The Reluctant Assassin

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  The castle, looming up on the west bank of the river Avon as he rode towards it when evening was drawing near, was in sight before the surrounding town was, a mighty structure of walls and towers. It drew Brockley’s eyes at once. Well, tomorrow he could try going back to talk to the thatcher, but very likely the castle would be a better place to begin. Castles were the sort of building that often needed repairs, including roof repairs. Well, he would decide tomorrow which to do first. For the moment, he wanted to find an inn. A good one.

  This was not difficult, but he found that he had little appetite for the excellent supper he was offered. He was glad to lie down, on what this time was a comfortable bed.

  He woke in the morning with a violent sneeze and a raging sore throat and a fever.

  He cursed, but in vain. The landlord’s wife was kind and brought him broth and hot possets, and the fever left him by nightfall, but he was horribly weak and his nose felt as though it were made of rock. Two clear days passed before he finally woke in the morning to find that he felt capable of getting on his horse. Luckily, he had always been strong and he always did throw colds off quickly. This one, however, was very ill-timed.

  The thatcher had probably finished his job by now. He had better start by going to the castle. Crossly blowing a red, sore nose, he set out, to find its main gate.

  Here, despite the ominous appearance of the castle from a distance, he met with an unexpected air of hospitality. The gates stood wide open and people were going freely in and out. There were guards and they did ask his business, but civilly, and without any air of wishing to exclude anyone.

  ‘I need to make some enquiries about a man who may at some time have done repair work here,’ Brockley said, balancing frankness with discretion as best he could. ‘I wish him no ill; in fact, my mistress may want to employ him. I would like to speak to a suitable person.’

  ‘My lord Ambrose of Warwick isn’t here just now,’ one of the guards said. ‘He’s visiting the royal court and half his household are away with him, and that includes his steward. He’s expected back tomorrow or the next day but if you are in a hurry, there’s the under-steward. You’d best talk to him.’ He stepped back into the gatehouse, calling for somebody named Barty, which produced another guard, a young one with an amiable pink face.

  ‘Take this fellow to see Master Devereux,’ said the first guard. ‘What’s your name, fellow?’

  At this point, Brockley hated himself for not thinking properly ahead. He didn’t want to give his proper name to all and sundry in case the wrong ears heard it, but of course, he was bound to be asked for it here, and he must not hesitate. He snatched at his son’s surname and said: ‘Roger Sandley.’

  It sounded reasonable and was accepted as such. He dismounted, let the pink-faced Barty take Jaunty’s bridle, and followed him across what seemed like acres of cobbles and greensward to a small doorway. A groom appeared to take charge of the horse, while Barty went inside to ask after Master Devereux. The under-steward was evidently not at hand but Brockley was finally allowed over the threshold and found himself in a vestibule leading to what, judging by the savoury scents emerging from them, were kitchens. A large man, rubbing greasy hands on a leather apron, came out, looked him up and down, and pointed to a stone bench. ‘You can wait there.’

  He did wait there, as patiently as possible though the vestibule was cold and the stone bench very hard. After what seemed like a long time, Master Devereux appeared. Brockley, accustomed in my company to visiting the court, rose politely to his feet, and was not surprised to see that the under-steward bore himself sternly erect, had a neatly barbered beard, was finely dressed, with a gold chain of office, and looked much more like a guest of the house than any kind of servant. His eyebrows were thin and shaped like Norman arches and now, looking at Brockley, he raised them, which gave him a very supercilious air.

  ‘Well, fellow? Barty from the gatehouse says you wish to enquire after someone who may have been employed here at some time. But first who are you?’

  Brockley had had time now to consider the difficult problem of his identity and concluded that complete discretion was not possible. This man was visibly trying to intimidate him with his air of power and dignity. He would have more authority and more chance of learning what he sought to know, if he was frank up to a point.

  He said: ‘I am the manservant of one Mistress Ursula Stannard. The name may perhaps be known to you. She is related to her majesty. My own name is Roger Brockley. I gave a different name at the gate because I am here on Mistress Stannard’s business which is also the queen’s business and have been asked to preserve secrecy as far as possible.’

  ‘I have heard of Mistress Stannard, of course.’ Master Devereux looked surprised but his air of deliberate intimidation softened just a little. ‘My master, Sir Ambrose Dudley of Warwick, is the brother of my lord Robert Dudley of Leicester and is often at court. Well, what is this enquiry?’

  ‘We – that is, my mistress – need to find a man whose business is that of repairing buildings, especially roofs. His name is Ashley and he may live in Warwick or near it. I am not at liberty to say why Mistress Stannard needs to find him, except that no harm is intended to him.’

  ‘My good fellow!’ Devereux looked quite pained. ‘This is an earl’s castle. We have a full staff of men whose business is to maintain the castle and its outhouses in a good state of repair. We do not hire outside help, and none of our permanent maintenance staff bears the name of Ashley. You have wasted your time in coming here. I should try an innkeeper or some such person …’

  His voice, though, faded, and a frown between his eyebrows removed the supercilious expression. He was thinking. ‘But I have heard that name not so long ago … that’s strange. I can’t remember … wait!’

  He withdrew, apparently into the kitchen, as a waft of heat came out of the door through which he had gone. Presently, he reappeared, accompanied by a large woman whose dun-coloured working dress was dusted with flour. She was perspiring, as kitchen workers usually did.

  ‘This is Mistress Prentice, one of our pastry-cooks. I thought I remembered that the name Ashley had something to do with her and she says he’s some sort of relative and that yes, he repairs roofs and has been here, which surprises me. Tell this man about it, Mistress. And tell me, as well! I thought we never brought in outside workmen.’

  ‘We don’t as a rule, Master Devereux,’ said the woman, ‘but it was after that storm a couple of weeks ago when the roof came off the coach house and half the tiles off one of the stable blocks, and the horses had to be moved out and it was a mercy there were empty stalls in the block that are kept for guests’ horses, for where they could have been put otherwise …’

  ‘Her son,’ said Devereux to Brockley, ‘is one of the grooms here.’ He turned back to Mistress Prentice. ‘Never mind all that. How your tongue runs away with you! I’ve had to speak to you before about working harder and talking less. Now, however, we wish you to tell us about your relative, Master Ashley. What relation is he to you?’

  ‘He’s the husband of my second cousin,’ said Mistress Prentice primly. Brockley, amused, thought she was using exactitude in retaliation for being reprimanded before a stranger. ‘John Naylor that’s head groom said the roofs must be put right as quick as could be and there weren’t enough men to get it done as fast as he wanted. There’d be guests coming when my lord came home and there wouldn’t be enough stabling fit for use, so Master Jefferson that is in charge of the repair men, he said, better bring in some extra help, and I suggested my cousin’s man, Daniel Ashley, for I know he’s a fine craftsman for thatching and tiling. Master Naylor said yes, call him in, and Master Jefferson sent for Daniel and he came along and did a fine job, from what I heard. It all took a couple of days to arrange because Daniel was working somewhere else, and …’

  ‘Yes, all right. So he’s probably the man you want, Master Brockley. Where is he to be found, Mistress Prentice?’

  ‘Little
cottage out on the Stratford road, to the left, just beside a stream that runs into the Avon. It’s called the Thatch and it has the best-looking thatched roof you ever saw. Daniel says it shows the world his work. He lives there with my cousin Ellie and their children, three lovely children they’ve got, and …’

  Brockley said: ‘I’ll find it,’ and pressed a gold coin into the talkative Mistress Prentice’s floury hand.

  He didn’t know where the stables were, so he went back to the gatehouse and Barty was despatched to fetch Jaunty. In another ten minutes, he was setting off to find The Thatch.

  A cottage called the Thatch, on the left-hand side of the Stratford road, by a stream. Brockley was well on his way before he realized that he had omitted to ask how far along the Stratford road he would need to go. However, he came to the place quite quickly. It was quite unmistakeable, for the stream crossed the track by way of a watersplash, and there was the cottage, surrounded by a trim garden, and a recently thatched roof, golden in the spring sunshine. Smoke rose from one of its chimneys.

  And its front door was wide open, men and women were standing in the front garden and moving in and out and every one of them was dressed in black.

  Dismayed, Brockley pulled up. A man standing by the gate turned at the sound of a horse, and then came up to him. ‘Are you here for the funeral, sir?’

  ‘I … no,’ Brockley said. ‘I have business with a Master Ashley, a roof mender. I was directed to this house …’

  ‘This is indeed Daniel Ashley’s house. I am his brother, Will Ashley.’ He spoke with a local accent but a correct command of English. ‘But if you have business with Daniel, sir, you are over-late.’ He nodded towards the cottage door. ‘Daniel … is being brought out now.’

  Brockley turned. A coffin was being carried out, on the shoulders of six men. A handcart was being wheeled to meet them and while Brockley watched, the coffin was loaded on to it. A woman, in black but not veiled, appeared in the doorway and was watching, though she came no further. Brockley thought he glimpsed some children behind her.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Daniel was a roof mender, as you say,’ said Will Ashley. ‘He had an accident. He lost his footing on a roof where he was working – in Warwick town – three days ago and killed himself falling. His was always a hazardous profession. I am in the building trade myself, but I don’t do roofing.’

  Brockley hesitated. In the normal way, business or no business, he would never have attempted to intrude on a family in mourning.

  But there was Harry, in a form of danger that made the blood chill in Brockley’s veins, for he had once, himself, been in peril of becoming a corsair’s prey, and on top of that, he was my man and owed a duty to me, a duty in which he was determined not to fail.

  He looked gravely at Will Ashley. ‘Sir, I would not for the world disturb this sad occasion but I am charged with a task that – is of more importance than I am free to explain. I take it that Mistress Ashley – there is a Mistress Ashley, I believe – will not attend the burial?’

  ‘Naturally not. She will remain in the house until we return. Does that matter to you? Do you propose to intrude on her regardless?’

  Will spoke angrily. Brockley shook a placating head. ‘No. I do not. I ask, instead, if I may leave my horse here and attend the burial myself, as a mark of respect to your brother. Afterwards, if you permit, I would be glad to return to the house with everyone else, offer my condolences in the proper way, and then, yes, perhaps ask her a very simple question, concerning the whereabouts of a house where her husband worked recently. That is all. I will then take my leave.’

  Will Ashley frowned. Brockley, however, slid his feet out of his stirrups and quietly dismounted. He had recognized the kind of man Will Ashley was. He was a solid workman, experienced and successful in his trade, sure of himself accordingly, and knowledgeable enough in the ways of the world to recognize what kind of man Brockley himself was. He would know that Brockley would not press such a matter, here at Daniel Ashley’s very funeral, without a good reason.

  They stood face to face for a moment, studying each other. Then Will said: ‘Your name?’

  ‘Roger Brockley. I serve one Mistress Ursula Stannard, who in turn serves the queen.’

  ‘Mistress Stannard, eh? I have heard that name. Daniel has worked at Warwick Castle and heard talk. I see. Very well. I will ask Mistress Ashley if you may join us.’

  He made his way to the woman who was still in the doorway. From a distance, Brockley saw them speaking together and saw her nod.

  Will, returning, showed him the stable behind the cottage, where Jaunty could be stalled alongside the cob that Daniel Ashley had used. Then they joined the procession that led from the cottage, along the track a little further and then off to the right on another, well-used track, and after a short distance, into a small village with a church.

  Brockley never did learn the name of the village. It was very small indeed and so was the church, which was completely filled by the mourners. There were benches, but several people were left standing at the back. A number of them seemed to be customers who had used Daniel Ashley’s services and been pleased with them. No one took much notice of Brockley. The coffin was placed on a trestle in the centre aisle and the service proceeded, after which the coffin was borne out again, taken to a newly dug grave and lowered reverently in while the vicar, a large, amiable man with a good speaking voice, recited the committal.

  Then came the return to the cottage, not a procession this time but just a crowd of people walking together. When they entered the cottage, Brockley found himself impressed. It was plainly furnished, as one might expect, but it was nevertheless the home of a man who had been successful in his trade and adequately paid for his work. The walls might be unadorned stone but the two matching walnut settles had beautifully carved lions’ feet and on one wall hung a clock, with black metal hands and Roman figures on a round cream-coloured face, enclosed by a glossy wooden case. And on the opposite wall hung a small but brilliantly polished silver mirror.

  The table in the centre of the room was spread with a white cloth and set with cold meats and fresh bread, fruit patties and ale, which Mistress Ashley, bravely in charge despite her mourning gown, was dispensing. With her were two young girls, probably aged about twelve and ten. They were red-eyed and visibly unhappy but she was encouraging them to help her. A little boy, just a toddler, watched, thumb in mouth, in the care of another woman.

  Will caught his eye and led him over to the table. ‘Sister-in-law, this is Roger Brockley, of whom I told you. I explained, I think, that he serves Mistress Ursula Stannard, who serves the queen.’

  Mistress Ashley nodded. She had a rosy, mature face, tired just now through the stresses of grief and busyness combined, but she gave him a small smile and told the two little girls to take up the plates of patties and offer them to the guests.

  ‘Your daughters, madam?’ Brockley asked politely.

  ‘Aye, so they are. Mary and Cath. Good girls both. And the little one is my son Johnnie. Will said you had something to ask me, and that you were sorry to intrude but the matter is important. He said that the name of Ursula Stannard made it so. I know nothing of such a name but Will is very knowledgeable about the world and so was … so was my husband. I will help if I can.’

  ‘It’s very simple,’ said Brockley, silently blessing the fact that the name of Ursula Stannard was becoming well known. ‘By the way, I was encouraged to seek out your husband by your cousin Mistress Prentice, in Warwick Castle. She evidently didn’t know of his accident.’

  Mistress Ashley made an angry face. ‘I wanted to tell her. I’d have liked her to come to the funeral but I know that just now, with my lord Ambrose due home so soon, she would never get permission out of that snooty under-steward. He’d have said, no, not for just the husband of a second cousin. He’d only give her the time off for a close relative. Them’s his rules. She says he’s a proper slave-driver. If I’d told
her before the funeral, she’d only have been upset. I’d have sent word very soon. I hate that under-steward. He thinks anyone below him is dirt beneath his feet. My cousin will understand why I didn’t worry her until it was all over. But that surely wasn’t your question?’

  ‘No. The truth is that I need – I truly and genuinely need – to find a house where your husband did some work – let me see, it would have been just before he was called to work at Warwick Castle – just after the time of the big gale. He was repairing a slate roof that was damaged in the wind. The house was lonely, and I believe had ivy on its walls, and had a high wall all round it, shutting the grounds in. It was occupied by a number of people, not an ordinary family. Did your late husband speak to you of such a place, or tell you where it was, or its name – or anything about it?’

  Mistress Ashley folded her plump, capable hands and gazed into the distance, evidently thinking. Then she said: ‘Yes, he did go to such a house though he didn’t say much about it. Just after the gale, it were, and just afore he went to the castle. Yes, he said it was to repair damage as the weather had done. There were slates to replace. And he said the place was lonely. It was some way off, must have been, for he went for two days running and left so early each morning, and came back late.’

  ‘He never gave it a name?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He were fetched by a messenger, someone from the house. Came here, asked for him special. Folk do that – he had a good name for his work, my Daniel did.’

  Her voice wavered. In his very best and most soothing voice, the one he used for calming nervous horses, Brockley said: ‘I am very sorry to learn of his passing, and not just because I wanted to talk to him. I am truly sorry for your loss, madam, and for your children’s loss of their father. And also for the world’s loss of a man I think must have been a fine workman.’