The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Advice?” Jemima looked down into the swirl of starry reflections in the dark ripples of her wine. “From a simple girl, sir? Does any man consider such a thing? I loved my father. He murdered no woman, for he loved them all and loved me too. But he led a life of endless excitement, adventure, travel and bravado, while I sat at home with a guttering candle and a nurse who tried to teach me sewing or how to sit quietly in a corner without interrupting the gentlemen. Had I tried to give advice to any of my father’s visitors, they would have laughed at me, or told my father he should beat me into better behaviour.”

  “So restricted? Even before the enforced limitations of poverty?”

  “I’m breaking the rules of polite behaviour and gratitude,” she mumbled, looking away. “As a guest, an unmarried female, and young, I should say yes sir and thank you sir without complaint or question.”

  “Too tedious.” He shook his head. “I am no longer so young, madam. I am assuredly male, I am wealthy, and I have never learned to sew. I doubt I have ever learned polite gratitude either. But I still find my life a stunted and narrow existence of shadowed irrelevance. I avoid the court, but I go where I am ordered, and come to the palace when called. Disobeying this king is as dangerous as piracy, and far less entertaining. Hence my interest in the puzzles of crime, the hidden meanings behind unexpected discovery and the attractions of investigation.” He smiled suddenly, which lit the golden lights in his eyes. “I therefore excuse you from polite nonsense, Mistress Jemima, and give full permission, should you require it, for you to speak your mind, and to wander my grounds whenever you wish.”

  Having expected rude contempt, she was surprised. Words spun in her head, then dissipated. “Thank you,” she said at last. Given free licence to speak her deeper thoughts, she spoke the inane stuttering of exhaustion. “I didn’t expect – not to me! But I think – I am – simply tired.” Looking up, “All women are, perhaps, as my father said so often, silly creatures with no thought but sleep.” She wondered if she had disappointed him, watching as he pushed the wine jug away, and stood abruptly.

  The day’s disturbances had calmed into the quiet of night. The rain had stopped some hours previously and now the wind had dropped. Not even a breeze rustled the leaves. Then Richard said, “It is time for rest, perhaps, mistress. If you will permit it, I shall show you the way back to your bedchamber.”

  Mumbling another expressionless thank you, and feeling the faint dejection of being dismissed, she also wondered how he knew she would otherwise be lost. She must, she supposed, have looked so remarkably bewildered when he had first stopped her, that his presumption had not been a hard one to make. He might, of course, simply be polite. Yet nothing about his previous behaviour suggested that politeness was one of his priorities.

  “Yes. Thank you. Your house has a hundred rambling unlit corridors.” She had her own priorities. Politeness was in the middle of her list.

  Tripping halfway up the stairs, she finally stood, leaning on the wall and entirely out of breath, at her bedchamber door. “Goodnight, madam,” Richard said softly. “I shall, I expect, see you at some time tomorrow.”

  Jemima returned to bed with her thoughts in circles and her head quite dizzy. Having drunk considerably more wine that she was accustomed to, she wondered if she was slightly intoxicated but at least that would, she hoped, help her sleep. It did. Her own small snores quickly joined those of Katherine and Ysabel, and on through the dark hours until the daylight woke them all.

  The maid had lifted down the shutters. Sunshine spangled the wet drops still gleaming on the outside panes. It looked as though it would be a beautiful day.

  Downstairs in the smaller hall the table was already set for breakfast. But her interest waned. Richard Wolfdon did not join his guests at the table. Jemima ate porridge with honey and crisp bread rolls, but found swallowing an effort. She wondered, with a small blink of shame, just how inebriated she had been the previous evening.

  But before midday and yet another lavish meal for which she was sure she would have no appetite, the scarlet awninged litter pulled up outside with a rolling cheer. Katherine bustled to the doorway, beaming at the flounce and swish of silks. “My beautiful girls,” Katherine clapped her hands. “Dearest, come and see, no need to be dull. Cheer up, your friends are here again.”

  Jemima had brightened immediately at the scramble of the women, laughing, squeaking and comparing gowns, all then pushing into the house, arms raised, skirts held high over the wet doorstep, and one by one into Jemima’s outstretched arms. They had been once again invited to visit the Holborn Palace, and had been only too pleased to accept.

  “My little dove, we are here.” Hugs, kisses, taking hands and dancing in wide circles. “We are all companions together again. If we are to come every day – and why not – it will mean our lives are not only more enjoyable – but of some importance.”

  But it was several hours after dinner when Richard Wolfdon eventually made his first appearance of the day. He had been riding, his high boots thick with mud and his riding gloves tucked through his belt. He threw off his hat, and strode into the middle of the small hall. The women, although still chattering, had been waiting impatiently for him.

  Alba looked up. “At last, sir. I have been wanting to say something this two hours and more.” The other women quietened, already knowing what she planned to say. “As the elder, naturally I have the wisdom and experience, and wish to share my knowledge. Indeed, we all are,” Alba continued, “more than pleased to share our memories with you, knowing that this may help in our desire to prove dear Edward Thripp’s innocence. But we are not just mouthpieces, sir. We are not just fools to leave all the investigation to the gentleman, and do nothing ourselves. We wish to be involved.”

  “To exonerate dear Edward,” Elisabeth said at once, “by discovering who the murderer truly is.” She blinked, eyes moist. “I called him Snuffy, you know. He was so – adorable. So kind. He never hurt me or any other woman, I’d swear.”

  “And we are all quite capable of sensible investigation,” said Ruth, straightening her shoulders. “After all, we know who came often to the house. We can tell you, sir. But we can also act.”

  The page was hovering at the doorway. Richard nodded to the boy, who poured wine and brought him a cup. “And,” he said softly, “I imagine many of my guests will also wish to drink. Mistress Ysabel most certainly.”

  Ysabel smirked, and took the cup brought to her. Jemima shook her head. “So you accept the plan?” she asked. “That we all do more than simply talking? You can advise us in what to do?”

  “We speak once more of advice?” Richard drained his cup, poured more for himself, and sat on the high backed chair drawn up beside the hearth. The long windows were drenched in sunlight, and the slanting sunbeams lit his dark hair with golden threads. “Very well. Prove your capability. Give me your own list of suspects.”

  Every woman sat forwards, suddenly smiling and immediately eager.

  “The French chef when I first arrived in the house. He made roast pork taste like vinegar. He made everything taste like vinegar. He might have poisoned anyone.”

  “As I have already suggested,” Elisabeth clasped her hands beneath her chin, eyes now alight, “these might have been runaway maids who got themselves trapped and starved to death.”

  “There was the dancing master when I lived with Edward,” Penelope said. “I disliked him. He liked to squeeze my fingers when he took my hand.”

  “There was a gardener. Edward dismissed him. The horrid old man killed squirrels and mice by pulling their legs off. He was a brute.” Ruth grimaced. “He made me feel sick. I asked Edward to throw him out.”

  “Edward had a friend who came often to discuss business,” suggested Alba. “He was a cold and ruthless man.”

  “And the odd man who worked in the shipyard down by the estuary. He often came to the house when Edward was negotiating for another cob to be built. When he expanded his trade, you know. He h
ad three ships at one time.”

  “And then there’s Peter Hutton,” Jemima said. Richard looked up.

  “Who?”

  “Your half-brother.”

  “My half-brother,” Richard said, “is only sixteen years of age. Since the corpses have been gathering dust for something approaching fifteen years according to the doctor, Peter would have needed to be enterprising indeed.” He lifted one eyebrow. “He is a fairly bright young man, but not, I think, quite precocious enough to commit three murders while still in nether-cloths and swaddling. How do you know him?”

  Jemima stared into her lap. “We’ve been friends since I was a little girl. My father used to take me to the docks up by the Tower. He did business there, where The Bride was berthed. That was his first cob. The Bride. He said it was named after my mother but that’s not important, of course. Anyway, Peter’s tutor used to take him there sometimes. Peter liked the ships. I did too. We played together, running from one tavern to another. So we ended up being friends. Over the years, we managed to see each other often enough to keep the friendship alive.”

  “How unexpected.” Richard regarded her without expression. “I shall speak to Peter. But I cannot consider him a likely murderer.”

  “No.” Proving herself a long-time friend of this grand gentleman’s own family, son of Sir Walter Hutton, was a definite satisfaction. Jemima was pleased to have told him, although unaware that her smile was smug. Whoever believed her a now penniless orphan, daughter of a rascal and pirate, should know that she was more than she seemed.

  Elisabeth laughed. “I know dear little Peter myself when I lived in the Strand with Edward. Peter was an occasional visitor and Edward always welcomed him.” She shrugged. “Didn’t you know about your brother, sir? But I doubt if he ever crawled up into the roof space with the corpses of his victims wrapped in his cloak.”

  Richard remained, legs stretched, his empty cup still held loosely in one hand, elbows to the arms of the chair, gazing absently into space. He did not appear to be looking at any of the eight women clustered around him as he spoke softly.

  “Investigating murder is most commonly a straightforward business.” He paused, but no one dared interrupt. “The dead body is discovered within a matter of days,” Richard continued. “The wife is almost certain to have been killed by her husband. The brutal father is often stabbed in defence by his son. The tavern customer killed in a drunken fight. The unjust retainer by the man he has swindled. The wealthy miser by his family, or a passing thief.” He paused again, as if contemplating something that he had no intention of explaining. Then once again he continued. “This case is interesting because there is no obvious culprit. We do not even know the names of the dead.”

  “Poor little things,” murmured Katherine. “Their mothers may still be searching.”

  “Can we be sure it was all of fifteen years ago?”

  “We can be sure of very little,” Richard said, finally addressing Alba, the woman who had spoken. “A few matters seem clear enough, however. Had these been servants running from their punishment as you have suggested, they would have been unlikely to undress while hiding. Remember – these wretched girls were found quite naked.” He turned to Elisabeth. “Nor were they trapped. I understand the sliding door in the ceiling which led to the roof space was opened with comparative ease. And anyone trapped alive there could have stamped a thousand times, alerting attention.” He shook his head, and turned to Penelope. “No visiting dancing master would have obtained free access to such a space, and for an occasional visitor to risk carrying a dead woman onto the premises is ludicrous, It would be unlikely that he, or most of your other suspects, to even know that a roof space existed, or how to access it. The chef, perhaps,” he turned to Philippa, “would at least have had both the knowledge and the means, climbing the ladder to the attic at night. Business partners – no. Almost impossible – unless they stayed in the house frequently and alone. My half-brother, I assume, was intended as humour.” He looked at Jemima, but with more frown than smile. “For although I am not convinced that fifteen years has necessarily passed, the murders cannot have been recent.”

  “What if they are hundreds of years gone?”

  “My absences are not aimless walks by the river, madam.” Richard sighed. “I have been investigating many channels. The house, for instance, was built one year before my father acquired it. It was constructed for a certain lord to house his younger son. The son died, and the baron sold the building to my father, who was at that time looking for a property to settle on his mistress. Within three years, he was dead himself. Edward Thripp bought the place.”

  “Papa bought the house just before I was three years old. He was – well, a widower and his business was thriving. He wanted to give his mistress a beautiful home.” Jemima still stared into her lap.

  “I might,” Richard added, “be seen as a suspect myself, under such circumstances. But,” and he smiled for the first time, just a tiny twitch at the corners of his mouth, “but I was ten at the time my father died, and had never been in the habit of visiting his mistress.” The smile widened just slightly. “And,” he said, “my father, unexpectedly, died a natural death. Although frequently tempted, I did not murder him.”

  “Then we are sadly lacking in genuine suspects,” sighed Alba.

  Mistress Katherine, clearing her throat, sat forwards. “I would not normally wish to speak whilst amongst those who are – guests,” she said. I am, after all, simply a servant.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Kat,” objected Jemima. “”Say whatever you want to say.”

  “Well,” said Katherine, fidgeting with her fingers, “there is always young Cuthbert Thripp, who has claimed the house and thrown poor Jemima in abject poverty on the streets.”

  Jemima blushed. “Not the streets, exactly. It was dear Katherine who invited me to stay in her cottage. But certainly, “she looked up and caught Richard’s gaze for the first time that day, “certainly Cuthbert could have done it. He’s my cousin. And he’s vile.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was her majesty who was practising the unwelcome skills of polite discretion.

  “The delights of the Christmas season,” she said, smiling, “are almost upon us, Master Cromwell. I shall enjoy the theatre and the charades, of course. Each year I and my ladies prepare a little play-acting, as you know, sir. Only in private, of course. I hope to entertain his majesty this year, and have already designed my costume.”

  Thomas Cromwell bowed low, which made his back ache. “I am honoured, your grace, to be informed, and am at your service as always.”

  Queen Anne saw him wince as he bowed, and smiled. “We none of us grow younger, sir.” Her own back ached dreadfully, but the motive was different for she was with child and hoped for the royal heir to be born in the first four months following epiphany. “But you will inform my dearest husband, if you will, that I am planning such a theatre, and hope he will condescend to spend some time at our humble offering.” She gazed, serene, eyebrows lifted. “You will tell him, won’t you.”

  “I will be delighted to do so, your majesty.” Cromwell understood very well indeed, and the queen understood that he understood. It was not his majesty’s charms that interested his wife, but the need to be seen more often in his company. The king had been straying. He spent as little time with his wife as could be politically and diplomatically acceptable. But Christmas was not a time to sit alone, and the queen wanted to show the court that she still held her husband’s affections.

  “Very well.” The queen nodded, dismissing him. She turned back to the young man waiting at some distance, sighed, and lifted her hand. He commenced playing, very softly with a lilt of sadness and her majesty leaned back in the padded chair and closed her eyes. She had achieved very little, but every tiny success was a struggle worth the effort.

  Her chambers were sweeping spaces of brilliant light, marble hearths spread with the burnished beauty of flame, a thousand candles danc
ing their reflections in the polished panelling, and the soft embroidery of deep cushions. The heat rose like a melody to echo the sweet music and the hum of the ladies’ quiet chatter across the room.

  It was in deep shadow, not in the brilliant fire of a chandelier, that Wolfdon Hall stood under the stars. Once again in the sweeping black velvet of his bedrobe, Richard Wolfdon stood beneath the starkly silhouetted willow branches, and surveyed the deepening secrets stretching into the distant haze of night. He turned at the snap of a broken twig.

  “I had expected you,” he said.

  Jemima was disappointed. “I don’t see why,” she objected. “It’s most improper. I thought you’d be shocked.”

  The faltering wisps of the half smile reappeared. “Then I assume you wanted to shock me. But you would have to manage something quite, let us say, outstanding in order to do so.” He waved to the wine jug. Two cups sat on the long wooden bench beside him. “Instead, you see, you are quite predictable.”

  He poured the wine and she took the cup. Her blush, she hoped, would be invisible in the almost dark.

  “I couldn’t sleep. Ysabel still shares my bed. She seems to have invited herself to stay permanently.”

  “I will invite all of them tomorrow.” Richard drained his own cup. “Not for an eternal permanency of course, but for some days. A week. Perhaps two. It is advisable and saves endless journeys across the city in a jolting litter of damp cushions and insufficient space.” He looked at her a moment. “Would you object?”

  “Oh no. Why should I?”

  “I didn’t expect you to.” He sat to one end of the bench, Jemima on the other. The wine jug was between them. “I was, for once, and remembering our previous discussion regarding diplomacy, simply exercising polite conversation.”