by S. D. Sykes
She let her gaze rest on the contents of the goblet, studying the wine as it swirled around in the bowl.
I let her continue this for a while before clearing my throat again to break the silence. ‘I wondered if I might ask you some questions, Lady Isobel?’
She looked up at me, her eyes red and glistening with tears. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘When did you last see your husband?’
‘I went to bed after supper last night, but Lord Hesket didn’t join me.’ She smoothed the hair from her face, as this admittance seemed to make her uncomfortable. ‘He was still very angry after the argument with Edwin of Eden. But my husband was not a good sleeper at the best of times,’ she added quickly. ‘He liked to read at night, or visit his horse. He found it restful to spend time with the creature.’
‘So that’s why he was in the stables?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ she said. ‘Though he rarely explained where he was going or what he was doing to me.’
‘Did anybody else know about these nocturnal visits?’
She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Clearly the Dutch boy knew about them,’ she snapped. ‘I was right to say that we should be frightened of him, wasn’t I? You heard my warning at supper last night.’ She held back a sob. ‘I know what that monster did to my husband’s body, Lord Somershill. We might call it damage to be polite, but I know the truth.’
‘Who told you?’ I said, surprised that somebody had disclosed these details.
‘It was Alice Cross.’
‘I see. Does Lady Emma know as well?’
‘Of course not. The girl has the strength of a mayfly. Emma could not bear such knowledge. Especially as the Dutch boy is still roaming the castle.’
‘Lyndham and I will find Hans,’ I said. ‘You mustn’t worry.’
‘I wish I could be so confident,’ she said. ‘But who will be next? The boy has a history of malevolence and a taste for vengeance.’
‘Vengeance? Why do you say that?’ I asked.
‘It’s simple,’ she said. ‘The Dutch boy promised to take his revenge on my husband and Lord Eden. And now both men are dead.’
This was news to me. ‘Why did Hans make such a promise?’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Did my husband not tell you this?’
‘No.’
She crossed her arms about her chest and shivered, though this chamber was far warmer than any other room in the castle. ‘There was a violent argument between the three of them, just after we first arrived here. My husband and Lord Eden . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘I should say my husband and Godfrey, the deceased Lord Eden, were taking their morning ride together when they met the Dutch boy in the forest. At first they thought Hans was taking a walk, but then they realised that the boy had borrowed one of my husband’s horses without permission. Worse than that. He was flogging the creature with a scourge.’
‘Why?’
‘Why does the Dutch boy commit any of these crimes?’ she said. ‘He is a devil. A monster. Of course, he tried to say that the horse deserved a beating because it had thrown him from the saddle. But my husband didn’t believe a word of it.’
‘Why not?’
‘This was his most docile horse, you see. A chestnut mare that had been trained especially to carry Lady Emma.’ She looked at me for a moment, and despite her sorrow, I caught some of the beauty in her sculptured, perfectly proportioned face. ‘My husband was always very proud of his horses,’ she said, ‘so he was disgusted to see what the boy had done. The creature was beaten so badly that it was bleeding. Even about the face and eyes.’ She hesitated again, holding back a tear. ‘My husband was usually a gentle man, Lord Somershill, but he could be provoked. Especially when it came to his horses or his daughter.’
‘What happened?’
She heaved a sigh. ‘My husband took the scourge to the boy. To see how much he liked being beaten.’ She paused, wringing her small hands. ‘I think that Lord Eden had to intervene in the end.’ She cleared her throat, as if embarrassed to say the next words. ‘Or it might have gone too far.’
‘You think your husband would have killed Hans?’ I asked.
She looked up at me with eyes that were usually so diffident and discontent. Now they were intense and animated. ‘Yes, I do, Lord Somershill. And now I wish that he’d succeeded. Because the Dutch boy swore to take revenge on my husband, and now he has carried out his threat.’ She leant forward and took my hand. Her skin trembled against my own. ‘I fear this man. I truly do.’
I pushed my way into de Groot’s workroom without knocking, finding him sitting in a dark corner, wringing an oily rag in his hands. He was obviously upset about his nephew, but did his best to jump up at my entrance and hide his tears. ‘Have you found Hans yet?’ he asked me, before I had a chance to speak.
‘No,’ I replied.
‘My nephew could also be dead. Have you thought about that? The murderer might have killed him as well.’
‘Then where is his body, de Groot?’
He looked away from me, and began to rub at the frame of his clock, though I noticed that his hands were shaking. ‘Hans has nothing to do with these murders, Lord Somershill,’ he said, wiping the cloth over the crown of the bell. ‘I told you that before.’
‘Where is Hans?’ I said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Of course you do.’
He whipped his rag against the bell, causing it to chime. ‘I don’t know,’ he said in a sudden temper. ‘It doesn’t matter how many times you ask me the same question. I cannot answer you.’
If he had hoped to scare me off with his raised voice, then he was to be disappointed. I paused for a moment, and then wandered around the clock frame, letting my hand deliberately rest upon the rope that was wound about the central shaft.
De Groot watched me with nervous eyes. ‘Please, take your hand away from there,’ he said. ‘You will damage the tension on the pulley.’ I took my time to obey, causing him to snort with indignation before leaning down to dip his cloth into a bucket of dark brown liquid.
When he stood up again, I caught a familiar smell. ‘What’s in there?’ I asked, pointing at the bucket.
‘It’s an oil,’ he replied. ‘We make it ourselves from birch bark. It helps to keep the frame free of rust.’
‘That oil burns easily, doesn’t it?’
De Groot looked at me strangely. ‘Yes, it does,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’
I felt my stomach roll. ‘Did Godfrey ever ask Hans to work for him?’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean, de Groot. Just answer my question. Did Godfrey ever pay Hans to do odd jobs? Outside of building this clock?’
De Groot hesitated. ‘That was between Lord Eden and my nephew,’ he said gruffly. ‘I kept out of it.’
I thought back to the day we arrived at Castle Eden. To the masked figure, standing beside the burning cottage. The man who had mysteriously disappeared, when I called out to him.
‘Did you know that Lord Eden paid Hans to set fire to a plague house?’ I said.
De Groot took a sharp intake of breath, but returned to his polishing, now vigorously rubbing the cloth along the struts of the frame.
‘But did you also know that Hans didn’t follow Lord Eden’s instructions,’ I said. ‘He was supposed to bury the dead, before he burnt down the cottage. Instead he left the bodies inside the flames, just so that he could watch them burn.’
De Groot stopped rubbing, but wouldn’t meet my gaze. ‘That’s not true.’
‘You know that it is,’ I said, stepping towards him. ‘You know your nephew’s faults well enough, and yet you shout down any criticism of the boy. Even when he continues to fail you, time after time.’
‘You’re only blaming Hans because you can’t find him,’ he said. ‘But I know that he’s innocent.’
‘Do you?’
He took a deep breath and looked up at me.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do.’ However, it was trepidation and not conviction that I saw in his eyes.
I was about to say more, when we had an unexpected visitor. The door to the room slid open and the small figure of Lady Emma crept inside. Evidently she was already bored with the bread oven, and now wanted to see the clock.
‘Not now, Emma,’ said de Groot, obviously vexed to see her. ‘Come back later.’
She regarded him for a while, obstinately refusing to move – before she threw me a look of hostility and then withdrew into the passageway.
‘Does Lady Emma come here often?’ I asked de Groot, when she had closed the door.
‘Yes. She’s no trouble,’ he said. ‘She likes to watch me working, so I don’t object. And that poor little girl deserves some happiness,’ he sighed, ‘before she is sold into another barbaric marriage.’
‘You knew about her marriage to Godfrey?’ I said, with some surprise.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘A tradesman often hears more than he should, Lord Somershill. Noblemen discuss many topics in front of us, as if we were not there.’ He heaved another sigh, before he returned the cloth to the iron frame. ‘But I fear for Lady Emma. The poor child has a bleak future. I feel sorry for her.’
I sat myself down on a nearby stool. ‘And do you feel sorry for Hans?’ I said. ‘Is that why you tolerate his failings?’ De Groot looked at me for a moment, and refused to answer. ‘How long has Hans been your apprentice?’ I asked.
De Groot huffed. He would respond to this question, at least. ‘Since he was fourteen. Five years ago.’
‘And is he your blood relation, or the nephew of your wife?’
‘Hans is my sister’s boy. When her husband died, she couldn’t look after Hans any longer, so I offered to take him.’
‘Why couldn’t she look after him?’ I asked.
He hesitated, annoyed with himself for letting this slip. ‘Hans needed the influence of a man,’ he said, now dipping the cloth back into the bucket of birch oil. ‘That’s all.’
‘Why was that?’
‘He was a little wild when he was younger. Nothing unusual. But I have tamed him with discipline and work.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you?’
‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘Hans is a good boy. He would never do the things that you say.’
‘So he didn’t swear to take revenge on Lord Hesket?’
‘What?’
‘Lady Isobel tells me that her husband came across your nephew flaying one of his horses,’ I said. ‘Hesket gave Hans a beating for it.’
De Groot shook his head. ‘That’s not true,’ he said blankly.
‘It’s not true that Hans received a beating? Or it’s not true that he was cruel to a horse?’
De Groot looked at me with a strange expression, and then resumed his work, now running the rag over the teeth of the largest cog. ‘Hans didn’t like Hesket, that’s all,’ he said.
‘And is there anybody else he doesn’t like in this castle?’
‘Well, Lord Somershill,’ he said, letting a smile curl at the corner of his lips. ‘I don’t think he likes you very much.’
I stood up and leant over the man, making sure to put my hand onto the rope again. ‘Should I be afraid of Hans, then?’ I asked. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
He turned his face from mine. ‘Hans is innocent,’ he mumbled. ‘I know it.’
I pulled at the rope and deliberately loosened the tension in the pulley. ‘You’re so certain that Hans is innocent,’ I said. ‘And yet you don’t have the slightest idea where he’s gone?’
The clockmaker took a deep breath, his face flushed. ‘That’s right, my Lord,’ he said adamantly. ‘I have not seen Hans since last night.’
Chapter Nineteen
After leaving de Groot, I decided to return to the stable where Hesket had been killed – in the hope of finding some piece of evidence that I might have missed before. When I arrived there, I found that Lyndham had already removed Hesket’s body from the straw and placed him into a coffin by the door, where his earthly remains were now attended by Old Simon. The elderly monk knelt beside the coffin, with his eyes shut and his rosary hanging from his hands. His crooked fingers worked diligently through the beads and his lips moved silently in prayer.
Old Simon looked up when he finally sensed that I was standing near him. ‘There is devilry at work here,’ he told me. ‘Satan has been summoned to this castle.’
I gave a noncommittal nod in response, for I could not accuse the Devil of any involvement in this crime, since I did not believe in his existence. ‘Can we bury Lord Hesket soon, Father?’ I asked.
The old man sighed at this question. ‘I believe that Sir Robert is planning to raise the portcullis later this afternoon.’ He paused. ‘We are fortunate that the soil has warmed, so poor Hesket should be easier to bury than Godfrey.’ The monk then crossed himself and rose clumsily to his feet, using the side of the coffin as leverage. When I offered my hand in assistance, he waved me away. He still had not forgiven me for my behaviour towards the two small girls in the graveyard. Instead, he looked at me with a pained expression. ‘I pray for you, Lord Somershill,’ he said. ‘I pray nightly for your soul.’
I ignored this comment, as I was not grateful for his prayers. ‘You’ve known this castle for many years, haven’t you, Father?’ I said instead.
He scratched at his earlobe, confused at this swerve in our conversation. ‘Yes. I was born here,’ he answered.
‘Do you know of a secret entrance?’ I asked. ‘Some way for a person to get in and out of the castle, without going through the gate?’
He rubbed his chin. ‘I used to hear stories of such a tunnel, when I was a boy. After all, this castle was built during the reign of King Henry II, and an escape route was a common addition in those times, I believe. But, if it exists, I’ve never seen it.’ He paused. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘The Dutchman is not inside the castle,’ I said. ‘So he must have escaped somehow.’
The old man paused again, now leaning forwards to study me in the diminishing light. Wrinkles cut across his forehead in deep, wavy lines, and his white eyebrows sprouted untidily above his eyes like overgrown hedges. ‘It’s as I told you,’ he said. ‘The Devil is at work here.’
I tarried a while longer in the stables, but there was nothing more to learn here. The bloodied straw had been swept up and burnt, and new straw had been laid down, as if Hesket’s murder had never taken place. After this I strolled through the network of rooms that abutted the stables to see what else I could discover – descending some steps into the cellars, and then finding myself in the largest storeroom, with all the hams, cheeses, and sacks of dried peas and flour. The air smelt sweet and dry in here thanks to Godfrey’s controversial ventilation shaft.
As I looked up this thin well and caught the grey light of the sky in the distance, I wondered, for a moment, if this could be Hans’s mysterious escape route? I then dismissed this theory immediately, as it would have been impossible for any man to squeeze out of such a narrow chute. The Dutchman was thin, but he was not a maypole.
I left the storeroom and was returning towards the stables, when another door caught my attention. It was hidden in a corner at the bottom of the steps, and I had never seen it before. Could this be where Hans was hiding? I drew my dagger from its sheath and pushed at the door, but when I burst in, it was not the Dutchman whom I discovered in the near darkness. It was The Fool, asleep against the wall, with his jester’s hat pulled down over his head.
Now that I had shed some light into this room, I could see that this space was no bigger than a large cupboard. The floor was littered with The Fool’s instruments – the citole, shawm and two small drums, not to mention a heap of his comic costumes; the cape covered with feathers, a mock archbishop’s mitre and a hobby-horse with a long, plaited mane. I have to say that these props looked even more dismal in this light than they did when employed as part of his act.
The man scrambled to his feet. ‘Lord Somershill,’ he said with a bow. ‘I was just resting before Lord Hesket’s burial.’
‘Is this where you sleep?’ I asked.
‘Only at night,’ he answered, forgetting that I had just caught him dozing in the middle of the day.
I looked about this hidey-hole, and had the distinct impression that this man spent a good deal of time here. There was a straw mattress rolled in one corner, a half-eaten loaf of bread and a selection of short-bladed knives, slotted into a leather belt.
‘What are the knives for?’ I asked, thinking immediately of the lacerated skin of Lord Hesket’s face.
The Fool hesitated for a moment, and then grasped the belt. ‘I’m training myself to throw knives at a wooden shield,’ he said, presenting me with the line of blades. ‘It’s a very exciting trick, especially if somebody volunteers to stand in front of the shield.’ He must have seen the look of horror on my face, since he then added, ‘I’ve seen it performed many times at the Spring Fairs, my Lord. It’s perfectly safe. Nobody is ever hurt.’
‘I suppose that depends who’s throwing the knives?’ I pointed out. He smiled awkwardly in reply, taking the meaning of my words.
While the knives were under my nose, I took the opportunity to study them, on the off-chance that some blood might be lingering upon the blades. But there was nothing to note. They were rusting and blunt, and were unlikely to cut into anything, let alone any person stupid enough to stand in front of a wooden shield, whilst this man launched knives at them.
‘Were you sleeping in this room last night?’ I asked. ‘When Lord Hesket was murdered?’
He answered cautiously. ‘Yes. I suppose I was.’
‘Yes or no?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t hear anything?’
He looked at me with panicked eyes, as his mouth momentarily hung open. I felt he wanted to say something different to the words that finally came out. ‘Er . . . no.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said. ‘This room is very close to the stable where Lord Hesket was murdered.’
