Assassin (11 page)

My uncle nodded.

“So that’s why I wanted to go to the chapel,” I hurried on. “To see if I could see the murderer’s reflection in Sir Gerald’s eyes and solve the mystery. I did not. But, Uncle, when I was in the chapel I noticed something else about the body.” My voice shook. “There was a faint spot of yellow scum in the corner of his mouth and a bitter smell.”

“You mean…” He blinked hard, swallowed. “Grace, just because your mother…” He felt absent-mindedly in his doublet, no doubt for his flask, which goes everywhere with him. I put my hand on his to stop him.

He stared at me for so long I thought he was angry, but then he spoke very softly. “I’m sorry, Grace, I should have noticed these things myself.”

“Go and look, you’ll see,” I pressed him. “You’ve not had a surgeon open the body—you could if you asked….”

“On the contrary, I asked and my Lord Worthy refused….” My uncle spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “But I will go now and take a closer look at the body.” He kissed me on the cheek, smelling rather sour himself, and then hurried from the room.

Lady Sarah and Mary Shelton have just returned. I am very tired, probably from not getting enough sleep last night; saving an innocent man is exhausting work! I shall stop writing now and prepare for bed.

I am writing this hurriedly, before I am summoned to attend the Queen at supper. I have had the most exciting day! And what we discovered! I can hardly believe it, though I heard it with my own ears. I should probably write this in orange juice—it’s very secret—only I can’t because of the marmelada. Also I need more ink and a new quill—mine is quite worn down with all my writing and it won’t sharpen properly any more.

When Lady Sarah and Mary Shelton came back last night there was a lot of tutting and sighing over a couple of broken pots and a small tear in the curtain. Well, what was I supposed to do? It was so
dull
being in my chamber all evening, and I just wondered if I could get all the way round without touching the floor, which led to a slight accident with Lady Sarah’s pots of face paint and Mary’s bed curtains.

This morning the Queen sent for me. She told
me privately that she would have to commit Lord Robert to the Fleet Prison. It’s supposed to be a bit better than the Tower, so I hope he won’t be too miserable there. She also said that I might now leave my room and continue my investigation, as long as I was present to attend her at supper.

Relieved, I returned to my chamber and changed into my hunting kirtle. Then I went in search of Ellie, taking with me a spare pork pasty I had saved her from my supper.

Mrs. Twiste, who’s in charge of the laundry, had set her scrubbing out the huge boiling bucks at the back of the laundry and she was just finishing when I found her.

“I’ve got an errand next,” she said to me as I sat on the wall and watched her gobble the pasty in two bites. It was a cold frosty morning and her cheeks and nose were bright red. She gulped down the last crumbs and added, “I’ve got to take a pile of sheets to Mrs. Twynhoe. Would you like to help?”

Officially, Mrs. Twynhoe’s married to the Naper’s Deputy, who looks after the household linen, so she’s in charge of all the bedlinen. But really she’s a midwife and a wise-woman. I’d always wanted to meet her. “Is she really a witch?” I asked eagerly.

“No, she ain’t a witch,” Ellie replied. “She’s a
lovely person and she knows all there is to know about herbs and potions. So we can ask her where somebody could have got darkwort from.”

It was a pity about her not being a witch—I’d always wanted to ask one if they can really fly. But I was still very curious to meet Mrs. Twynhoe, so I went with Ellie to deliver the sheets.

Well, Mrs. Twynhoe was a real disappointment. She didn’t even have any warts! She was a short, round person with a beaming face and soft grey curls under her cap and she had arms like a sailor’s. She took the baskets from us as if they didn’t weigh anything and put them on the long wooden rollers they use to help smooth out the linen.

“Mrs. Twiste said I should stay to help you if you needed it, Mrs. Twynhoe,” said Ellie with a little bob.

Mrs. Twynhoe beamed even wider. “Oh, there now, of course you can, my dear. And call me Mrs. Bea—Twynhoe is such a mouthful, I couldn’t even say it properly meself on my wedding day. If you could help me roll the sheets once I have the steam working, perhaps your friend could hem a sheet for me—I’ve just put it sides-to-middle and it needs a good needlewoman.”

She gave me a thimble and a needle and a skein of
thread and an enormous linen sheet already pinned and then she and Ellie set to work stretching the sheets over the rollers using hot-metal irons from a small brazier. It looked very difficult and skilled and Ellie was impressively efficient. The big airing room soon got hot and steamy. I was sitting by the window stitching at the sheet as nicely as I could. I wondered how she knew to give me that job and then I thought she had probably seen me often enough, following the Queen in procession, and I just hadn’t noticed her.

Ellie was chatting away to her about herbs and I listened carefully. “Half the soapwort in the kitchen garden got eaten by some nasty fly,” she said. “We’re having to buy it in from my Lord Worthy’s gardens on the Strand.”

“Oh, that’s a nuisance. Did they plant it in among garlic and carrots?” asked Mrs. Bea.

Ellie shook her head. “The new Head Gardener likes things in straight rows and squares and he hates mixing plants in the same bed.”

“More fool him then,” said Mrs. Bea wisely. “Garlic is a charm to protect against blackfly.”

“Mrs. Bea, Lady Grace wanted you to tell her what you know about darkwort,” said Ellie finally.

Mrs. Bea’s jolly red face suddenly looked serious. “That’s nasty stuff, my dear. No good is ever done with darkwort.” Mrs. Bea’s eyes suddenly became like the Queen’s—sharp enough to make a hole in your head. “And why are you so curious about darkwort?” Then she suddenly remembered my mother. “Oh, my dear…”

“Mrs. Bea, I’ve reason to believe that Sir Gerald Worthy died of it the day before yesterday,” I put in.

Mrs. Bea stopped smoothing the linen sheet. “Do you now?”

“Yes. I know because I recognized the faint yellow froth on his lips and that bitter smell,” I replied.

“Hmm.” Mrs. Bea stared very hard at me and then at Ellie and then took the newly-smooth sheet off the rollers and folded it up with Ellie’s help, speaking as she did so. “Darkwort is a herb, related to belladonna or deadly nightshade. It’s very rare. If dried and pounded, it makes a poisonous powder with no taste, though when mixed with certain substances—wine, for instance—it stains yellow.”

“Where might somebody get hold of darkwort?” I enquired.

Looking thoughtful, Mrs. Bea went and poured herself some mild ale out of a jug on the table by the
door, offering us some as well. Ellie has never been known to turn down food and drink, and I had some because the heat in the room had made me thirsty. It was very good, better than I’d expected, flavoured with preserved lemon peel.

“Now then,” Mrs. Bea said, sitting down and smoothing out her apron. “Perhaps four apothecaries in London might sell it. It is very expensive. At least ten shillings for a scruple.”

“Which apothecaries are they?” I asked.

Mrs. Bea smiled at me. “I think I should not give you reason to run gallivanting around London town asking what villain has bought darkwort recently, even to save your future husband,” she said.

I sighed. “How can I do it then?”

“Marry, I shall go and ask them myself,” said Mrs. Bea stoutly. “And they’re more likely to tell me the truth than you, my dear, since they know me. And then I shall tell you.”

She was being so helpful I decided to risk it. “Thank you, Mrs. Bea,” I said carefully. “And what’s also really needed is for someone to look around the chambers of people like my Lord Robert, quietly, without alarming them…”

“And find if there’s darkwort powder?” Mrs.
Bea’s bright eyes were considering me. “Hmm. How is the sheet coming along?”

“Hm? Oh, I’ve finished. It was only plain sewing,” I replied.

She took the sheet from me and looked at the hem very critically, then nodded her approval. “I think you and Ellie might have a little free time now. I’ll tell Mrs. Twiste I sent you in search of some pillowslips and sheets that are missing.” She dug in a chest. “Here’s a white cap and apron so you look the part, my dear.”

Ellie smiled and curtsied and so did I because she was kind and she didn’t have to help us, did she? Then we took the linen bag and rushed out and down the passage.

I was glad of the cap and apron—they would be a useful disguise in case we met anyone who knew me. I put them on. Ellie explained that when fetching things from the courtiers’ chambers she was always sent with someone, partly to prevent any pilfering, partly to make sure no one treated her badly. Both Mrs. Twiste and Mrs. Bea had dim views of the average gentleman.

We made our way down to the next floor, which is the Long Gallery, above the Queen’s Apartments. It
sounded as if elephants were galloping about in there. Ellie stopped me going in and we hid at the bend of the stairs to listen to the musicians playing the drum and viol while the Maids of Honour practised their dancing. The Dancing Master was wailing as usual, “And two and one and leap…” There was a thunderous series of thuds. “Like a feather!” shrieked the dancing master. “On the toes!
Mon Dieu, ce sont les vaches … vraiment …
”

Ellie giggled and so did I. After a minute the music stopped and there was a rush of footsteps on the stairs, followed more slowly by the Dancing Master and one of the musicians, both drinking from little flasks.

When they had all gone we entered and found Masou standing gravely on his hands and walking up and down—he had been roped in to provide a partner for girls who needed to practise.

“No, I cannot come,” he said to us when we told him what we were going to do. “Mr. Somers wants me to be able to walk on my hands and juggle with my feet and I must practise for a new tumble he has made.” He went up and down again, looking as if he could walk to York like that. “And also, laundrymaids may poke about in chambers but if I should be found there, they’ll think I was thieving.”

So we left him and made our way to the Grace-and-Favour Chambers to begin our search. The first place we went was my Lord Robert’s chamber. I had to be sure, before we looked elsewhere. One of his men was sitting by the door, playing a game of cards. He looked very depressed.

Ellie marched right up to him. “Mrs. Twynhoe wants me to find some sheets and pillowslips,” she said.

The man shrugged and opened the door. I slipped in quickly, carefully hiding my face, and Ellie followed. We found quite a small, odd-shaped chamber, with a bed with four tall carved corner posts, and a truckle bed, and more mess than you would believe possible. The floor was covered with chicken leg bones, half-chewed sausages, bits of paper, and dirty hose. I was fascinated. It was nearly as bad as a Maid of Honour’s chamber.

We discovered pots of ointment, with prescriptions from my Uncle Cavendish stating that they would prevent skin blemishes. Our hearts thudded when we found packets of herbs secreted in a chest amongst Lord Robert’s hose. Ellie picked up a note that was with them and handed it to me to read. It was in my uncle’s writing. He had prescribed a potion to cure a stammer.
“Boil marigolds, agrimony, and borage in posset drink, sweeten it with sugar, and let
the patient drink it going to bed,”
I read out loud. Poor Lord Robert. It clearly hadn’t worked.

Nowhere did we find a yellow powder that might be darkwort. I did discover, however, why Lord Robert was so poor. It seemed he was always losing money at cards to other courtiers, and losing more at dice in the City inns. One small chest was almost full of bills and letters about debts. He seemed to owe money to everybody I’d ever heard of, and plenty I hadn’t.

There was also a letter, written but not finished, from Lord Robert to his Lady Dowager mother, dated 14 February:

“Huh!” I said, feeling very hurt. I’d thought the pearls meant Lord Robert had found out what jewels I like best; but no, he’d asked his mother what girls like. And worse, much worse, he’d only been interested in my estates. How disgustingly unromantic. And who was he to say I was “not too foul-visaged” and talked too much? Better than not being able to talk at all,
I
think.

I didn’t tear the letter up, although I wanted to. I read the important bits to Ellie, who clearly didn’t know whether to be shocked or amused, and then I put it back in the chest. Since it was perfectly obvious Lord Robert didn’t deserve me, he could have his pearls back and tell his conniving mother it had all gone wrong!