Murder in the Queen's Garden

by Amanda Carmack

  “Mistress Haywood!” she cried. “Back again, are you? I would have thought you far from London in such a foul season. Boy, go fetch some wine for our guests; don’t just stand there staring!”

  “I am only here for a few days,” Kate answered as Celine came over to urge her to a stool. “My friend Anthony and I are here to make inquiries about some new trouble, I fear.”

  “Aye, there’s trouble enough to go around all the time,” Celine said, giving Anthony a sweeping, appreciative glance. He stood protectively behind Kate as she sat down across from Celine’s table. “But little enough here of late, praise be. We owe you much for what you did last winter. Tell me how I can help now.”

  Kate quickly told Madame Celine what she had come to discover—how to find Master Macey’s wife in the great tangle of London.

  Celine listened carefully, her beringed fingers tapping at her desk. She frowned a bit, seeming to run through every bit of gossip in her head, every person she knew in Southwark. Information could make all the difference in a bawdy house’s fortunes, and Celine was a shrewd businesswoman indeed.

  “I do have a friend who owns the White Swan, over in Blackman Street,” Celine said. “Long Madge. We came to London about the same time when we were mere green slips of girls; we help each other when we can. Though I must say she doesn’t keep her house in as sharp an order as should be. Always having to find new wenches, since hers leave so fast.” She gave a sniff. “Madge was complaining just a few months ago that one of her prettiest girls was leaving to marry a magician.”

  A magician? Surely there could not be very many Southwark geese married to such men. But “magician” could mean many things—astrologers, dealers in amulets and powders, scholars. She glanced at Anthony and raised her brow. He frowned doubtfully. “A magician?” Kate said.

  Celine scowled. “Aye. Bawds leave the trade to marry often enough, but usually to some farmer or blacksmith. I remember this tale because it sounded so odd. A magician? I wouldn’t let any of my girls mess about with things like that.”

  “Did Madge say anything about who this man was? Where he took his new wife?” Kate asked.

  “I remember she said she warned Bett about it all, but the silly girl was determined, said her man loved her and would never be mixed up in any demon arts. Madge told her he would never be prosperous, unless he was fortune-teller to the queen herself, but Bett left anyway.”

  “And this was recently?”

  Celine shrugged, the emerald satin of her gown rippling off her powdered shoulders. “Madge told me of it a few months ago. We can go talk to her, if you like. It won’t be busy at the White Swan for a few hours yet.”

  Kate nodded eagerly. She felt as if she was getting just a tiny bit closer to Master Macey, one little step at a time. “That would be most kind of her to speak with me. I do need to find this Bett, I think.”

  Celine’s eyes widened. “Is she in some trouble, then, Mistress Haywood?”

  “I am not sure yet. But her husband has disappeared and left behind some rather vital work he seems most devoted to.”

  “These girls!” Celine said, half-angry, half-despairing. “Haven’t the sense of a goat, most of the time, especially when it comes to men. You would think they would learn prudence, as I had to.”

  Kate glanced up at Anthony, and he gave her a nod. In his eyes, she could see the same worry she herself felt for Bett Macey. They both feared whoever took or killed Macey would come for his wife next.

  Celine stood up and reached for a large shawl, wrapping it over her chemise. “If we’re going to talk to Madge, we should go now. Mad Henry! Where are you?”

  Anthony took Kate’s arm and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “I told my friend at the Episcopal Courts I would call on him this afternoon to look into Lord Marchand’s records. Perhaps we should visit this, er, Long Madge tomorrow.”

  He looked most concerned, and Kate bit her lip, suddenly uncertain. She did have a tendency to leap forward without looking, just as her horoscope warned. She needed to learn prudence, just like Celine’s girls. But what if Bett was in danger?

  Celine laughed. “Worried about your fine lady, are you, young sir? Most gallant of you. The world needs more like you, indeed. But I think she can take care of herself better than most men I know.”

  “I only seek to protect her, madam,” Anthony said quietly.

  Celine’s face softened. “Aye. But Mad Henry can look after her, bring her safe back to your house when she’s done with her business.”

  As if to reaffirm her words, the door opened and Mad Henry appeared, as large and muscled as a prize bull.

  Kate took Anthony’s hand tightly in hers. “I will be well, Anthony, I promise. We do need to know what can be found about Lord Marchand, and you are the only one who can do that. I will not leave Celine and Henry.”

  He seemed most reluctant, but at last he nodded, and they parted at the door of the Cardinal’s Hat. Celine and Mad Henry led Kate out into the twisting puzzle of Southwark alleyways, heading even farther from the river. The streets were more crowded as the day went on. They passed a few gentlemen in fine doublets, with giggling women hanging on their arms, and merchants trying to sell the last bits of fruit or spiced ale from their carts before they could go home.

  The White Swan was not as large or well kept as the Cardinal’s Hat, but it was by no means the lowest of stews, either. The walls were plastered, some of the windows were glass, and the sign that hung above the door was well lettered. The midden was hidden back behind, not piled by the entrance.

  A window on the top floor swung open, and a woman leaned over so far Kate feared she might topple out. She looked to be about Celine’s age, her face lightly lined under her paint, her hair suspiciously black. She wore a fine purple gown trimmed in yellow tinsel.

  “Celine!” she called. “Come to call on me again so soon? And I see you brought a young, fair sir to be entertained. None of your pretty geese could satisfy him, could they?” She laughed raucously.

  Kate glanced over her shoulder to make sure Anthony hadn’t followed but had to laugh, too, as she remembered her own strange appearance. She’d forgotten she wore lads’ clothes.

  “I fear you don’t have what would satisfy this caller, Madge,” Celine called back. “We need to talk to you. Can we come up?”

  “Of course,” Madge answered. “I just got some new wine from a customer; you can try it with me.” Madge ducked back into the house, pulling the window shut.

  There was no Mad Henry guarding the White Swan’s door. Celine led them right in and down a corridor toward a sitting room. Some of the girls they passed, lazily lounging about in their shifts and loose robes, called out greetings to her. Mad Henry stayed just inside the door, his arms crossed over his chest, watching over it all.

  Madge was already pouring out the wine. She studied Kate as she passed the whiteware goblets, and she gave a hearty laugh. “I see Celine was right—I don’t have what might satisfy you, young miss. Though we do get ladies of an unusual persuasion from time to time. . . .”

  Kate felt her cheeks turn embarrassingly warm, and she took a quick gulp of wine.

  “No teasing, now, Madge,” Celine chided. “Mistress Haywood comes from the queen’s court, and she’s looking most urgently for someone you might know.”

  “Aye, now?” Madge said, all serious now. “How would I know anyone from the queen’s own court?”

  “Celine tells me you had a girl, Bett, who left to marry some sort of magician,” Kate said quickly. “Do you remember his name, or anything about him? What he looked like?”

  “His name was Miniver or Mattingly, something like that,” Madge said. “Nay, I recall now! ’Twas Macey. An unusual enough name. I heard tell his father once served at the royal court. So Bett said anyway, so who knows if that’s true.”

  Kate nodded, satisfied that Be
tt must be married to the right “magician.” “I must find her and her husband. Do you have any idea where she lives now?”

  Madge frowned thoughtfully over her wine. “Ah, yes. Silly Bett. I did warn her. I only saw the man once or twice myself, but he seemed most distracted. Plainly dressed, too. Most of those scryers don’t have two coins to rub together, and what they do have they spend in the St. Paul’s book stalls. But she insisted. I don’t know where she is now, but she was good friends with Rosie. She might know.”

  Madge pulled open the sitting room door and shouted for someone to fetch Rosie. The girl quickly appeared, haphazardly lacing a red-striped bodice over her chemise. She looked very young under her paint, her brown hair pulled hastily back, her eyes nervous. “Aye, Madame Madge?” she said.

  “This lady is looking for Bett,” Madge said. “Do you know where she’s gone, then?”

  “I . . .” Rosie swallowed, her eyes widening even more as her gaze darted between Madge and Kate. “Is she in trouble, then? I was so afeared . . .”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Kate said quickly. “I merely want to ask her about her husband, Master Macey.”

  Rosie nodded, looking a tiny bit more relieved. “Want your horoscope drawn up, then? Master Macey was always good at that, and doesn’t charge much, either. We all went to him when we had saved up enough to hear our fortunes. That’s how Bett met him.”

  “When was the last time you saw Bett?” Kate asked.

  Rosie hesitated.

  “Go on, then,” Madge urged.

  “’Twas just yesterday,” Rosie said. “I went to her lodgings at Coleman Street over the river, to see the baby. But Bett wasn’t herself.”

  “Not herself in what way?” Kate asked.

  “Bett is usually full of jests, but that day she seemed—nervous. Kept jumping up to look out the window,” Rosie said, shuffling her stockinged feet. “She said she hadn’t seen her husband in a few weeks, but she was scared someone had followed her to market. Someone in a dark cloak, even though the day was hot.”

  Kate remembered the swirl of a black cloak in the maze, and her worry for Mistress Macey grew. “Did this person try to speak to her?”

  “I don’t think so. She didn’t tell me anything more, miss,” Rosie said. Her voice was rising, as if she might start crying. “Is she in trouble?”

  Madge laid a gentle hand on Rosie’s shaking shoulder. “Aye, miss. Is Bett in danger? I did warn her when she married, she didn’t know what she was getting herself into. But she’s really a good girl.”

  Kate nodded. “I am sure she is.” Once it became clear that Rosie could tell her nothing more but the address where Bett Macey lodged, Kate left the White Swan. As Mad Henry escorted her back across the river to the Hardys’ house, she couldn’t quit thinking about a poor young mother, trailed by a cloaked figure, and Master Macey’s empty cottage.

  “You won’t do anything foolish, now, will you, Mistress Haywood?” Mad Henry said sternly as he left her at the back garden gate.

  Kate shook her head, but even as she sent Henry away, she very much feared she was about to be foolish indeed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Why would you want to be looking at these dusty old things, Anthony? Dull as tombs, they must be, if you can read the old writing at all. Most of it is so faded, and they obviously had no tutor to beat neatness into them as we did.” Thomas Overbury, an old friend of Anthony’s from their grammar school days in Hatfield village, led him up a winding staircase to the rooms above that held all the ledgers of old wills probated long ago.

  Tom had begun studying to enter the church and worked as clerk to a bishop high up in the Episcopal Courts. If a deceased person held property in more than one diocese, as Lord Marchand had, his or her will would sometimes be proved in the prerogative court at Canterbury, but as he had once had a large London house, Anthony hoped to find something in this local archdeacon’s court. If it was there, Tom would have access to help him find it, and hopefully there would be some clue there as to what had happened at Nonsuch all those years ago.

  Anthony laughed as Tom put down his lamp on a table that was indeed very dusty. “Master Parker was a stern teacher, to be sure, and most exacting about penmanship. But his tutelage seems to have done us good in the end.”

  Tom grinned. Despite his dark churchly clothes, he was still full of laughter. “So it has. I am for the church, and you will soon have a thriving law practice of your own. Then you can make more useless papers for poor apprentices to bind and store.” He heaved a large volume onto the middle of the table, sending up a great plume of choking gray dust.

  Anthony studied the shelves rising around them on all sides, stretching up into the dark shadows of the ceiling, all of them stacked with ledgers and boxes. It was clear he had a large task before him, but he would happily do it for Kate.

  He would do anything for her. If only she would accept it from him. But what could he give her now that would compare with life at court?

  He remembered how worried she had looked when they parted in Southwark, how reluctant he was to leave her in such a place, but he had learned that when it came to protecting those she loved, Kate would always do as she wanted, no matter what anyone said. It was maddening, but it was also one of the things about her he liked most.

  He had to hurry his task and get back to her, quickly.

  “Not entirely useless,” Anthony said. He pushed up the sleeves of his doublet and shirt to save them from the worst of the grime and reached for the first ledger.

  “You want to see the will of a Lord Marchand, who had a house at the far end of the Strand, yes?” Tom said, climbing up one of the perilous-looking ladders to pull down another volume. “In what year did he die?”

  “The same as poor Queen Catherine Howard, I think—1542 or ’43?”

  “If he had property in the country, it might not be here at all, of course. But worth a look.” Tom grabbed a few more bound ledgers and handed them down. “The London courts want their share whenever a lordship dies. Is this a case for your Master Hardy, then?”

  “Something of the sort,” Anthony muttered. He did indeed have much to do for Master Hardy, with his employer attending on the Duchess of Somerset at court, but Kate came first now.

  Tom shot him a shrewd, narrow-eyed glance as he left all the books on the table, piled high. “Moving ahead, then, eh, Anthony? You always were the clever one. Well, good fortune with your search. Shout if you need anything else.”

  Tom left Anthony alone with the mountain of documents and not much time to go through them. The warm, musty-smelling dimness closed in around him, and he bent close over the old pages.

  There was nothing for anyone named Marchand in 1541 or ’42, and nothing about Dr. Macey, either, only a few mentions of horoscopes drawn up for King Henry’s courtiers. But halfway through a ledger dated 1543, he found exactly what he sought.

  17th June, 1543, in the reign of King Henry the VIII, Lord William Marchand Bequeaths his Soul to Almighty God and to the company of Heaven. . . .

  It seemed Lord Marchand had no children, but To my good wife half the manner of House was left. And to my closest relation, my cousin and executor, Master Edward Longville . . .

  “Longville,” Anthony muttered. That was the name of the suitor of Kate’s friend Mistress Violet, the one the lady rejected most heartily. Surely the Longvilles of today were somehow bound to the Marchands, if there were any left. But Anthony could see no way that would lead to the murder of two astrologers, decades apart.

  He read further in the documents associated with the will, bound in with them in the ledger, and found an inventory of the Marchand town house. It was not complete, but amid the plate and carpets, he found a listing for a carved prie-dieu, a prayer bench, “brought from France,” left to Lady Marchand.

  Were the Marchands of the old religion, then? Could
that have been what led to the dispute between Lord Marchand and Dr. Macey?

  Anthony knew he needed to look further into the matter, check records of different courts, but first he had to tell Kate what he had found. He wanted to hear her thoughts on the matter, for her mind was always one step ahead.

  He pushed the ledgers back into a neat pile and snatched up his cap. He met Tom halfway down the winding staircase.

  “I found something else about this Lord Marchand I thought was most interesting, Anthony,” Tom said, holding up a thin, twine-tied book. “I thought the name sounded a bit familiar, so I dug through a crate of old Westminster Palace records that were brought here and forgotten. Those are always the most interesting, of course, things one shouldn’t look at.”

  It did not look like much, with that rough binding, but Tom was right—that was often the best information of all. Anthony reached for it eagerly. “That was good of you to take time away from your own duties, Tom.”

  Tom laughed. “Makes a change from church matters, doesn’t it? Rather intriguing. But I don’t think we should take too long over this one, forgotten or not. It wouldn’t do for our employers to know we were looking at such things. Unless this is for Master Hardy, of course . . .”

  Anthony was puzzled. Wills were usually dry things, not very dangerous to one’s employment. But when he laid it carefully on the table and studied the faded lines of writing, he could see what Tom meant. This was no ordinary court report. According to the stamp at the top of the crackling old vellum, it was from the Star Chamber.

  Star Chamber sessions, judged by royal privy councilors along with judges, were used only for prominent people questioned in important matters. The sessions were held in secret, all evidence kept in writing. Why was it there?

  Anthony frowned as he read it, sure Tom was right. They should not be seeing it. But he was glad they were.