Madge shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It was all under covers.’
‘I can remember,’ said Sterry. ‘I ought to, with all the questions that were asked. Some sort of coney stew, and an egg custard. The man was sick, but mending by then. Getting his appetite back. Then, later, Madge was sent to fetch the used dishes—’
‘But I never did. I just forgot all about them when . . . when . . .’ Her eyes grew round, thinking about it.
‘Quite,’ Sterry said. ‘And there in the room was a bit of pie that he’d left, a pie that was never made in these kitchens. Paulet fetched help to Hoxton’s room – that included me – and we were trying to quieten him when his manservant came back. We sent him off again to find a doctor, and while he was gone, someone found a physician in the castle, tending someone else, so in the end we had the two of them.
‘The first one smelt the pie and said the berries weren’t bilberries, whatever else they were, and the second one, when he arrived, knew it for deadly nightshade straight away. Children eat the berries sometimes, not realizing they’re dangerous. They can make people mad, and make them see things. Poor Hoxton went mad, right enough, and thought he saw the ceiling coming down on him, too.’
‘That’s horrible,’ I said.
‘There was nothing that anyone could do,’ Sterry said. ‘The doctors got people to hold him down, and they tried salt water to make him empty his stomach out completely. Then they tried plain water, to wash out the stomach the other way, so to speak, and then charcoal in water. That’s supposed to help with poison cases. But it was no use. He fell into a lethargy, and within two days he was gone. Well, Madge, tell Mistress Stannard the rest.’
‘There ain’t much more,’ Madge said. ‘Only, on my way back from the kitchen to the Spicery, I saw the tray still on the table and I saw a man put something extra on it. I didn’t know who he was. I couldn’t even see him that well. There was sunlight coming through the window, and there was a shaft of light, like, between me and his face. I mean—’
‘It wasn’t Hoxton’s manservant?’ I asked.
‘No, no, it wasn’t Master Edwards, that I am sure of. This fellow was a different shape, like. He had a little satchel on his belt, like Master Sterry now . . .’
‘I carry a purse and a slate with notes of work to be done in it,’ Sterry said.
I nodded. Like many busy men who needed to keep the tools of their trade handy, Sterry had a square leather bag strapped to his belt.
‘He was standing looking at Master Hoxton’s tray,’ Madge said, ‘and as I went past, I saw him put his hand into the satchel and take out a little bundle. He pulled off the cloth it was wrapped in. Inside was a small pie, in a dish. He put it on the tray, and then he went away.’
‘What did you think he was doing?’ asked Sterry.
‘It weren’t aught to do with me. I was only sixteen and just a skivvy,’ said Madge. ‘If I thought at all, I’d reckon a dish had been forgotten and he was bringing it.’ Her voice became indignant. ‘You see someone doing something to a tray, here in a royal kitchen, and you don’t say to yourself: ooh, look, that man’s putting a poisoned pie there!’
‘That’s reasonable,’ said Sterry.
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘But Madge, can you describe the man in any way at all? Did you think you’d seen him before?’
‘Not that I knew. I told all this to Lord Paulet, then.’ Madge was far too humble to tell us candidly that she thought we were fools to be enquiring into a murder which had occurred and been apparently solved a quarter of a century ago, but she couldn’t quite hide her opinion.
‘Tell us what you can,’ said Sterry firmly. ‘Try to remember.’
‘I said, I couldn’t see him that well. Shortish, darkish, I thought. Beak of a nose. Funny, I do remember that. He was dressed in brown. That’s all I saw. Lord Paulet made me go and stand by some stairs and look at people coming down them and say if I saw him, but I couldn’t. Nothing odd about beaky noses! There’re dozens of them. I only saw him a moment, down here, and like I said, there was the shaft of light in the way, and anyhow, I didn’t stare! It wouldn’t be my place. The other woman that saw him, though – she was coming along behind me though I didn’t know it then – she said she knew him and it was Master Gervase someone or other.’
‘Susannah Lamb, her name was,’ said Sterry. ‘But where she is now, God only knows. She could be in the next village, or in far Cathay or her grave.’
‘What was she like?’ I enquired.
Unexpectedly, Madge giggled. ‘Not like a lamb! More like a great big ox. She cracked two mortars in her day, bashing away with them great big pestles. I was scared of her,’ she added. ‘Always shouting and booming and making a to-do, she was. Sounded like an ox, come to think of it. Used to be someone’s housekeeper afore she came here, but I reckon they couldn’t stand her bellowing about the place, either.’
I laughed. Mistress Lamb sounded remarkably like one Cecily Moss, who was mother-in-law to my former ward Penelope, the elder sister of the Jane Mason whom Mark so much wished to marry. Cecily Moss had a good heart, though, for all her resounding vocal powers.
‘But she recognized the man as Gervase Easton?’ Sterry persisted.
‘Oh yes, sir. Very definite, she was.’
‘Yes, that’s what I remember, too. Well.’ Sterry turned to me. ‘There you are, mistress. Is there anything more you want to ask – or anyone else here you want to meet?’
‘Can you yourself remember anything – any small detail that we haven’t talked about? You’ve obviously got a sharp memory.’
Sterry shook his head. ‘All I’ve told you is all I know. Everyone in the kitchens was questioned, of course, but none of them, except for Madge and myself, are still here. They’ve all retired or died or gone elsewhere.’
‘Why wasn’t the manservant looked at more closely?’
Sterry looked impatient. ‘Because Susannah Lamb said she’d actually seen Gervase Easton put the pie on the tray, and because Edwards was never alone with the food anyway. When he picked it up, I was passing, on my way upstairs on an errand to Paulet’s office, and we went up together. I saw him take the tray in at his master’s door. I held the door open for him, and I saw him put the tray down on his master’s knees. Master Hoxton was in bed, you understand. Then Edwards went off into the town for some medicine or other his master wanted. They were on good terms. There was no earthly reason why Edwards should want to harm Hoxton. He was well paid and treated with great forbearance, considering the way he drank. I’m sorry I can’t help you more, mistress.’
‘It’s all such a blank,’ I said. I felt as though I had come up against a wall. I could see no flaw in the case which had been made against Gervase Easton. Voices that might have given me information had been silenced by death or simply faded away into the wide world and been lost in anonymity. ‘I can only thank you both for trying to help,’ I said.
‘Go back to your work, Madge,’ said Sterry. ‘Here.’ There was a clink as he took a couple of coins from a belt pouch and pressed them into Madge’s hand. Her face lit up with pleasure, and for a moment the pretty girl she had once been reappeared. The curtsey she gave us was gracious. Then she was gone, and Sterry once more turned to me. ‘Mistress Stannard . . .?’
‘Yes?’
‘You are one of the queen’s ladies, mistress. You’re near the heart of things. Down here, it’s like an ant-heap full of gossip and there are things we all want to know and aren’t told. A lot of new supplies are coming in. A whole herd of cattle was driven within the walls this morning, and wagon-loads of all kinds of provender keep arriving. I’ve seen guns being delivered, and barrels of gunpowder. How much danger are we in? Is it true that there’s an army marching from the north and the castle may be besieged?’
‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘Lord Sussex, in the north, is moving against them, to cut them off first and then defeat them, or so we all hope. At the moment, there’s no danger.’
‘Could that change?’<
br />
‘I suppose it could. We have to wait for news of Lord Sussex’s campaign. But there’s no cause for alarm yet. The queen is simply – taking wise precautions.’ I smiled at him. ‘Hoping for the best and preparing for the worst; that’s all she’s doing.’
He looked relieved. I hoped that his relief would be justified.
FIVE
Artistic Preoccupations
Sterry’s unease made me notice things I might otherwise have missed. On my way back to our suite, I passed a barrow-load of casks with Salt Fish chalked on them, standing in a passageway while two leather-aproned men stood scratching their heads and saying that they couldn’t put that there in the usual place because it was chock-full of casks of meal already and at this rate they’d soon be storing supplies on the roof.
Just after that, having climbed a flight of stairs into a gallery, I came upon a knot of courtiers talking anxiously together, and round the very next corner met two council members with worried faces urgently discussing something as they walked along and I heard the words ammunition and cannon.
Fear of what might be coming had permeated the whole castle. What was happening in the north could be the seed from which a most terrible crop might spring. In the kitchens, I had been asking questions about a crime which had happened half a lifetime ago. Now, the fate of Peter Hoxton seemed the least important matter in the world.
The moment I entered our suite, though, there was Hugh, asking: ‘Did you find out anything useful?’
‘Nothing,’ I said, collapsing into a settle. ‘Hugh, it’s a blind alley. I suppose there never was a real chance that I’d learn anything this morning that didn’t come out at the time. Gervase’s letter may or may not have told the truth; Mark may or may not be right to believe it. We’ll never know. Nor will he. How can one find out what happened over twenty years ago? Too many of those concerned are dead or gone away to heaven knows where. It just isn’t possible.’
‘Don’t be too disappointed. You did your best.’
‘Hawkswood!’ I said with passion. ‘Just for a little while, I saw a glint of hope, but now that’s gone and it all feels worse than it did before.’
‘We’ll get over it. One does get over things,’ Hugh said. ‘Now, I have things to tell you. First, I’ve seen Arbuckle – Brockley took me there – and I think he’s the man we want. Then we came back, and now,’ said Hugh regretfully, ‘I’m sorry to say that for some reason Brockley and Fran Dale seem to be quarrelling.’
‘About Arbuckle?’ I said, puzzled.
‘I don’t see why they should. But I certainly heard raised voices from their room a moment ago – listen! There they go again!’
I got up and made for the Brockleys’ chamber.
I found all apparently in order. The room was warm, with a good fire in the hearth. Dale was repairing a torn sleeve of mine, sitting by the window to stitch by daylight. On the other side of the room, with a branch of candles to eke out the grey light of this dismal morning, Gladys was darning stockings with an air of minding her own business. Brockley was grimly brushing one of Hugh’s cloaks. He and Dale, however, were not looking at each other, and I had just heard them shouting.
‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said Dale in a whisper.
‘Our apologies,’ said Brockley. ‘It isn’t important.’
I began to say something about Arbuckle, but Brockley started to shake his head before I reached the end of the sentence.
It was Dale, plunging her needle fiercely into the green satin of the sleeve, who explained. ‘It’s not to do with Master Arbuckle, ma’am. But Roger says he wishes he could join Lord Sussex’s army! Did you ever hear the like?’
‘I seem, madam,’ said Brockley, ‘in the last nine or so years, since I entered your service, to have accustomed myself to being useful in times of emergency. It feels odd, at a time like this, to be doing nothing. If I could volunteer . . .’
‘Please don’t, Brockley. I value your services far too much.’
‘And I’m thankful that we’re not all riding north to risk our lives prying into secrets!’ Dale snapped.
I considered them both thoughtfully and with compassion.
The three of us had seen many adventures in our years together. The Brockleys had been my comrades in the sometimes dangerous tasks I had carried out for the queen and Cecil. The tasks weren’t usually meant to be dangerous, but I seemed to have a regrettable instinct for going beyond my instructions and pressing on when it would have been wiser to turn back and leave the work to others.
I had brought my servants into peril along with myself, all too often. In France, Dale had once found herself in a dungeon, threatened with a charge of heresy. In a Welsh border castle, Brockley and I had once been shut in a dungeon too, and that was an embarrassing memory, for that night we had come close, so close, to crossing the divide between lady and steward and becoming lovers.
I had never spoken of that episode to anyone, but my second husband, Matthew, had sensed the hidden thing between Roger Brockley and myself and been jealous. The same was true of Dale. Yet she had always been faithful. She had complained a good deal (with reason) about the hardships I inflicted on her; she had been at times frightened, exhausted and ill; but she had never failed either me or Brockley. As for Brockley himself, I knew he deplored what he felt was my unfeminine thirst for adventure, and yet he had a strongly adventurous streak himself, which always surfaced when called upon.
‘I won’t volunteer, madam,’ he said. ‘Not if you ask me to stay.’
‘If I ask him to stay,’ said Fran furiously, ‘he just tells me I don’t understand.’
‘Fran, I wouldn’t go without your consent and you know it,’ said Brockley. ‘But if only you did understand. I think the mistress does, even though she still wants to keep me here.’ He looked at me, still holding Hugh’s cloak. ‘Madam, I was a soldier once, as you know, back in the days of King Henry. When I was twenty-nine years old, I was on campaign in France. I’m fifty-four now and I notice it, but the further away the past gets, the more vivid the memories become. Sometimes, I long to be on a campaign again and I think to myself: soon I shall be too old. I long for just one more chance to – yes, to see action again.’
‘Anyone would think he’d been sleeping in the full moon,’ lamented Dale. ‘Men are just not reasonable.’
‘You’re mourning your lost youth?’ I said to Brockley. ‘Is that it?’
‘Lost youth and lost comrades, I suppose, madam. That fellow of Cecil’s, John Ryder – you know the one?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Ryder, a retainer in Cecil’s employ, had accompanied us on more than one of our missions. He was about Brockley’s age and had changed little since I first met him, seven years ago now. I had seen him the previous summer, and except that he was now completely grey instead of partially, he still looked the same, fatherly and reliable. I liked him; we all did.
‘I’m as sure as I can be that I met him in France, in King Henry’s army. He was a captain there. We had a mutual acquaintance, a Cornish fellow called Trelawny, Carew Trelawny. It’s odd. I haven’t thought of him for years, but somehow he’s been in my mind lately. He was the most resourceful man I ever came across. When we lost touch with our supply wagons once on a march through France, we had to camp out in a wood, in the wet, and make ourselves rough shelters. He had a knack of looking at a tree and saying: That branch is the right shape for a ridge pole already; all we have to do is lop it. He’d seen what the rest of us hadn’t. And there was the time the mule harness broke on one of the wagons. It was rotten old harness; even knotting it up wouldn’t have been any use . . .’
Brockley’s voice tailed off a little, and his eyes by now were reminiscent. He was looking back into the past, into his youth. Then he focused on me again and smiled his rare smile. ‘But we were near a cottage where someone was growing peas. There were pea-sticks, fixed together with a strong twine, quite a lot of it. Carew sa
w it straightaway, and in a trice he was over the fence and grabbing the twine. It repaired the harness well enough to get us to the nearest leather-worker. Though,’ Brockley added, ‘next day, after a skirmish, an old biddy called him all the names under the sun – in French, of course – because he stole a shirt she’d hung to dry on a bush in her garden, so as to make bandages in a hurry.’
‘I can’t help feeling,’ I said, ‘that your friend Trelawny may have made himself unpopular with some of the French peasantry! After all, there was one poor man trying to grow peas, to help feed his family, no doubt, and another poor woman trying to keep her husband’s clothes clean, and he just walks up and seizes their things!’
‘True,’ said Brockley. ‘But he did have a way of seeing that things made for one purpose can work just as well for another. It came in useful time and again. They were grand days.’
‘You’re a fraud, Brockley,’ I said. ‘You are always telling me that I should live a quiet and dignified life, and all the time you’re secretly hankering to go on campaign in the rain and steal things from peasants’ gardens.’
‘Well, there’s this,’ said Dale, still stitching furiously. ‘You’ve said now that you won’t go if I’m against it, and I am! I’ll be down on my knees this evening, thanking God for it.’
‘Don’t thank him too soon,’ said Brockley with another sudden grin. ‘You never know!’
We were interrupted just then as Hugh came in. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that it’s time to give Meg a rest from her studies. She’s translated quite enough Latin for one day. Arbuckle would like to see her, and why not now? Before I went to find him, I called on the gentleman whose wife he has just painted and saw the picture. I was impressed. It was as good as that miniature that Mark Easton showed us – rather like it, on a bigger scale. Arbuckle isn’t cheap, but I think he could be worth what he charges. Shall we rescue Meg and set off at once?’
Meg, who had been at her books all morning, was glad enough to leave off, and Dr Lambert, who wasn’t young, also looked thankful. In return for taking a note to Mark, giving a brief account of my interview with Sterry and Madge, I gave Lambert the rest of the day off and instructed Dale to brush Meg’s hair and help her into a fresh gown.
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