A Rustle of Silk: A new forensic mystery series set in Stuart England (A Gabriel Taverner Mystery)

by Alys Clare

  ‘She won’t do either of those things,’ I said softly.

  At least, I didn’t think she would.

  Theo was moving towards the door. I stayed where I was. Turning, he looked at me questioningly. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked.

  I realized what he meant. ‘I’ll go alone,’ I said.

  His bright blue eyes fixed me with a penetrating stare. Then he asked simply, ‘Why?’

  Because my sister is a proud woman, I could have said, and if she does break down when I tell her, she would rather a stranger was not there to witness it.

  I wasn’t sure I could tell a coroner such a thing.

  ‘I think she would prefer it that way,’ I said instead.

  But he understood anyway. He nodded. ‘She won’t want me to see her weep.’ His voice was full of sympathy.

  ‘I will go immediately,’ I said. We walked together out on to the wide space in front of the house, to where his horse stood tethered. I watched him mount up and prepare to ride away. ‘Is there anything more I should know?’

  He considered. ‘I believe I told you everything relevant just now,’ he said. ‘He was meant to go to meet a ship in Dartmouth, and his absence was discovered when a message was sent by the ship’s captain to the merchant – Nicolaus Quinlie – demanding what he was meant to do with the consignment of silk, Jeromy Palfrey not having turned up to collect it. The rest you know, since you came with me to view the body.’

  ‘Why did he do it?’ I asked. ‘Is Nicolaus Quinlie such a terrifying employer, for a man to kill himself rather than face his wrath?’

  Theo shook his head. ‘I do not believe that to be the case. I’m thinking he was dead before even he set out for Dartmouth, and that fear of punishment for not obeying Quinlie’s orders was not relevant.’

  ‘Then why—’

  Theo held up his hand. ‘I have a theory, but’ – he smiled apologetically – ‘if you will forgive me, I need to ascertain rather more information before I share it.’

  I looked up at him. It came as a slight surprise – after all, our acquaintance had been brief, and I didn’t know him well – to discover that I trusted him.

  I returned his smile. ‘I look forward to that,’ I said.

  I watched him ride away, then went for my horse.

  I set out straight away. I’d have taken Flynn with me – I really didn’t want to be alone – but he’d run for miles already today and so I left him by the hearth in the kitchen, looking up at Sallie with longing eyes as she went about preparing food for the evening meal. I reckoned his hope was in vain. I’d just told Sallie the dreadful news, and she wasn’t in any mood to respond to the pleading of a dog. I’d suggested gently not to bother about supper since it wasn’t likely anybody would have much of an appetite, but she appeared to have ignored me.

  I wished the journey from Rosewyke to Ferrars was longer. I needed time, both to decide how to tell Celia and to think about how to deal with her reaction. Would she want to stay in her home? Probably not, at least for the first few awful days as she tried to absorb the fact that she’d lost him. Would she prefer to go to our parents, or come and stay with me?

  I tried to keep my mind on such practical matters but without success. I kept picturing her beautiful, smiling face, lit up with a variety of vivid emotions, all of them inspired by Jeromy: excitement, laughter … sheer happiness. As I’ve said, I could never understand what she saw in the man, but that wasn’t really relevant. Celia had chosen him; she had known she would be happy with him, and she’d been right. Admittedly I hadn’t seen much of her as a married woman, at first because I’d been away in London, and lately because – well, if I was being honest, I had to admit it was because I didn’t really like her husband.

  I considered Jeromy Palfrey to be a bit of a fool: a pretty, overgrown boy who was over-fond of his silks, his velvets and the sickly, richly scented pomade he ladled on to his hair. He was shallow, self-centred and vain, and I’d always resented the fact that he seemed too in awe of his own beauty to appreciate fully my sister’s. But on the other hand – I forced myself to be fair as the distance between me and my sister’s impending pain inexorably lessened – he had provided her with a very beautiful home, dressed her in the finest silks and allowed – perhaps even encouraged – her to live a life of pampered luxury in which the hardest work she’d be called upon to do was decide what to sew next and thread up her needles.

  If I was distressed by the spoilt little pet of a woman she’d become, and lamented the loss of the vigorous, rude, outspoken child she’d once been, that was nobody’s problem but mine.

  And I had to admit that she loved him. Privately, I thought she’d been taken in by his charm, his wealth and his handsome face, but whatever had attracted her to him seemed still to be working. The marriage was clearly a success, and I had to conclude that there might be more to my brother-in-law than I’d suspected.

  I had reached Ferrars.

  Now I had to go and tell my sister that her husband was dead.

  She barely said a word.

  I told her to sit down because I had the worst possible news. I took her little hands and said, as gently as I could – but how can the telling of such appalling things ever be gentle? – that Jeromy’s body had been found and that it seemed he had died by his own hand.

  I couldn’t bring myself to recount the details. Why should poor Celia be forced to share the horror?

  She went very pale. She sat so still that I feared she might have gone into some sort of trance. After a while, very worried about her, I said, ‘It seems he never went to Dartmouth. At least, he didn’t turn up to collect the cargo from Venice.’ She nodded. Just once, but it proved she was hearing my words.

  ‘He must have gone off by himself to a quiet spot,’ I went on, answering the questions she hadn’t asked. ‘I think he really meant it.’

  I wondered if she’d understood. It’s been my experience that people sometimes make a half-hearted attempt on their own lives as a means of telling their family and friends how very unhappy they are, sending out the message Now please do something about it. There had been nothing half-hearted about that great blade thrust up behind Jeromy’s ribs. And besides, if he’d wanted to be brought back from the brink he’d have done it somewhere where he’d have been swiftly found.

  I wanted to ask so much more. Such as, Did you realize he was so desperate? And, perhaps more crucially, Why was he so desperate? But I wondered if she would be able to give me any answers.

  We sat for what seemed a long time. Then I disengaged my hands and went to seek her servants. I came back with brandy, which obediently she sipped, and a warm, soft blanket, which I spread over her legs. A slight pink flush returned to her cheeks.

  ‘Come back with me to Rosewyke,’ I said, taking the empty glass from her. ‘I know you always say your servants take good care of you when—’ Oh, God. I’d almost said, when Jeromy is away. ‘I know you’re well cared for here,’ I hurried on, ‘but I think you should be with your family. And I won’t fuss over you like Mother would,’ I added, trying to make her smile.

  The tiniest of twitches curled the end of her mouth.

  ‘I’ll come tomorrow.’ She had spoken so softly that I barely heard.

  ‘Tomorrow? But why not return with me right now?’ I demanded. Too forcefully: she shrank away from me. Instantly I knelt down before her, taking her hands again. ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I’m so very sorry. I so want to help you, but I don’t really know how.’ I bowed my head.

  I felt a soft touch on the top of my crown as she gently kissed me. ‘I know, Gabriel,’ she whispered. ‘But I don’t want to leave the house just yet.’

  ‘I’ll stay here, then,’ I said quickly. ‘I could—’

  ‘No, my dear.’ She kissed me again. ‘Just now, you can help me best by leaving me alone. Please don’t be hurt. I need you, more than I can say, and I will come to Rosewyke tomorrow.’

  I got to my feet and stood looking do
wn at her. Then I said, ‘Very well. If you change your mind, come straight over. Any time, day or night.’

  Then I left her.

  I spoke at length with the senior household servants – a round-faced, maternal woman called Ruth who appeared to be the housekeeper and the stiff-backed man who habitually answered the door – and when finally I left, I felt slightly better about deserting her. Her housekeeper was almost as distressed as Celia, and more demonstrative in her grief and shock, but she gave me her solemn promise to look after her mistress until she came to join me at Rosewyke. ‘I won’t leave her in the hands of that empty-headed little maid of hers,’ she confided quietly to me, jerking her head in the direction of the fair-haired young woman huddled in the corner, weeping into her apron. Her face sombre, she added quietly, ‘You have to have experienced grief to know how to deal with it.’

  For now, Celia was in safe hands.

  There was nothing left for me to do but go home.

  Early in the morning I had a visitor.

  I’d been awake since first light and, for want of anything better to do, I was out in the stables giving Hal the sort of grooming nobody usually had time for. Hearing the sound of hoofbeats, I turned round, shading my eyes against the low sun. I watched as Jonathan Carew rode into the yard.

  We greeted each other and I invited him to dismount and come inside for refreshment.

  ‘Nothing to eat or drink, thank you,’ he said as he followed me into the small morning parlour. ‘This is not a social call.’

  ‘No, I guessed as much.’ I indicated the settle beside the fireplace, and he sat down. I drew up a chair and sat opposite him. ‘Has Theophilus Davey told you the news?’

  ‘He has. I went late yesterday afternoon to see Mistress Palfrey, who I learned from the coroner is your sister, to give my condolences and to offer any assistance I can.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I muttered.

  He shrugged, smiling faintly. ‘It is what I do,’ he said gently. Then, his expression growing serious, he said, ‘She was distraught. At times during our brief conversation, I had the sense that she was not truly present.’

  ‘It’s hardly surprising!’ I said before I could stop myself. ‘She’d just learned that her husband is dead.’

  ‘She told me she will be coming here, to stay with you,’ Jonathan Carew continued, as if I hadn’t interrupted. His strange green eyes met mine. ‘I admit I was relieved to hear it. I do not believe she should be alone.’

  ‘Neither do I.’ I paused. ‘Did she ask you about the funeral?’

  Now it was his turn to pause. ‘I regret that our discussion did not reach that point.’

  ‘What do you mean? Surely it would have been one of the first things she asked?’

  ‘She was overcome,’ Jonathan admitted. ‘She was swooning, desperate in her grief, and the old housekeeper took her off to her bed.’

  ‘But—’

  He put up a hand to stop me. ‘It is my experience,’ he said softly, ‘that grieving cannot pursue its natural course until after interment. It is as if’ – he paused to think – ‘as if the placing of the body in its final resting place is required, to mark the definitive end of its time on earth.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure I did. ‘So you’re saying it will be a comfort for her, then, to have the funeral as soon as possible.’

  ‘The burial cannot go ahead.’

  ‘Cannot – what?’

  ‘There are two difficulties,’ Carew went on neutrally. ‘The first is that the coroner will not release the body.’

  ‘Why not?’ There was one very good reason, and I found myself desperately praying it wasn’t relevant in the demise of my late brother-in-law.

  But it was.

  ‘Theophilus Davey does not believe this was a natural death,’ Jonathan Carew said, his face expressionless.

  ‘Of course it wasn’t!’ I said. ‘He was found with the blade that killed him still inside him.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Quite.’

  Then, startling me and making me jump sharply, he said, ‘What do you think? You saw the body.’

  I shook my head. ‘I did, but the maggot and vermin damage was extensive, and—’

  And I’d done no more than confirm death before hurrying away, I could have added.

  Something about the Reverend Jonathan Carew’s steely expression stopped me.

  And all at once I understood what he meant.

  But, perhaps imagining I was still confused, he told me anyway. ‘Under certain circumstances,’ he said, and I was sure I detected a note of regret in his tone, ‘I cannot bury a man in consecrated ground. The excommunicated; those possessed by the devil, such as lunatics; unbaptized babies.’ He stared at me. ‘And someone who has taken his own life, for that act disobeys God’s commandment, you shall not kill. It is the ultimate act of despair, for by it a man indicates his belief that his own evil is too great for divine goodness and forgiveness.’

  I heard his voice but I was no longer taking in the words he spoke.

  I was deafened, blinded, to everything but images of my sister. I heard her distress as she wept, I saw it in the face wrecked by her tears. Her husband was dead; he had driven a blade into his own heart. Now, his body lay alone in some bleak cellar, and it seemed it was going to have to stay there.

  What in heaven’s name was I going to do?

  SIX

  I went over to fetch her.

  As soon as Jonathan Carew had ridden off – swiftly, as if perhaps he wanted to hurry away from the place where he had just delivered such devastating news – I saddled Hal and rode straight to Ferrars.

  I found her sitting on her window seat, in the place where she habitually settled to sew. She had a small piece of gaily coloured fabric on her lap – silk, of course – but I doubted very much that she had sewn even a stitch. Ruth sat beside her, her kindly old face creased into anxious lines as she vainly tried to encourage Celia to sip from whatever warming drink had been prepared down in the extensive kitchens of Ferrars. As I came into the room Ruth looked up, her expression full of relief, and said to Celia, ‘Ah, now, my dear, here’s your brother the doctor, come to see how you are.’ Out of my sister’s line of sight, the old woman made a face and shook her head, mouthing something that I thought was She won’t take even a sip.

  I went forward and knelt before Celia, taking hold of her hands. They were very cold. ‘You said you’d like to come and stay at Rosewyke,’ I reminded her. ‘Will you come with me now?’

  She raised her eyes and met mine. She nodded.

  ‘Good, that’s very good,’ I said gently. ‘Have you prepared a pack?’

  ‘I’ve seen to that, Doctor Gabriel,’ Ruth said quietly. ‘It’s set ready by the door, and her horse can be saddled and bridled in a moment.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I kept my eyes on Celia. ‘Shall we leave straight away?’

  Now Celia looked up. Her eyes roamed right round the room, lighting on a chair by the fireplace, an ornate china tobacco jar on the mantelshelf, a pair of soft leather house shoes set down just inside the door. Jeromy’s things. My heart aching for her, I watched her as she bore yet another wave of her overriding grief.

  I stood up and held out my hand. ‘Come on,’ I said.

  She put down her sewing, carefully folding the bright cloth, and got to her feet. Then she turned to Ruth and gave her a brief, intense hug. The old woman tried unsuccessfully to suppress a sob. ‘I’ll see about that horse,’ she muttered as Celia let her go, and hurried out of the room.

  I led my sister out into the wide hall, its brilliant, expensive hangings and furnishings far too colourful for this house of mourning. There were several cloaks hanging on pegs by the door, and I selected a warm one with a deep hood that I’d seen Celia wear in bad weather. The morning was bright and sunny, but she was so cold: shock, I’d observed before, tended to make people shiver and shudder.

  Then we were outside in the yard, and a groom was bringing her da
inty grey mare. I stowed her pack behind the saddle, then helped her to mount. She came back to herself a little once she was settled – perhaps the very familiar sensation of being in the saddle was some sort of comfort – and, after one long look back at her house and at the old woman and the groom, she turned away.

  She didn’t utter a word all the way back to Rosewyke.

  ‘I’ve asked Sallie to prepare your room,’ I said as I led my sister across the hall and up the stairs. ‘It’s the front bedroom on the right, where you’ve stayed before’ – for a ghastly moment I thought I’d been unthinkingly tactless, but then I realized it was all right: Celia had certainly stayed under my roof before, but never with her husband – ‘and I thought you might like to use the little anteroom as a private sitting room?’ She didn’t answer, but then I hadn’t really expected her to. ‘You may find you feel like being on your own sometimes,’ I went on, ‘and Sallie’s made it welcoming, with a nice bowl of early roses.’

  I heard the echo of my voice and thought how fatuous I sounded. As if a bowl of roses was going to do anything to assuage Celia’s agony of sorrow.

  Understandably, she didn’t reply.

  I hurried ahead up the stairs, turning to the right at the top and on to the long gallery that ran right across the back of the upper storey. It jinked left and then right, ending in the doorway into the simply furnished anteroom that gave on to the bedroom. The bed had been made up with crisp linen sheets and a prettily embroidered pillowcase, and there was a subtle smell of lavender. Unlike my own bedchamber next door, whose walls were panelled and in which my huge four-poster bed loomed like some dozing animal, this room had white-painted walls and a general feeling of airy spaciousness. Sallie, I reflected, had done an excellent job in getting it ready, and I resolved to thank her when I had the chance.