near the trunk of the tree, and his feet pointing toward the wall. Who could fall like that?” She glanced at Tom.
“Nobody,” he said.
“Second,” Trumpet continued, “the ladder lay alongside him, parallel to the body. You’d expect it to fall to one side at an odd angle, wouldn’t you?”
“You would,” Tom said.
Francis summoned the image to his mind’s eye as best he could, wishing he had a sketch. Tom should make drawings of these scenes in a commonplace book with a pencil — something to think about when they returned to Gray’s Inn.
He pressed an aching temple with the heel of one hand. “I wouldn’t know. I have no expertise in this area.”
“Let me show you,” Tom said. “Here’s the tree.” He gestured at the window frame. “Here’s my ladder.” He held his curled fists before him and performed a dumb show of a man placing a ladder against the tree. “If I climbed up, I’d be inside the branches. But that’s not where the cherries are. They’re out on the leafy side, where they can catch the sun. If I wanted ripe ones, I’d have to leave the ladder and climb into the tree.” He grinned. “Trust me, I have much expertise in this area.”
“I believe you,” Francis said. He always left such physical evidentia to Tom.
Tom grinned. “So here I am, out at the end of the smallest limb that will hold me, reaching for that ripe bunch of cherries.” He stretched out a long arm and flicked the fringe at the top of the bed curtains. “Let’s say I reach too far. I lose my balance and fall. Could I hit my head on the wall on the way down?”
“Maybe the back of your head,” Trumpet said. “Your ladder’s against the trunk and the wall is behind you.” She performed her own dumb show, working out an alternative scenario. “If you were reaching toward the wall in exactly the right spot, you might.”
Tom watched her, nodding. “Have to be exactly the right spot, but it’s possible. But then you’d have a scrape on your forehead, not gashes like Grenville had, and your head would land at the foot of the wall, not the other way around.”
“Not only that,” Trumpet said, shaking a finger toward the invisible ladder placed against the window frame, “the ladder would still be leaning against the tree. He wouldn’t have been standing on it when he fell. He couldn’t strike both the wall and the ladder coming down.”
“That’s right!” Tom shook his finger at the ladder too. “And besides all that, I’ve fallen off ladders before and orchard walls. There’s thick grass down there. Even if you scraped your head or got a nasty bump, it wouldn’t kill you. Unless you landed on the top of your head and broke your neck, but that’s not what happened either.”
The lively playacting made Francis feel queasy, but their arguments were compelling. “It does appear that someone moved both man and ladder. But that doesn’t mean the mover killed him.”
“Who else would do it?” Trumpet snapped.
Francis shrugged. “I merely submit the observation. We mustn’t speculate ahead of our facts.”
She rolled her eyes. “Caveat accepted. But what about the gashes?”
“Yes, I heard that,” Francis said. “Tom referred to gashes rather than scrapes. What did you see?”
Trumpet answered, “He had two gashes on his forehead: deep brown lines, like cuts, but with a squarish dark patch around them.”
“Something with an edge,” Tom said. “Not slicing-sharp like a knife, but not a flat surface either. That wall is topped with curved tiles to keep water from standing on it. It’s mossy in places too. I’d expect green smudges if he smacked his face against the front of that wall.”
“What’s more, I saw a crumbly red dust around the edges of the wounds that Sir Walter completely ignored.” Trumpet sounded affronted. So this wasn’t only an excuse to play with Tom.
“What’s the significance of the dust?”
“It looked like brick to me. The gashes could’ve been made by the edges of a brick, like the killer struck him twice, holding the brick in his hand like this.” She mimed the act with an invisible brick in her curled hand.
Francis frowned. “Perhaps there’s a brick sticking out of the wall.”
“I didn’t see one, and I looked. How could Sir Walter miss all of that?” Trumpet demanded.
“He did seem to be in a hurry to reach his conclusion and move on,” Tom said, oblivious to the quagmire spreading beneath their feet.
Francis blinked at them, turning from one indignant face to the other. Could they truly be reckless enough to accuse the queen’s favorite of complicity in this death? His heart clenched at the mere idea.
“Sir Walter’s sole concern would surely have been to limit the disturbance to Her Majesty’s peace of mind. She has enough to worry about with the war in France; she doesn�
��t need putative acts of violence in her own garden. I pray you both, for all our sakes, whatever doubts you may have, leave Sir Walter out of it.”
“But what if he did it?” Trumpet said. “Or knows who did? Shouldn’t we let the evidence lead us wherever it might go? I can’t count the times you’ve told us that.”
“We should exercise our judgment,” Francis said. “As I have also often repeated. You are not immune to the consequences of a rash accusation, my lady. The queen could ban you from court, damaging your future husband’s prospects. And Tom and I are completely vulnerable to disciplinary measures.”
She clucked her tongue. “I understand all that. I know how to keep secrets. And I know how to behave at court as well as you do. I won’t do anything anyone could construe as suggesting anything I wouldn’t wish to be construed otherwise.”
Francis groaned inwardly. That jumble of words did not effect the reassurance she intended. But he had no authority over this woman. “Politics aside, I think you’re on the wrong track. Sir Walter may be many things, but he is not underhanded. If he had a problem with Arthur Grenville, he’d confront him head on. He wouldn’t panic and hit him with a brick.”
“Put it that way,” Tom said, “and I can’t fathom it either. If he wanted to kill Mr. Grenville, he’d toss him a sword and say, ‘Defend yourself.’”
“I suppose you’re right,” Trumpet said. “He does have tremendous self-control. He’s as haughty as the Earl of Oxford, but I’ve never seen him so much as snap at a tardy servant. But the facts remain unexplained. The marks on Grenville’s forehead indicate that he was struck with a brick, and the position of the body and the ladder indicate that both were moved. Why do that if you didn’t kill him?”
“Why do it if you did?” Tom asked. “It seems kind of stupid.”
Trumpet shrugged. “The only thing I can think of is they wanted to cover up what really happened. They didn’t care how it would look later, so long as it didn’t look the way it was.”
“That makes sense,” Tom said.
“Not much,” Francis said. “Were there marks in the grass? Any other signs?”
Trumpet shook her head. “We fairly well trampled the area, I’m afraid. Our skirts were soaked and dragged all around the body, and then the men came.”
“That could not be helped,” Francis said. “Did you find a loose brick? That would support your argument.”
“No,” Tom said, “and I searched several yards out. There’s that tower nearby, so he can’t have thrown it over.” His mouth dropped open. “Unless he tossed it inside a window!”
“Into the one empty room in these ten acres,” Francis said dryly, “where it doubtless lies unnoticed even now. I believe the French ambassador occupies that tower at present. Perhaps you should wake him up and inquire.”
Tom gave him a sour look. “I merely submit the observation.”
“There weren’t any holes in the wall near the body,” Trumpet said. “I tested a few, looking for loose ones, but I didn’t have much time.” She caught Tom’s eyes. “We should examine that wall more closely.”
“You’re thinking of concealed letters,” Francis said.
Trumpet nodded. “If Grenville caught someone hiding an incriminating message in the wall, that person might have panicked and struck him with the brick.”
“That’s plausible,” Francis said. “Barely. Equally plausible is that Mr. Grenville really did fall and hit his head in exactly the right spot. Then a gardener found him and straightened out the body from a misguided sense of respect. Then, fearing he might be blamed, laid the ladder in the grass where it wouldn’t be so noticeable and ran away. He might have restored the brick to the wall as a matter of course, tidying up being part of his job.”
Tom and Trumpet frowned at each other with furled brows, carrying on some silent communication. Then both heads shook in unison. “That’s possible,” Tom said, “but we don’t believe it. However” — he interjected loudly to forestall a reply — “it’s easily checked. I’ll question the orchard men.”
“And I’ll search that wall for a loose brick,” Trumpet said. “It can’t be far from where the body was found.”
“We know you’re trying to discourage us,” Tom said. “But don’t you think we should find out who killed Grenville?”
“I do not.” Francis waited for their shock to subside. “We have no role here. Sir Walter and Mr. Danby, the men whose job it is to investigate cases of sudden death within the verge, examined the situation and reached a reasonable conclusion.”
“Not reasonable at all!” Trumpet cried. “It fits none of the observable facts.”
Francis refused to react to her injured tone. “I agree that their interpretation has gaps, my lady, but we have no standing. No one has asked for my interference or yours.”
“We can’t just let it go,” Tom said. “What about justice?”
Francis gave him a weary look.
“All right,” Tom said, “but can’t you hint around and get someone to ask? Grenville must have a friend or two somewhere.” He shrugged at Trumpet. “Stephen liked him.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s not much of a recommendation.”
Tom started snapping his fingers in the air, signaling the onset of a fresh idea. “What if it is someone hiding letters? What kind of letters would be secret at court?”
“Lovers arranging trysts,” Francis said.
Tom and Trumpet traded guilty glances. Someone really must say something to these two about the facts of life. Alas, he was the only person who knew such a lesson was needed. Francis rubbed his temple again.
Trumpet said, “There are other kinds of secrets floating around too, you know. Whose aunt is a crypto-Catholic; who’s in debt to a foreign agent. Although I don’t know why you’d put that sort of thing in a letter in a wall.”
“That’s it!” Tom said. “Political secrets! That would be the business of the Secretary of State, which, since we don’t have an official one anymore, would be your cousin Mr. Cecil. Let’s ask him.”
Francis rolled his eyes. “I’m sure Sir Robert has enough to do.”
“Sir Robert?” Tom cocked his head, surprised. “How did that happen?”
“The usual way,” Trumpet said. “The queen knighted him at Theobalds in May. Didn’t you know?”
“Why would I?” Tom shrugged. “What’s he ever done? Can you be knighted for writing heaps of letters?”
“No.” Francis swallowed a surge of bile. “But you can be knighted at the request of a father with the power and the will to hoist his son into the seat nearest the throne.”
Tom shot him a sympathetic glance that made Francis’s head pound more. He didn’t want sympathy. It only underscored the uncatchable distance between him and his cousin.
“Then you stay out of it,” Tom said. “We’ll leave your cousin out of it. But I don’t see why we have to have a patron. I’ve got time on my hands, to be honest. I might as well poke around a little.”
“Me too,” Trumpet said. “I can ask a few very discreet questions here and there.”
“Good,” Tom said, nodding at her. “We have access to different people. Our general idea is that Grenville caught somebody leaving a message about a secret, something worth protecting at the cost of a man’s life. So all we have to do is find someone at court who has some kind of serious secret.” He grinned at them, setting his fist on his hip.
Francis met Trumpet’s eyes and saw his own expression mirrored there — dumbfounded disbelief at Tom’s innocence. All secrets were serious at court.
SIX
THE MINUTE THEY LEFT, Francis pulled off his doublet and hose and burrowed back into his bed. He lay on his stomach with a pillow over his head and willed himself to go back to sleep. No good. He sat up, plumped the pillows, and lay on his back. His eyes refused to stay closed. He lay glowering up at the underside of the sagging red tester as if the elderly bed fittings were to blame.
He sighed and su
rrendered to the undeniable fact that he was wide awake. Worse, the sun had risen high enough to pour through his small window. He’d have to get up to open it or risk suffocation. Once up, he could either sit on the unmade bed and read or he could dress properly and go enjoy the comforts of King Henry’s well-appointed library.
If only he could stop thinking about that body in the orchard. He didn’t waste a minute imagining that Sir Walter had had anything to do with it. It was the Captain of the Guard’s job to protect the queen from unpleasant disturbances. Nor did he believe in his suggestion that a gardener had rearranged the scene. He’d only said that to be contrary.
But he couldn’t dismiss a case presented by his own intelligencers. However poor their judgment in the conduct of their personal affairs, he knew them both to be of greater than average intelligence. Of course, he would never tell them that.
Nor were they so besotted with one another as to agree simply for the sake of agreement. Each had spent some minutes alone with the body, studying the situation. Each had separately concluded that Grenville could not have died from a blow incurred by falling off a ladder.
Someone had rearranged the body. Why? Why not leave it as it had originally fallen? Had there been something under it that had to be retrieved? The brick, perhaps. Or a letter? The overly precise placement of the ladder suggested an inexperienced killer or perhaps that the death had been accidental, in the sense of unplanned.
That must be true, now that he thought of it. There would have been an imminent risk of discovery in the orchard on a summer evening. The killer might have moved the body and the ladder out of panic and then run away. Like the supposed gardener, but with a real motive. The precise placement also proved that the deed had been done before sunset. The moon had been dark last night.
If a rendezvous had been arranged with murder in mind, the killer would surely have brought a weapon easier to wield than a brick. Nor did Grenville’s death appear to be the result of the sort of hot-blooded scuffle that occasionally broke out among prideful courtiers contending for — for everything. Women, favors, honors. But then one would expect a death by stabbing, not from a blow on the head.
