Joan overhead this declaration and dismissed Master Cooke’s crowing as a young man’s right. His breadth of shoulder and length of shank gave some reason, however, to believe it more. Later, she told Matthew how worried she was about the bride. She seemed so wan, as though tormented by more than the thought of a murderer at large.
But Matthew said he believed all would be well. He speculated that Conroy had fled to Ireland. “Next week, the nuptials done, we’ll take horse for London. There’ll be ample time to arrive within the month’s limit and satisfy the Queen’s conditions. Surely she will be pleased with our discovery of Sir John’s murderer, even though I cannot present her with the guilty man himself.”
“I pray Her Majesty will not be overly demanding of evidence,” Joan replied pointedly, and then moved away, for she and Matthew had covered this matter time and time again and as yet had reached no mutual agreement. In her heart she felt there were cracks in Matthew’s theory. Cracks? She thought them, rather, great trenches! Instinctively, she felt Mistress Frances shared her doubt.
Just after dawn on the wedding day, Cecil arrived quite unexpectedly at Thorncombe, bedraggled but in good humor despite having ridden half the night, and boasting of his mount that had brought him so many miles in good order. He explained his presence by saying he had some state business in the neighborhood, which no one questioned. Indeed, the prospective bride and groom were so honored by the great man’s presence that he was immediately invited to stay for the ceremony and however longer he should wish. With Cecil had come his manservant Scars and two gentlemen named Moppitt and Hargrove, whose houses he had lodged in along the way and who had agreed to keep him company for fellowship’s sake.
Joan and Matthew were as greatly surprised as anyone in the castle at Cecil’s arrival, for they had not expected to see him again until they returned to London. But they were very pleased, too.
They conversed privately in the second-largest bedchamber of the new house, a room previously occupied by Thomas Cooke’s parents but gladly relinquished by the same for the honor of having so distinguished a guest as Master Secretary Cecil.
“It does my heart good to see you well,” Cecil declared, when the door was shut behind them and Sears had been sent on some quickly contrived errand belowstairs. “Your letter, Matthew, I received belatedly the day I left London. I came posthaste, both at Her Majesty’s command and out of my own concern. What is this lurid business you wrote of—headless serving girls?”
Matthew gave a more complete account of Aileen Mogaill than he had presented in his letter. He also told Cecil about Conroy, how he believed him to have been the murderer of Aileen and Sir John, the island treasure being the link.
“The man is in custody, I hope,” said Cecil.
“At large, sir.”
“Or dead,” Joan couldn’t help adding. The remark, which Cecil invited her to explain, gave her occasion to tell of her discovery of the bloodstains on the stable floor.
Cecil listened attentively while she told her story, but he neither affirmed nor denied her conclusion that Conroy might be dead. Cecil seemed far more interested in the argument for his guilt, for which he turned again to Matthew.
Matthew summarized his own experiences, his journey to the island, his conflict with Stafford and Wylkin. He told him about Wylkin’s plot to destroy the dam and drain the lake, and about his own plan to let Wylkin do it. Cecil approved.
“I agree in letting this varlet do his worst at the dam and thereby damn himself. Then we’ll see what turns up on the lake bottom or on this island you speak of. Treasure confiscated from the enemies of the Queen is the Queen’s property and must be secured at all costs. I’m sorry to hear an officer of Her Majesty abused his office so abominably. As for these conflicting opinions regarding Conroy’s guilt, I can say only that while there is not as much evidence as one would wish, there is sufficient circumstance to
warrant his arrest—if we can find him.” Then Cecil said to Joan, “You may be right, too, about him being dead. But until we know for sure, possess the corpus delicti, as our learned lawyers say, we must assume otherwise and guard ourselves against further harm to members of the household.”
Remembering that Cecil had said he had come upon the Queen’s behest as well as his own inclination, Joan asked him to explain. Cecils expression darkened; he stood and walked to the long lancet window. Looking out, he said, “The truth is that the Queen is most worried about Mistress Frances’ welfare. She seems to have an unusual affinity for the girl.”
“You related the contents of my letter to her, then?” Matthew asked, well understanding how the Queen might be disturbed if she knew what had transpired at the castle since their arrival.
“In truth, I did not communicate it,” Cecil admitted. “There was no time. Her Majesty’s not pleased, Matthew. You must know that the Queen, for all her sterling virtues, is not the most patient of women. When two weeks passed without report, she assumed the worst. She doesn’t understand that fruit such as you sought is not plucked from the wayside.”
“The Queen is angry, then?” Joan said, fearing this was what Cecil was saying by indirection and feeling suddenly at fault for having been ill abed that week—a week lost to profitable investigation.
Cecil admitted it was true, but then he said more brightly, “But look how pleased she will be now—now that the murderer is known and the fullness of his perfidy. Why, she will have no cause to complain—or to fear for Mistress Frances.”
“As long as we can provide ample defenses against Conroy,” Matthew said.
A knocking came at the door. It was Sears, looking very anxious. Cecil, seeing the expression, asked at once what the matter was.
“It’s a body, sir; nothing more nor less than a man with his head nearly severed. Some of the young gentlemen and friends of Master Cooke were swimming in the lake on a dare and found it.”
Cecil said, “We’ll have a look then at once! Come, Master
Stock, you’re still steward. Surely this discovery merits as much as your attention as it does mine.”
News of the body’s discovery had quickly spread, and about a dozen of the wedding guests and a few servants had gathered at the shore to see it, although the female contingent stood a little farther off for decency’s sake.
A way was made for Cecil through the onlookers, and Matthew and Joan followed. The body was sprawled face upward, with the arms extended at right angles to the trunk, and the head, nearly severed from the body, as Sears had reported, lolling against the right shoulder, so that the impression given was of a man crucified on an invisible cross. The two boys who had found the body stood shirtless and shivering in the brisk air.
Joan glanced at the corpse and then joined the other women. A glance had been enough: the dead man was definitely Conroy. Neither his having been several days in the water nor wounded so viciously could obscure his identity—the brawny physique, the flaming red hair. Like Aileen Mogaill, whom Matthew was convinced Conroy had killed, Conroy had been overcome by a strength greater than his own. Only the thick musculature of the neck had preserved him from total dismemberment.
While Joan watched, and a greater crowd gathered, Cecil and Matthew talked to the boys who had found the body, speaking loudly enough so that she could hear. They were relatives of Thomas Cooke, distant cousins. The one had dared the other to swim in the lake and the dare had been accepted. One of them had tripped over the body while he was returning to shore and had reached down into the water to investigate the impediment. Having brought forth more than he had bargained for, he now swore he would never go near water again, not if he should hang for it.
Cecil gave orders that the local constable be summoned, although he wasn’t to make inquiries until the next day. ‘The dead man will wait,” Cecil said. Edward and several other servants were directed to find something to cover the corpse and in a few minutes they were returning with an old horse blanket of which they made a makeshift shroud. They picked up t
he body and carried it to the stable.
While this was being done, Matthew and Cecil walked over to where Joan was, and Matthew conceded it was Conroy who was dead. "Dead for several days, maybe a week/’
"As I feared and hoped both,” Joan said in response, keeping her voice low so that the other women couldn’t hear. "Its well this lot has not heard of the Challoner ghost. The castle would be cleared in an hour, despite Mistress Frances’ wedding.”
"As it is, a blight will be put upon the feast, I warrant. The corpse cannot be hushed up, as was Aileen’s,” Matthew said.
"You’re both sure it’s the Irishman?” Cecil asked.
"Or his perfect twin,” Matthew said, and Joan agreed.
"Mistress Frances will be relieved then, for her fear of the man was great,” Cecil said.
Joan looked at her husband; it was clear he too saw the incongruity—the reason there was no occasion for rejoicing. She said, "Conroy was murdered in the exact manner of Aileen Mogaill, which fact I take to mean a third party, as yet undetected, murdered them both. I’ve said it all along—we’ve been trailing a rabbit, not the fox.”
"The whole fabric is rent,” Matthew lamented when he and Joan were alone again in their room.
"Perhaps only in part,” Joan said, feeling as much vindication at having been proved right about Conroy as sympathy for Matthew’s confusion and disappointment.
"What do you mean, 'in part’?”
"Well, Edward,” she said, regretfully, for she remained fond of him and yet she could not stifle her suspicions. She was sure Conroy had been murdered upon his return from the island, sure that the blood on the stable floor had been his, sure that Edward had dissembled or been, at best, too casual in regard to the plain evidence to the eye. Then the murderer had dumped the body into the lake, hoping that it would never rise from its watery tomb. A nasty piece of work. What she could not conceive and therefore what hampered her enthusiasm for accusing Edward was why he should do such a thing—lie about the stains—perhaps even lie about the murder.Could it have been he?
She remembered his face when he had looked into the
wardrobe. A face as appalled by what he saw as surprised. She was convinced Edward was not the murderer.
“Mistress Frances must be told about his death too,” Matthew said. “If she’s not already heard.”
“But what about Edward?”
“There’s no time to talk to him now. Within an hour the wedding party will leave for the church.”
“I’ll tell Mistress Frances about Conroy,” Joan said. “She’s being dressed. No man will be allowed to come near her.”
“As you wish,” Matthew said, looking pleased to be relieved of the duty.
Joan was right about the difficulty in getting access to the bride. She was also right in supposing the word of the dead man had penetrated the group of women helping to fit Mistress Frances out. No one spoke of it but the bride and her attendants were visibly shaken. A pall had settled on them all: the murder, revolting in itself, had also been construed as the worst of omens.
Joan waited until the dressing was completed and she could speak to Mistress Frances alone. Then she told her the dead man was Conroy.
The revelation did nothing to reassure the young woman, who quickly inferred that Conroy had been the victim of some other malicious person. There was an expression of despair on her face.
“This doesn’t mean there is any personal danger to yon,” Joan said in an effort to mitigate the effect of her announcement.
“I wish I could believe that,” Mistress Frances said.
“Is it so beyond belief?” Joan asked.
Then Mistress Frances confessed that she had had disturbing dreams—three in all, each more horrible than that which went before. Joan urged her to tell them, assuring her that she would find in Joan a sympathetic listener.
The young woman looked away and stared into the middle distance; her brow furrowed as though she were experiencing some physical pain. “Each dream was a vision of assault upon my person, each set in this very place—either by the lake or within the castle walls. In the first I was seized by a dead man’s hand, springing suddenly, to my surprise and horror, from the dismal waters
themselves as I walked nearby. The second, more distressing than the first, showed me myself, ravished upon my wedding night by a creature from the grave. The last and most recent found me in a castle chamber, searching for something, I know not what. I saw a large chest which when opened revealed costly garments, all unfamiliar to me save one, my shift of Italian cloth that I did intend to please my bridegroom with upon my wedding night. I unfolded it carefully and found the bodice most bloody and shredded/’
“These were terrible visions indeed,” Joan murmured sympathetically. “I don’t wonder that you are distressed.”
Mistress Frances turned to look at Joan again. She said, “Pray speak the truth for love of me, Mistress Stock. Are these nocturnal visions a young brides fears writ large upon the sleeping mind, to which I should give no credit? Or are they supernatural warnings I ignore at my peril? My heart tells me the latter is the case. What say you?”
Joan was too firm a believer in the power of dreams to reject them out of hand, and the visions that Mistress Frances had just related had that consistency of theme and tone that argued their validity as warnings.
“1 believe,” Joan said after a few moments of consideration, “that these dreams of yours are true cautious, given of heaven for soul and body’s sake and not to be ignored. But of what maybe, perhaps, not necessarily what must, and to ensure it is not otherwise than I have said, I and my husband, Sir Robert, and every brave man within these walls will protect you from what dangers these dreadful dreams betoken.”
“Oh, you mustn’t tell them” Mistress Frances said, a new alarm in her face. “I won’t have my wedding day ruined or delayed. If death is my fate, then let it come. I will go down to the grave a married woman at least.”
Joan chided her for such despair, telling her it was neither in accord with common sense nor with true religion. “It need not be as you fear. No guest will know, nor your bridegroom, if that’s your wish. 1 repeat, the dreams you have experienced may bespeak possibilities rather than fate. Why, they may be sent from heaven for the very purpose of preserving your life! But you must do what reason bids. Protect yourself against the envisioned threat.”
Mistress Frances was slow to reply to this counsel, but in the young woman’s gaze Joan thought she saw more determination than fear. Mistress Frances was clearly a woman of courage, not because she was unafraid, but because despite her fear she would do her own will, danger notwithstanding, and her will was to marry Thomas Cooke.
“You may tell Sir Robert, and the others,” Mistress Frances said at length, “but not Thomas. I pray you will not tell him of the dreams.”
Joan gave her promise. Priscilla Holmes entered to inform the bride that her coach was ready, and Joan went to find Matthew, more concerned now than ever for Mistress Frances’ safety, for she feared the dreams the young woman had had.
Half past eleven of the castle clock, the weather fair and wholesome for November, the bridal party left for the village church, since the humble house of God had been the site of every Challoner marriage within living memory, and because the larger and finer edifice in Buxton was thought too far for the guests to travel. A gaily decorated coach led the procession, carrying the bride, her female attendants, and Priscilla Holmes as matron of honor. It was followed by another conveying the bridegroom and his parents. Thereafter, on horse, came Sir Robert, who had consented to give the bride away, and his gentleman friends Moppitt and Hargrove, and the other guests. Matthew and Joan, as befitted their station as servants, remained at Thorncombe to supervise the preparation of the wedding feast that would occupy the long afternoon and extend far into the night.
But before the wedding party set out, Joan had told both Matthew and Sir Robert about her conversation with Mistress Fr
ances. Matthew had believed Joans intuition about the dreams at once, but Cecil had been more skeptical, making light of dreams in general—and especially those of skitterish brides—but conceding that it was unwise to ignore any warning, no matter its source. He said he doubted there would be any grave danger on the wedding day, given the multitude in attendance. “Who would attempt a murder in so great a confluence of visitors, especially by one who had previously worked only by stealth?”
But with all due respect Joan reminded the Queen s Principal Secretary of the recent case of the assault upon the Queen at Bartholomew Fair, when the assailant had attacked in the face of an armed retinue and a press of thousands—all after a series of gross and secret murders!
Cecil granted her point, and in the few minutes before Cecil was to ride to the church they discussed plans for protecting Mistress Frances.
Within two hours' time, Joan could see from a window in the long gallery the wedding party returning—heard them before going to the window to confirm it, for the solemn procession that had left, depressed in spirit by the discovery of Conroy s corpse, now returned in a mood of raucous merrymaking as though nothing untoward had happened that morning. Behind the coaches and mounted party of distinguished guests came a disorderly rout of villagers dressed in plain homespun garb. They sang and chanted, and gave ample evidence of their readiness to celebrate, whatever the occasion might have been.
The bridal party came indoors and filed into the banqueting hall, where long trencher tables were already groaning under a rich assortment of meat, dainties, and drink. Outside on the greensward the tenants, their families, and the villagers were to be entertained under three brightly colored pavilions. The castle grounds were rapidly taking on the appearance of a rural fair.
The bride and groom, looking very merry, were seated at the head table with Sir Robert as the most illustrious guest on one side and the parents of the groom on the other. Joan observed that during the feast that followed Cecil never left the bride s side, except when she danced with her new husband, and that Masters Moppitt and Hargrove, Cecils friends, hovered nearby, for Cecil had apprised them to some limited extent of his concern for the bride s safety. Matthew was constantly around, too, acting as chief butler and majordomo, and introducing the series of musicians, jugglers, and dancers that constituted the official entertainment. Their performances on the dais at the end of the hall were generally ignored, even though the applause following each act seemed thunderous no matter its quality.
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