by Anna Castle
“They seem to go everywhere in a group,” Tom said. “Do they ever get out on their own?”
“Not often,” Trumpet said. “They sleep in the same room too. Being a maid of honor isn’t half as much fun as you might think.”
“They’re not here to have fun,” Bacon said. “They’re here to meet husbands and enhance their families’ standing. But you’re right; they have little freedom of movement, and none of them were in Stephen’s group at the wedding supper. We’ll keep them on the list, but focus on those whom we know have secrets to protect.”
“I hate suspecting Bess and Penelope,” Trumpet said. “I like them. I’ve been hoping to become better friends when the court returns to London.”
“We can’t let that influence us,” Tom said. “We have to go wherever the evidence leads us.” Another lesson oft repeated.
Bacon didn’t smile at that though. “I have two other items to share with you, one of which may relieve your feelings. First, the midwife thought henbane was the most likely poison. Do any of the ladies have access to that?”
“I don’t know,” Trumpet said. “I can look in the cabinet. What is it used for?”
“Many things, apparently. Mrs. Woolley described ointments for gout or stiff joints, a treatment for lice, a poultice for sore eyes. It’s also used to make black hair dye.”
Trumpet gaped at him. “You’ve just described half Her Majesty’s daily afflictions. I spent two hours on Saturday checking her wigs for lice. Two of them are black, though she never wears them. I can’t state it as a matter of fact, but I’d wager Stephen’s best cloak that we keep plenty of henbane in our cabinet. Any of us could easily take as much as we liked. We’re so busy in the morning, bustling about to make Her Majesty ready, no one would notice.”
“Mrs. Woolley also said it could be bought from any apothecary. They would need the other ingredients as well — the distilled liquor, for instance. That is also sold in apothecary shops. It isn’t cheap.”
“We might have that too,” Trumpet said. “We have lots of vinegar, wine, and asses’ milk, different kinds of oil. I’ll look tomorrow.”
“I can visit apothecaries.” Tom sounded glad to have something active to do. “I’ll try the ones in nearby villages, up and downriver.”
“Good.” Bacon looked so uncomfortable Trumpet began to wonder if he’d gotten his breeches twisted inside that little cubicle. He looked past Tom’s shoulder, the way he did when he was nervous. “Ask them if they’ve been visited by a Frenchman in the past two weeks.”
“A Frenchman?” Tom frowned. “Your Frenchman?”
“He isn’t mine,” Bacon snapped, but his eyes were sad. “He could have taken his master’s phial. And he knows how to mix a love potion.”
TWENTY-ONE
FRANCIS MADE HIS WAY back from the kennels through the twisted alleys inside the Privy Lodgings, the many-towered confection built by the queen’s grandfather. He took each turn by rote, his mind preoccupied by the unwanted revelations thrust on him by his assistants.
How long could Ralegh hope to keep his secret hidden from the queen? Until Mrs. Throckmorton’s belly grew too large to hide under even the current fashions, he’d wager. Then a mighty storm would be unleashed upon him. Francis couldn’t imagine how he hoped to weather it.
And how many of Baron Rich’s children had been fathered by Charles Blount? Francis had never seen any of them, though it wouldn’t help if he had; all small children looked alike to him. To his regret, he knew precisely how many of the Earl of Dorchester’s children would be sired by the earl: none. What Stephen would say to a crop of fair-haired tots with blue eyes and dimples was anyone’s guess. He might not notice.
On the other hand, the illegitimate progenitors were, in both cases and on all counts, better men than the lawful husbands. The hereditary lines would be strengthened by their contributions. He smiled at that thought. The Lord did work in mysterious ways.
“Cousin? Hello? Frank!”
He heard fingers snapping and focused his gaze toward the window on his left. His cousin Robert stood nearly at his elbow, but a few feet up, a bemused expression on his face.
“Robert.”
“I swear, Cousin, a chamber pot could fall on your head and you wouldn’t notice. Do you have a minute? I’d like a word.”
“Of course.”
Francis found his way back to the entrance of that section of the maze-like structure. Robert had carved out two rooms for his own use, putting three secretaries into the larger one and reserving the smaller for his private use. It looked much like his office at Burghley House on the Strand: plain, functional, and full of documents.
Robert returned to his desk. Francis sat in the one uncluttered chair. “How may I serve you, Sir Robert?”
Robert shot him a tired look, hearing the mockery under the words. Though in truth, Francis was reminded yet again that he in no way envied Robert’s position. The knighthood, yes. The influence, likewise. But this stuffy room packed with inky papers? Most of them undoubtedly had to do with such thrilling concerns as corn production in the Midlands and disputes among ship chandlers in Lancashire.
Robert got straight to the point. “I suppose your man told you about my visit last week.”
Francis nodded. “I encouraged him to share his findings with you.”
“His. Not yours?”
“I don’t have any as yet. Although I have narrowed the list of suspects to a few names.” He smiled blandly. “I wouldn’t dream of uttering them, especially not in this building, until I’m certain which one it is.”
“Of course not.” Robert returned the bland smile. “At that time, may I trust that you’ll inform me first?”
Francis cocked his head as if considering it. “Will you give me a shiny gold angel if I do?”
He got that weary look again. “Surely your sense of duty to the queen is sufficient motivation. And you’ll need someone to manage the arrest or other form of apprehension.”
“True.” Francis got to his feet. He had no desire to fence with his cousin today. He needed a long walk to think about how to broach the subject of the phial to Michel Joubert. “But this matter isn’t in your purview, Cousin. When I know the truth, which I expect to do in a matter of days, I’ll inform Sir Walter Ralegh. He is the Captain of the Guard.”
He walked out feeling happier about his lot in life than he had for many weeks.
FRANCIS TURNED SOUTH rather than north to exit onto the lawn and walk from there up through the orchard to the palace gardens. They were at the peak of loveliness at this time of year. He could let his mind wander as his feet trod the smooth gravel paths.
Richmond’s gardens were pleasingly varied. First came the orchards within their high brick walls, supplying the palace with every desirable fruit from apricots to strawberries. Then the gardens, also contained within walls with low crenellated towers at each corner — for show more than serious purpose. Queen Elizabeth had brought sustained peace to England so that all the gardens could flourish.
Now the threats to that peace were more likely to rise within the walls than without. Francis shook that thought from his mind and contemplated the painted stag standing on a column at his side. A similar wooden sculpture marked the corners of each square bed, portraying every great heraldic beast: stags, lions, dragons, boars. All vividly painted with gilt embellishments.
He strolled toward the intricate knots of herbs laid out in four squares at the center of the garden. Too intricate, in his view; a simple rhythmic symmetry was more restful to the eye than these curious curves and flourishes. But the low lavender hedges were dotted with purple flowers, and the golden thyme glowed warmly in the sunshine. Only a brute could fail to be charmed.
He plucked a sprig of rosemary and held it to his nose. This fragrance always acted like a mental breeze, blowing away unresolved dilemmas and freeing him to think clearly. But today the scent reminded him of the water Mrs. Woolley used to wash the bodies of Arthur Gr
enville and Anne Courtenay. The lady wouldn’t have died if he had treated the gentleman’s death with greater urgency.
Francis dropped the sprig.
“Ah, Mr. Bacon!” Sir Walter walked toward him with his long, confident stride. “How fortunate to chance upon you here.”
Here in this place where they could not be overheard. He must have seen Francis from a window and hastened to make use of the opportunity.
“Good day, Sir Walter. I trust you are well?”
“Quite well, thank you. May I walk with you a little?”
“Of course.”
They made a full circuit of the first knot before Sir Walter spoke again. “You and I have never been friends, have we, Mr. Bacon? Not close ones.”
“We have little in common, Sir Walter. Our paths seldom cross outside the Presence Chamber.”
“That’s true. But I hope we needn’t consider ourselves to be in opposition.”
Francis stopped in his tracks to look up at the taller man. “I devoutly hope that you will never consider yourself my enemy, Sir Walter!”
“No, no.” He smiled. “Why would I?” They made another half circuit before he began again. “That clerk of yours is an interesting man. More to him than he knows himself, I would judge.”
“Yes.” Francis stopped again. “I consider Mr. Clarady to be a man of his word. He also has the judgment to recognize when circumstances demand the limited — very limited — release of a confidence. The compelling circumstance in the present instance is the death by poisoning of Anne Courtenay.”
Sir Walter’s eyes narrowed at the news he’d come out here to confirm, but then he nodded his acceptance. “You don’t believe it was an accident?”
“No. Nor was the death of Arthur Grenville.” Then Francis had a happy thought, or rather a fortuitous one. “I held myself responsible for the lady’s death since I failed to pursue the first one with sufficient effort. But you share a portion of that responsibility as well. You must have seen the shape of the wound on Grenville’s forehead and understood the odd placement of the ladder.”
Now Sir Walter’s eyes widened. “Ha. So that’s how you do it. Pick out the pieces that don’t fit and find a reason for them. Thinking back, I suppose I did notice. But my primary concern at the time was the queen’s peace.” He stroked his neat beard. “So you believe the deaths are connected? Why?”
“I am always suspicious of coincidences. I know from Lord Dorchester’s testimony that Lady Anne did not commit self-murder. I’m convinced both cases have to do with secrets and their protection.”
“I recognized the phial. I assumed Anne had stolen it from the Privy Bedchamber. Now you’re suggesting that one of the other gentlewomen took it.”
Francis shrugged. “I don’t like the idea any more than you do. But the rest are accounted for.” Not precisely true, now that he thought of it. Was Lord Essex’s phial still in his house on the Strand? Or did his sister borrow it while he was off campaigning in the Low Countries?
“And you suspect that I’m involved. Perhaps even responsible.” Sir Walter’s voice took on a soft yet lightly threatening tone that raised the fine hairs on the back of Francis’s neck.
“I do not believe that, Sir Walter. Not at all. I am certain you would not choose poison if you wanted to rid yourself of a pest. It’s a sly, underhanded method. Not your style.”
Sir Walter granted him a half smile. Threat averted.
“Nor,” Francis continued, “would you ever attack such silly youngsters, whatever they might have discovered. You would have no need. You’re in a position to bribe them or simply flatter them into respecting your privacy.”
Sir Walter nodded. “True. What will you do?”
“Nothing, as far as your personal matter is concerned. I have no interest in such things, as I think you know. On the contrary. I believe England needs you to help persuade the queen to render aid to France, now, while we have an opportunity to turn the tide there.”
“It would be easier with the Cecils out of the way. If I were as nefarious as your clerk would have me, I would send them Venetian phials with special potions.”
“Her Majesty would soon find replacements with similar views. She likes to maintain a balance of opinions.”
Sir Walter grunted. “Yes, to keep her standing on the fence. But a sick old man and a twisted dwarf have less to fear from me than a callow youth and a foolish maid. What will you do, then, Mr. Bacon? About these apparent murders?”
“I will find out who committed them. And then I will tell you. As Captain of the Guard, it’s your responsibility to see that justice is done. And for the record, Mr. Clarady doesn’t seriously suspect you or Mrs. Throckmorton. He was merely being thorough, as I have trained him to be.”
“I’ll accept that. And I’ll await your further instruction.” Sir Walter flashed one of his brilliant smiles. “I’m glad we were able to have this little talk, Mr. Bacon.”
“As am I, Sir Walter.”
The favorite strolled away, taking the time to pick a handful of carnations — to present to the queen, no doubt. Francis watched him go, then took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from under his hat.
The pinks and reds of the carnations reminded him of the newlyweds’ costumes at the Dorchester wedding. Someone had brought that phial charged with poisoned liquor and made sure Anne Courtenay had it in her possession when she went to meet Stephen. No doubt they’d joked about their rendezvous among their friends. One of those careless young carousers might remember something useful. Tom should question them — sometime when they were sober.
Francis caught a glimpse of another handsome courtier coming his way, the plumes on his hat wagging with each purposeful step. Sir Charles. No need to wonder what this would be about.
Francis looked around, seeking an escape. He could go through that door in the east wall and run — or rather, walk briskly but with dignity — down to the river path. It would be pleasanter anyway. The green banks and blue waters would be softer on his eyes than these sunbaked paths.
He turned on his heel and walked toward the gate. Alas, Sir Charles had longer legs and caught him up before he reached it.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bacon.” Sir Charles offered him a knowing smile. “What luck to bump into you here.”
Francis swallowed a sigh. “Sir Charles. I didn’t see you.”
“Thinking about philosophy, I expect.”
Francis managed a faint laugh, then abandoned the effort. “I know what you want to talk about. Could we go through to the other side? I’d rather have open space around us.”
“So would I.” Sir Charles reached past his shoulder to operate the latch, thrusting open the heavy oak door as if it were made of wicker.
They walked along the wall to the river path and turned left, away from the palace. Pleasure boats bobbed on the rippling waters. Wherries and laden barges were rowed up and downstream by men in straw hats with rolled-up shirtsleeves.
When they were far enough from the orchard wall to be secure from eavesdroppers, Francis said, “I have no interest in your private affairs, Sir Charles. I hope you understand that.”
“Noted and appreciated. My lady suggested I say something similar to you.”
Francis blinked at him. He’d had no time to think since these unwanted secrets had been dropped in his lap. Lady Rich was no innocent, and her eyes were sharper than most. She would have guessed the nature of Francis’s friendship with Michel and tucked the knowledge away for future use. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
“Then your man did speak to you.”
“Only after much inner debate and only out of fear for Lady Dorchester’s life. I agreed that he was right to speak under that condition.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I do not believe Lady Anne’s death was an accident, and it was most certainly not self-destruction. It’s possible she was not the intended target. I believe she was murdered by the same hand that murder
ed Arthur Grenville.”
“Ah.” True to his reputation for valor, Sir Charles did not gasp or startle at the idea of so much violence. “I wondered about that myself. There are always deaths at court, but not like these. Duels of honor, feats of bravado, that sort of thing. Only to be expected. But how do my lady and I come into it?”
“You have a secret whose exposure would cost you both dearly. More dearly than most would be willing to pay.”
Sir Charles looked affronted. He stabbed the fingers of his left hand into his chest. “You can’t suppose that I had anything to do with those children’s deaths!” He lowered his head to level his dark gaze at Francis. “Nor will I tolerate insinuations about my lady, Mr. Bacon. I assure you that she had nothing to do with these sordid events. Nothing whatsoever.”
“I believe you,” Francis said, only half lying. Sir Charles had the same resources Sir Walter had, especially in the case of Arthur Grenville. Any young man worth his salt would rather follow this potent hero than phlegmatic Stephen Delabere, superior rank notwithstanding. He could rule out Sir Charles even without Tom’s insight about the ladder and the killer’s height.
“Good.” Sir Charles clapped him on the shoulder, jarring Francis forward a step. “My lord of Essex is right about you. He has the highest respect for your judgment. And you know, Mr. Bacon, unlike some we could name, His Lordship rewards those who serve him faithfully. He’ll advocate for you as strongly as he is able, if you choose to join his service.”
“I’m honored His Lordship should consider me worthy of such service.”
Sir Charles clapped him again, less forcefully this time, and returned to the palace.
Francis continued in the opposite direction. He could walk up to the next wharf and take a wherry across the river to his lodge at Twickenham and join his fellow barristers on the fringes of greatness. He didn’t want this commission, not even for another ruby ring. But if Trumpet were the next to fall prey to this wanton murderer, Tom would never forgive him.
