Let Slip the Dogs

by Anna Castle

  “No. No, of course you’re right.” Stephen’s shoulders sank. “But what, then?”

  Tom shot a glance at Bacon. He’d thought of the perfect solution, though no one would like it. “We can’t move her; therefore she must stay here. But you mustn’t be blamed for her death; therefore you can’t be here when she’s found. Which means that we must move you.”

  “Move me where?” Stephen demanded.

  “Into your wife’s bed.” Tom nodded as Stephen’s mouth dropped open. “That’s right. Here’s the story. You spent the night in the arms of your loving wife — to your mutual surprise. Anne, meanwhile, determined to retain the affections of her one true love — that’s you, my lord — sneaks into your bedchamber. She, like you, was expecting Lady Alice to kick you out once duty had been done. Anne wants to make a big impression, so she strips, drinks her potion, and starts to climb into your bed, but the poison overtakes her, and she dies as we found her.”

  Stephen gaped at him in gratifying awe. “God’s bones, Tom! That’s pure genius.”

  Tom felt rather proud of it himself.

  Even Bacon gave it a grudging nod. “It’s plausible. But how will the story be conveyed without His Lordship’s testimony?”

  Tom frowned at him, stuck for a moment, but inspiration struck again. He snapped his fingers. “Lady Alice’s maidservant. Wasn’t she once some sort of actress?”

  “I think so,” Stephen said. “She’s some sort of Gypsy anyway.”

  “Well,” Tom said, “let her tell the tale. She can say she heard a sound, peeked through the door, and witnessed the whole thing.” That would put Trumpet in charge of the situation here too, which was all to the good.

  The three men looked at one another, weighing the proposal, then nodded their agreement. They decided that Stephen could reasonably have undressed in this room, leaving his clothes before going to his wife.

  He stripped to his shirt and stockings, then stood awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. “How can I keep this from her? Alice, I mean.” He scratched the back of his neck and mumbled, “I’m not sure she’ll let me in.”

  Tom and Bacon traded smiles. They needed no further proof the earl hadn’t done this deed himself. He barely had the nerve to crawl into bed with his wife.

  “You can’t,” Tom said. “You’ll have to tell her everything. Trust me, my lord. She doesn’t want you to be accused of murder any more than you do. You both knew this wasn’t a love match. But she’ll respect the alliance and stand with your house.”

  “Go now, my lord,” Bacon said. “We’ll take a last look around to make sure nothing here will incriminate you.”

  Stephen nodded. “What will you do?”

  “Nothing until the alarm is sounded,” Bacon answered. “I’ll speak with the midwife and try to find out what the poison was. That might help us narrow the field.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Stephen said, his eyes glistening. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.” He started to open the door but stopped. “Hold on.” He looked around the room and grabbed a silver beaker. “Here, Tom, take this. It’s only fair.”

  Tom accepted it, surprised. Stephen had never been so generous. Then again, he had just saved the man’s life, or at least his reputation.

  Bacon cleared his throat. “A small gift for the midwife would not be amiss. She’ll need to hear the full story — the true story — to identify the poison.”

  “How about a spoon?” Tom suggested, pointing at the collection of silver objects on a side table.

  Stephen chose one with a simple diamond finial and handed it to Bacon. “Wedding gifts. I don’t even know what I have.” He turned toward the door and sighed, wiping his brow with the back of his hand like a man returning to heavy labor. And then he left.

  “What now?” Tom asked Bacon.

  “We’ll have to leave that phial,” he said, though Tom hadn’t thought of taking it. “It supports the story that the lady came here intending to seduce His Lordship. But I would like to know where it came from.”

  Tom shrugged. The thing looked expensive, something only a lord or lady would possess. “Trumpet will have better luck with that than me. She can ask among the other gentlewomen. When will you go see the midwife?”

  “I’ll have to wait until the body is discovered, of course. Then the coroner and Sir Walter will have to conduct their examination. An hour or more, I should think.”

  “All right,” Tom said. “I’ll take this beaker back to my room and then go to the hall, I guess, and have breakfast.”

  “Don’t allow anyone to suspect you know more about this than they do.”

  Tom dismissed that with a snort. “What will you do in the meantime?”

  Bacon gave him an odd sidelong look that Tom couldn’t read. But he could’ve predicted the words that followed. “I will go back to bed.”

  SEVENTEEN

  FRANCIS DIDN’T EVEN go up to his room. He reached the door to his stair and changed his mind on the threshold. He couldn’t face Michel yet. Not until he knew more about that phial.

  He’d seen its mate pass from his friend’s hand to the ambassador’s, one week ago at the Goat and Compasses. Michel told him it was a tonic made of French liquor with cinnamon and vanilla from Mexico. A love potion, he’d called it. The same recipe, modified for a different aim?

  Francis sighed, feeling weary and oppressed with doubt. And hungry, he realized. That didn’t help. He entered the passage behind the Great Hall, intending to beg a cup of warm ale and some bread from the kitchen, and he met Pinnock coming back with a lump of something in his hand.

  “What is that?” Francis asked, turning to walk with him back out to the Great Court.

  The lad answered through a mouthful of bread. “Raisin bun. Good. Hot.”

  “Get me one, will you? And a cup of warm ale.”

  “Bring to your room?”

  “No. Out here.” Bacon surveyed the vast paved yard, looking for a vantage point from which to watch as events developed. Someone had left a pile of crates and barrels near the gateway to the Middle Court; that would do. He pointed. “Over there. Hip hop!”

  Pinnock skipped back toward the kitchen. Francis strolled to the heap of goods and found a wooden chest at a comfortable height. Few people were stirring at this hour. The sun hadn’t yet topped the range of two-story houses on the eastern side of the court, so their shadows spread halfway across the yard. Stephen’s rooms were at the near end of that range. The Gentlewomen’s House was five doors down toward the north. Francis’s building was in the north range just east of the gatehouse. Here on the south side of the court, he had a good view of all the doors he wanted to watch. He wouldn’t likely be noticed here either.

  Pinnock brought him his breakfast. He told the lad to go amuse himself somewhere, anywhere, for an hour or two.

  “There’s nothing to do this early.”

  “Go back to the kitchen. There must be people there for you to pester.”

  The impudent creature rolled his eyes but obeyed.

  The warm ale and hot bread warmed Francis’s belly. He leaned back against a tall barrel, making himself comfortable, though he shouldn’t have long to wait. Trumpet would want to move things forward as soon as possible.

  His thoughts returned to that phial and its implications. Beautifully crafted, it was an exquisite example of the glassmaker’s art. There couldn’t be many of them floating around. And the drops left within it smelled like the potion Michel had described. That was too great a coincidence for Francis’s skeptical mind.

  But why would Michel Joubert want to poison Lady Anne? Or Trumpet, if she was the true target? He’d seemed eager to cultivate the new Lady Dorchester last night in hope of winning the earl’s support for France. His only present path to the earl lay through Francis’s connection to the countess. Perhaps he feared Anne would drive a wedge between Dorchester and his wife, thereby reducing her influence.

  That was thin, very t
hin. It would also require great foresight to place that phial among the ladies before the supper began. Then again, Michel had gotten up once or twice to visit the privy — everyone had, that feast had lasted over four hours. He could easily have given it to someone in passing. But he still would have had to prepare the poison and bring it with him. And he would have to know about Stephen’s illicit affair.

  How could he know the lovers would meet that night, of all nights? They wouldn’t brag about it outside their little circle, surely. On the other hand, if the poison had been meant for Trumpet, the wedding night was the logical choice, being the night a maiden might be most in need of extra encouragement. And Michel Joubert was a most rational man.

  Now the rational man himself emerged from the door to Francis’s stair, easily recognized by his black costume and the flat black hat he’d worn last night. He yawned and stretched, taking in the air as any man would on first rising. Then he strolled toward the door to the two-story gallery that spanned the west side of the court. He must mean to cut through that building and the gardens behind it to reach the tower in the outer wall where the ambassador had his suite of rooms.

  Michel reached the gallery door, then paused, turning full around to look behind him, as if he sensed someone’s eyes on his back. But he was a good thirty yards away and unlikely to notice Francis perched among the baggage by the inner gate.

  A harrowing scream rent the peaceful morning. Its echoes hung in the air for as long as it took to recover one’s breath, then windows flew open and cries arose from every house around the yard. Men came running from the gatehouse, shouting, “Where is it? What’s happened?”

  The Great Court erupted into total confusion. Except for Michel, who stood calmly watching outside his door. When the guards reached the corner where Trumpet’s servant now leaned out the window, gesticulating with full Gypsy fervor, Michel produced a Gallic shrug and went inside.

  Well, why shouldn’t he go back to his own room? Francis scolded his sinking heart. What good could he do if he ran toward the scream or out into the yard to trade rumors with the rest of the gathering crowd?

  A bit of glass trinketry, an uncommon scent — did that constitute proof that a man was a murderer? A friend ought to give a friend the benefit of the doubt, although he might allow himself to ask the friend a few hard questions.

  THE MINUTE TRUMPET heard that scream, she pulled her knees to her chest, planted her feet in Stephen’s back, and pushed him right off the bed.

  “Hey!”

  “You should’ve sat in the chair, like I asked you to do.”

  “We’re pretending I spent the night with you, remember?” He climbed to his feet and ran both hands through his hair, making it stand up in all directions. He did look pathetic, barefoot in his rumpled wedding shirt with dark hollows under his eyes.

  Trumpet was sorry his mistress had died and sorrier still he’d had to watch it happen, but he’d trysted with that woman on their wedding night, so the score between them was even. And now she had an excellent excuse to keep him out of her bed.

  She clucked her tongue at him. “No one will come in here. Why would they?”

  “I don’t know what they’re going to do. I don’t even who ‘they’ are. Mr. Bacon didn’t tell me anything about this part.”

  Trumpet sighed. She couldn’t expect more from the man than he had; you couldn’t get blood from a turnip. “It will likely be Sir Walter and Mr. Danby, the coroner. They should be here any minute. People must have heard that scream all the way to Petersham. They’ll want to examine your room and hear our stories. Our goal is to obtain a determination of death by self-murder, motivated by despondency over the loss of a lover. That’s you.”

  Stephen chewed the fringe of his moustache, regarding her with narrowed eyes. “You’re nothing like as light-witted as you were before we married.”

  Trumpet shrugged. She had no need to pretend any longer, especially not to him. She jumped out of bed and stuffed her feet into her fur-lined slippers. “Don’t say more than you must. Don’t volunteer anything; just answer their questions as simply as you can. You’re overcome with shock and grief. That should explain it well enough.”

  “I’m the lord here, need I remind you?” His expression took on the mulish cast she remembered from times past.

  Best to nip that humor in the bud before it blossomed. She decided to trump his injured pride by playing the wounded wife. She drew herself to her full height and lifted her chin. “Need I remind you, my lord, that you chose to invite that trollop into our home on our wedding night. I accept that you had nothing to do with her death, but your actions invited these consequences, and now you must face them. Like a man, preferably.”

  He pressed his lips together until they nearly disappeared, but didn’t argue.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Now let me do most of the talking — or rather let Catalina tell the main tale. You and I were both sound asleep during the critical period.”

  Catalina knocked and entered, closing the door behind her. “They’re coming.” Her gaze flicked up and down as she assessed her lord and lady’s readiness to go on stage. She nodded: good enough.

  Trumpet had crafted their story after Stephen had crept into her room and woken her from her false sleep to make his self-serving confession. He would swear he’d had no idea what Anne was planning, though he would tearfully confess what everyone already knew — that he’d been flirting with the woman for weeks. Trumpet would likewise assert her complete ignorance, having slept the sleep of the just until she heard the scream.

  Catalina, the most experienced actor among them, would bear the burden of presenting their interpretation. She would say she had been sleeping in the anteroom, where she had been awakened when the lady entered. She feigned sleep until the lady went into Stephen’s room, then peeked through the partially open door. She’d watched the lady take a small glass bottle from her sleeve and pour its contents into a goblet of wine. Then she’d undressed. Taking the cup with her, she’d slipped naked between the sheets. She’d raised her cup, said, “This will claim your heart, my lord,” and drank the potion down.

  “Don’t be too dramatic,” Trumpet warned her servant. “You’re not performing The Spanish Tragedy at the Curtain.”

  Catalina smirked, shrugging one graceful shoulder.

  Stephen coached Catalina on a few details, such as the delusions about the cats and the flying. Then he’d wept a little while Trumpet patted him on the back. She’d allowed him into her bed in a rush of pity but then hated the feel of him lying there, all hot and man-shaped, where Tom ought to be. Her sympathy for him only went so far. Most of it went to Anne, who’d gotten mixed up in this larger trouble through simple girlish foolishness. She couldn’t be blamed for that.

  Sir Walter’s voice sounded in the anteroom. “Lord Dorchester? Are you here?”

  Stephen shot a panicky look at Trumpet. She held up a calming hand, then thought better of it. Let him be agitated. Who wouldn’t be? “Answer him. We’re right behind you.”

  Stephen led the way, looking humble in his shirt in the presence of two fully dressed men. Although both Sir Walter and the coroner looked as if they’d dressed in a hurry. No earrings, no ruffs, no doublets — just cloaks thrown over their shirts and trunk hose. Still, they had shoes and stockings on, while the earl stood with bare legs and feet.

  They went into Stephen’s chamber, Trumpet and Catalina last. Catalina had seen the terrible sight already, but Trumpet hadn’t. She allowed herself a natural reaction, crying out in dismay and turning to bury her face in her servant’s shoulder.

  “Don’t look, my lady,” the coroner said. “In fact, there’s no need for you to be here at all.”

  “I will stay to support my husband,” Trumpet said in a tremulous voice.

  Sir Walter didn’t bother to respond to any of that. He directed his attention to the scene before him. His head turned as he noted the vomit, the fallen cup, and the phial on the table. He
lifted the phial to his nose and took a tentative whiff. “Cinnamon and French liquor, with some astringent additive.” He sniffed the pitcher and added, “Hollock. The same as was served at the wedding supper, I would judge.”

  Trumpet screwed up her face and shook her head. “I didn’t put it there!”

  “Of course not.” He gave her a searching look. “This will be unpleasant for you in more than one way, my lady. Perhaps you should wait in the other room.”

  “I know why Anne was here, Sir Walter. I’m not deaf and she wasn’t skilled at deception.”

  He met the steel in her eyes and nodded. “I understand.”

  “My husband has confessed his part in that . . . flirtation, which I trust is all it ever was. Both my lord and I know the gist of what happened here last night. My maidservant saw it all. She woke us as soon as she realized Lady Anne had done a fatal harm to herself. My husband had no part in that, I can assure you. He was in my bed all night.”

  While Mr. Danby examined the body, lifting the limbs and pressing the skin, Sir Walter elicited Catalina’s story. She performed it to perfection, her olive-toned face a blend of awe, fear, and sorrow.

  Then Sir Walter pointed at the phial and said, “I could swear I saw that selfsame object being passed around at the supper. After the acrobats came in, I think.”

  “I saw it too,” Stephen said before Trumpet could forestall him. “Some of the lords and ladies were passing it around. But I don’t know where it came from or where it ended up.”

  Sir Walter studied him with his penetrating gaze, long enough to make Stephen squirm. “I didn’t do this, Sir Walter, I swear! I had no reason to hurt Anne.”

  “You had some reason, my lord. However, since your wife appears to have a forgiving nature, perhaps it was not so great.” He shot a knowing look at Trumpet.

  She smiled blandly, but she wasn’t thinking about Stephen. He wouldn’t be charged with this death even if he had poured the phial’s contents down Anne’s throat himself. Rank had its privileges. He hadn’t quite figured that out yet. They were putting on this show to protect his still-unformed reputation. And hers, whose stains had taken her two long years to rub out.