The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Richard smiled slightly. “Have I told you anything yet? In this case, I am entirely unsure as yet. And there is no one to take to trial.” He finished his wine, sitting forwards again with his own elbows to the little table that separated them. “I have suspicions. I have ideas. But since these crimes were committed at least ten years ago, there seems no need to rush to any conclusions. I remain intrigued. Intrigue always keeps me to the task.”

  “And your determination is what keeps me to your side.”

  “Are you so sure of my wisdom?”

  Thomas stood, grabbed the wine jug and refilled the cups. “You’ve helped with every job and every mystery for years. You almost helped me save the life of Sir Thomas More, and that was well nigh impossible considering the fool’s determination to die as a martyr. He was offered that chance, you remember, to save himself at little cost. He even turned that down.”

  “I doubt he came close to bodily salvation, although no doubt he believed in his spiritual salvation.”

  “But you helped me and we nearly succeeded, even though you disliked the man. Had he been less stubborn, he could have lived, and that would have saved his wife and children from near starvation and the loss of everything they had, even if it momentarily hurt his almighty pride. But no. Pride came first.”

  “Did I dislike him?” Richard put down the wooden cup on the table, and once more leaned back, eyes half closed. “Nothing so personal, I think, Tom. I do not like those who authorise the burning alive of their fellow men. So no, I did not like him. But to actively dislike him? Certainly he delighted in his fame for humour and wit, a fame he spread himself, even though that same wit was designed for self-aggrandisement and was frequently at the cost of someone close to him.”

  “So you disliked him.”

  “Such faults are common enough. But perhaps you are right. I dislike the world.”

  “But he was executed anyway, by his loving friend the king, and went willingly to the block. Religious belief, religious purity, religious intolerance? Or perhaps a desire to be sanctified as a martyr.”

  “Or simply,” Richard smiled, “his refusal ever to be forced to say anything against his will. I almost believe he’d have chosen execution rather than being pushed into swearing he loved roast chicken when we know he never ate it by choice.”

  “Whatever the wretched man did or did not do, he did not commit these horrid murders.” Tom sighed, dropping his head into his hands. “Discussing Thomas More seems somewhat irrelevant. The murders are our business, Dickon. Who butchered these girls? I doubt we shall ever discover who did.”

  Richard raised an eyebrow. “What pessimism, Tom. I have some ideas, of course, and the women in my house who consider themselves ignored, have been providing those clues. I know them all well enough, and have no further need of conversation. But they are nearby, for when I need them.”

  “You make them sound like spare sets of sheets.”

  “Perhaps.” Richard laughed. “Close enough. Although one is of considerably more interest than the others.”

  Tom yawned. “As far as I’m concerned, and without meaning any insult, Dickon – I’ll wager your father did it.”

  “I have wondered about the same myself.” Richard stood slowly, scraping back his chair and nodding towards his empty cup. “Thank you Tom, for the refreshment which lubricates both mind and body. And thank you for the discussion, which lubricates both mind and memory. You are a useful friend, Tom. But I have someone else to visit before the gates are locked and I‘m trapped within this ramshackle city for the night.”

  “So there are some people you like, Dickon?” Tom grinned.

  “Is liking too strong a word?”

  Tom ignored this. “Although we spoke of Thomas More in greater detail than these three pathetic little corpses.”

  “It can be surprising,” Richard said, walking slowly to the door, “how one subject may take its own circular route to clarity.”

  Tom wandered over, his hand to the door’s lever. “More died for religious conviction. These young souls were killed for some madman’s sexual lusts. Why think to combine the two, when they’re so different? Women aren’t stripped naked for religion, not even those burned for heresy. Some evil gutter-lout had his way, rape and perversion. Then killed to hide his own wickedness, and so had to hide the bodies.”

  Richard strode to the top of the narrow stairs, but turned again, looking to where Tomas stood in his own doorway. “More died for private politics,” he called back softly. “Quite simply, his own determination never to be proved wrong. And also, naturally, the king’s determination always to be proved right.”

  Tom raised one hand. “Come back soon, Dickon. Tell me how your investigation is going. And let me know whether you decide I’m right about your father.”

  Richard turned again at the bottom of the stairs, calling back up. “He was capable of most things. But,” and he did not smile, “he would have abused those women without shame. He would never have felt the need to kill or hide the bodies in order to disguise his own faults. According to my father, he had no faults.”

  “This other man, then?” Thomas said, frowning. “The pirate?”

  “Which reminds me,” Richard said. “Go and see one of your lawyer friends for me. John Oyer. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him,” said Thomas.

  “He has helped someone fabricate a false entail,” Richard replied. “Thus making claim to a small property by means of fraud. The case interests me. I have spoken to this John Oyer. You might say I decided to – dislike him.”

  Thomas grinned suddenly. “You threatened him?”

  “Only very slightly,” admitted Richard. “But I took away his papers, and am satisfied to the fraud. See him for me, Tom.”

  “I will,” Thomas said. “And put it right.”

  The horse was tethered outside, since there had been little need to stable the animal in the long communal barn behind the cathedral. So Richard mounted, heading west towards Ludgate close by, and rode quickly out into Fleet Street. The weather was worsening, but it troubled him very little.

  His appointment at his step-father’s home was accomplished quickly with a few questions, a glance at his half-brother, a cup of superior wine, and a brief goodbye.

  Sir Walter, nodding, said, “I shall be back at court next week when the Christmas season starts, Dickon. If you need me again, you’ll have to come to Eltham.”

  “Something I avoid. Those corridors echo with death and fear.”

  “Whereas,” grumbled Sir Walter, “your little attics and corpses don’t? Make your mind up, Dickon. You dabble in crime, but fear your king?”

  Richard was already standing at the door, but showed no particular signs of impatience. “I had not specifically spoken of my own fear,” he pointed out. “But of the general quaking black fear that rules the palace. Those passages vibrate with it, like the rumble of thunder after the strike of lightening. No man dares speak honestly without knowing he will be overheard, and his words relayed to others. And in the telling those words will change, and sound more sinister before they reach the king. As everything does eventually, reach the king.”

  “There are those who love him,” said Sir Walter loudly.

  “How politic,” smiled Richard, and wandered back out into the growing darkness and his waiting horse.

  The stars were out, blinking down through the thick wintry cloud, and by the time Richard reached his own home, it was deep night. He took his horse around to his own stables, and not waking the groom, unsaddled it and left it in its stall beside the bucket of water and piled hay. Then he wandered through to the house by the door he often used when walking the night-time garden, but without passing the garden bench, nor the old oak where Socrates was sleeping.

  It was as he approached the great staircase up to his own private chambers, that he noticed the little figure sitting curled half way up on a step, leaning against the wall to her side.

  Richa
rd took several steps upwards, but stopped a little below the waiting woman. “Mistress Ysabel,” he said politely, one eyebrow raised. “It is somewhat late and unaccustomed, I imagine, to find you here, rather than in your bed. Is the bed so uncomfortable that you prefer the stairs? Or have you disagreed with the other occupants of the room?”

  Half yawning, half smiling, Ysabel remained where she sat. “You actually remembered my name,” she said. “I’m flattered.”

  “I would not contradict you, madam,” Richard murmured. “But I do not forget the names of my guests so easily. Nor do I forget that my guests have chambers of their own. Presumably you have some problem. May I be of service?”

  “Oh, most certainly.” Ysabel stood, supporting herself against the panelled wall. “I’ve been waiting so long, I dozed off. Now I’m horribly stiff.”

  He offered neither wine nor a more comfortable seat. “And the service I can offer, madam?”

  Ysabel wore her chemise below a bedrobe of pale blue, its hem frilled and flounced with deep blue ribbons. Its shoulders fell open, only half pulled across her breasts. The chemise was fine linen and across the rise of her nipples, the material had been carefully dampened so that the dark circles at the peak of her breasts stood noticeable and prominent. Her arms, plump and pink, were dimpled and strayed, rather carefully, from their sleeves. She had licked her lips, and her eyes shone bright even in the darkness. Richard presumed belladonna drops, and smiled slightly. Ysabel was delighted with the smile.

  She said, breathing deeply, “We see so little of you, sir. And some of us, myself in particular, are sad to take your hospitality without returning something – at least of some lesser value.”

  “We were speaking of your need and my service, madam, and not the other way around,” Richard pointed out. “Indeed, the only help you can offer me, is to stand aside so that I may find my own rest. I am tired. Too tired for talk. Or other things.”

  She was disappointed. “I ask nothing.” Ysabel kept her voice low. It was not so far up the stairs and along the corridor to her own bedchamber. “But what I offer, sir, would please us both, I swear it.” She paused, pouting, then moved quickly close to him, swinging out one rounded hip. “Kiss me, Master Wolfdon. That’s all I ask.”

  The tiny muscle twitched at the corner of Richard’s mouth. “It is sad to decline such generosity,” he said, moving quickly to the side, past, and up one step so that he now stood above her. “But not only am I tired, madam, but such actions would jeopardise both my investigation, and the comfort of my other guests. I am sure you understand.”

  Richard strode up the stairs, turning once, calling, “Goodnight, madam. Sleep well. But I make my own choices, meaning no insult, and do not choose to lead the life of your previous lover.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The tailor bowed. “My lord, I shall have it delivered before St. Nicholas begins the season. The brocade is of the finest quality, my lord. The gold thread will catch the candlelight and the sweep of the cape will cut well above the knee, the better to exhibit the fine curve of your lordship’s leg.”

  “Make sure your delivery is prompt,” warned Lord Staines. “I’ll not have you make excuses for late arrival. I need this on time.”

  The tailor bowed again, but paused momentarily. “And the – bill, my lord?”

  “We will discuss that once the good are delivered,” Lord Staines replied with a hint of menace. “Speak to me of coin again, Blackley, and I may decide to forget what I owe altogether. Once delivery is made, you may address my squire. Until then – keep your mouth shut and your hands busy.”

  He finished his cup of wine as the tailor scampered off, swathes of blue damask in his arms, then rose and sauntered from his small chambers out into the corridors of Eltham Palace. The shadows enclosed him. It was three of the clock and the drear afternoon had slipped darkly through the long windows, with the winter’s long night already on the horizon.

  The soft voice came from behind. “Staines? I have news. Private news. Quick.”

  Backing quickly, Lord Staines returned to his own chambers, ordered the page to fetch more wine and his personal body-servant to build up the fire. “Fetch faggots from the stables. I need to speak to Master Kemp alone.”

  It was a small hearth and the little sparks of the kindling hissed, sinking into sooty ashes. The visitor pulled a chair closer to the remaining warmth. “I’ve spoken to Norfolk,” he said, half murmur. “It will happen sometime next year, depending on the new infant, when it’s born and what it is.”

  Lord Staines nodded. “The king has decided then?” He looked around, as if fearing intruders. The shadows stayed mute. Staines continued, soft and careful, “So Norfolk will move against the queen, even though the relationship has aided him before?”

  “It will be divorce, unless the child is a healthy boy.”

  “So where does Wolfdon stand?”

  “I share no confidences with Wolfdon,” the other man said quickly. “”Who knows where he stands? Dickon the Bastard doesn’t whisper in the corridors.”

  “And Cromwell?”

  “He sides with no one. He’ll do as the king tells him. His life depends on the king’s mood.”

  “The queen has lost two infants born before their time. Another daughter or another dead child will seal her divorce. The king wants out.”

  The newcomer smiled. “You want greater power? You want an invitation to the Privy Council? Then make sure you doubt the queen, and tell your secrets to Norfolk. In his favour, you’ll be closer to the king’s favour.”

  Lord Staines sighed. “I backed the queen when she was just the king’s whore. Now will his majesty believe me if I turn against her?”

  “Why not?” smiled Paul Kemp. “Everyone else is doing the same.”

  The fire glimmered. Lord Staines stared at the last dwindling flame. “I made a mistake with Thripp. He’s taken my coin under the ocean with him. I need more and I need power and I need to keep my own head safe.” He looked up. “Fix it, Paul.”

  “I fix yours.” The other man nodded, his mouth twisting slightly. “And you fix mine.”

  “Trust me,” said Lord Staines softly. “Once I know I’m safe and trusted by the king, then I’ll ensure your own rise to power. But I dare not turn against the queen until I’m sure.”

  “Then wait until the child is born,” said Paul Kemp. “Nothing else will happen until after that.” He lowered his voice further until it was merely a whisper like the smoke from the hearth. “And Praggston? You’ve heard from him?”

  His lordship nodded, peering quickly over his shoulder as though even the window might have ears. “The two priests remain in his cellar. Safe. Waiting.”

  Across the other side of London, the great house on Holborn Hill was alight with torch, candle, chandelier and oil lamp while huge fires burned. Warmth oozed the passages and the smaller hall was a dazzle of comfort.

  But it was upstairs that the women, as usual, were spread around the hearth on cushions and leaning, bored, against the sides of the grate, their faces bright with reflected flame. Jemima was, for once, fully dressed. Ysabel, however, wore only her chemise.

  “So it was quite useless,” she said with a long sigh. “All that waiting and effort for nothing.”

  “You might have known the man was cold as stone,” Philippa pointed out. “Unreceptive. Unseductable.”

  “I have always,” insisted Ysabel, “been able to seduce any man I wished.”

  “Until,” murmured Alba from the large padded chair of honour, “dearest Edward cast you out, my dear.”

  “And I was cold,” Ysabel continued, ignoring Alba. “That staircase is draughty, I can tell you, and not comfortable at all.”

  “Should a staircase be comfortable?”

  “Oh well,” sighed Ysabel, “it was a fair test. I’m not sure whether he passed it or failed it. But I certainly failed.”

  “But you say he remembered your name?” said Alba, looking up sharply. “E
ven in the night without a candle, he knew which one you are?”

  “I’m memorable.” Ysabel giggled. “I’m the podgy one. Dear Edward called me his little pigeon.”

  “I was the swan.” Alba sat straight. “The most beautiful and elegant of all birds. White and pure.”

  They sat clustered in Jemima’s bedchamber, and Ysabel was still cuddled in the bed that she had barely slept in the night before. “Are we all birds, then?”

  Katherine sat by the small window seat, quietly knitting stockings in the soft daylight. “I,” she murmured to herself, “was simply Nurse Katherine. But for the women in his bedchamber, perhaps the magpie? The crow?”

  Ruth blushed. “He called me his little sparrow. My hair, you see, is just a dull brown.” She patted Jemima’s shoulder. “Not as tall as Alba, but cosy and friendly and always ready to chatter. And of course, with your name my love, you were the little dove.”

  Jemima sat beside Ysabel, but she wore her green broadcloth, sleeves trimmed in beaver, and seemed ready for any eventuality. The fire, although the hearth was small, blazed high with crackles echoing up the chimney. She nodded. “I wonder what he called my mother.”

  Alba, crossing her ankles with satisfied composure, said sweetly, “I was more your mother than she ever was, my love. Your dear mother, whom I never met of course, died too quickly to ever love you. I most certainly did. The swan raised the little dove. I still wear white when possible. And although we were separated for many years, it was I, my sweet girl, who was more your mother than any other amongst us.”

  Jemima bit her lip. “I won’t argue. I loved you. Of course I still do. But my mother – after all, – Papa married her – and I can’t help being curious.”

  “They were wed because she was carrying his child.”

  “Do we know that?”

  “Listen, little dove,” Alba said, raising her voice. “I will not speak against those who are dead. But I was with your father for eight long years, and we spoke of marriage too. There is no other woman, nor even your Maman, who was so loved, so cherished, for such a time. I believe I understood him better than most.”