The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) (13 page)

Looking at it from the threshold, I decided that this must surely be the gloomiest room in the house. It was about fourteen feet by ten, with ample windows, but they were all half obscured by the books piled up on their deep sills. Where the walls were visible, they were panelled in dark wood, but mostly they were hidden by bookshelves crammed with volumes bound in brown leather and by a ponderous double-fronted oak cupboard. I wondered how the monstrous thing had ever been manoeuvred through the door.

The bare boards of the floor were relieved by a single brown fur rug, and the chair which went with the desk, and was the only seat in the room, had a cushion in a brown velvet cover. The inkstand on the desk and
the triple-branched candlestick beside it were pewter. The air smelt of old leather and guttered candles and stuffiness.

The place was icy, as bad as the gallery. The small hearth was empty. Leaving the study door open as well, I tiptoed forward and glanced at the bookshelves.

The books were those which might appear in any gentleman’s or scholar’s library. Some were in Latin or Italian, one or two in French. Mason, I knew, was a linguist, but he was evidently interested in many subjects. Astronomy was represented here, and so were geography and history.

I recognised Thomas Fabyan’s
New Chronicles of England and France—
my cousins’ tutor had made us study that. The neighbouring set of shelves held some books on musical theory. Next were works on philosophy and politics: Sir Thomas More’s
Utopia;
Niccolò Machiavelli’s
The Prince—
the Queen had those, and I had also seen them in Sir Thomas Gresham’s library. There followed a good collection of poetry, in several languages, and some books on theology.

There was nothing unexpected there. I turned to the desk. In marked contrast to Crichton’s schoolroom, it was very neatly arranged, with papers in tidy piles, more books, some of them with marked places, some lidded boxes with brass hinges, and several wooden trays, which seemed to be Mason’s way of keeping documents sorted.

I hesitated, wondering where to begin, then I heard footsteps approaching quickly through the gallery. Brockley’s voice, low but urgent, called, “Madam!”

I retreated in haste, closing doors after me, and
met him in the gallery, advancing with a rapid and soldierly step.

“Redman’s coming, madam. Seems he’s not having a sleep, as you thought he’d be. I heard him downstairs, telling someone he was going up in a moment to light the fire in the gallery.”

“A pox on Redman,” I said roundly. Brockley raised his eyebrows and I shook my head at him. “It’s no good disapproving of my language, Brockley. I’m annoyed. I’ll never get another chance like this. The Masons don’t go out often, according to the maids.”

However, there was no help for it. I dared not be in the study while Redman was nearby. He might easily come in for some reason. With Brockley, I hurried back through the gallery and into the schoolroom. Brockley, however, stopped short at the further door and motioned me to wait. Peering over his shoulder, I saw Ann’s maid, the ailing Tilly, wraithlike as ever in one of her grey gowns, appear from the direction of the east wing and drift noislessly past towards the staircase. We let her go before stepping out of the schoolroom, and instantly found ourselves face to face with Redman, who was already coming up the back stairs, carrying a lit candle.

There was nothing for it but to step aside and let him pass, and try to look as though everything were ordinary, but I knew that my face was burning and could only hope that the dull afternoon would not reveal it.

“There’s a good fire in the parlour, Mrs. Blanchard,” he said as he went by, “but the master said the family would sit in the gallery when he and mistress
got home. Company’s expected. If I light the fire there now, it may be warm enough by evening.” I saw him glance curiously at my face. The afternoon was evidently not quite dull enough. He went on into the schoolroom and his footsteps retreated through the gallery.

Brockley, stepping quietly back into the schoolroom, looked into the gallery, keeping himself out of sight. Equally quietly, he returned. “He went past the hearth and on into Mr. Mason’s anteroom, madam. He left the door open and I watched him. I think he wanted to see if the couch had been disturbed.”

“
What?
” I gave Brockley a sharp look. His face was so naturally inexpressive that it was difficult to tell when he was serious and when he was amused. If Brockley made a joke, there was usually an appreciable pause before anyone realised it, but I knew him well, and now I recognised the glint of laughter in the blue-grey depths of his eyes. I frowned, and the glint disappeared.

“I’m extremely sorry, Brockley,” I said coolly. “I shall mention this to Dale. I wouldn’t like her to be upset by silly tattle. Or you, either!”

Brockley inclined his head politely and said no more, and neither did I. In my strange, unladylike profession, there were, alas, all too many pitfalls.

I
had not been caught. Nothing had happened except that in Redman’s eyes I probably had a damaged reputation. But I had been frightened of the task to start with and my failure shook me to an absurd degree. How, in this sort of household, could I possibly find a safe patch of time in which to conduct my search? I could not as yet even think of trying again. I told Brockley and Dale that they could go off duty until the following morning.

“I’ll unbutton my own sleeves tonight,” I said to Dale. “For now, I’m going to sit in the parlour, if it really is warm.”

It was. I fetched the doublet I had been repairing and made myself at home by the fire, on a cushioned settle. Threading my needle, I drew Ann’s haphazard domestic atmosphere round me like a cosy old mantle. The girls were still out riding, and until they returned I could be quiet.

I worked for some time. My hands trembled at first but presently I grew calmer. When the maid Jennet came in with a woodbasket to see if the fire needed
tending, I was stitching industriously, and hoped I looked as though I had never heard of Mary Stuart and wouldn’t know a lock-pick from a ladle. Jennet greeted me in amiable fashion.

“Oh, there you are, ma’am. It’s been that quiet all afternoon, with the master and mistress away to Maidenhead. Do you want another log on that fire?”

“If you would, Jennet.”

“There’s a good blaze now up in the gallery, if you want a change, ma’am.”

“Even with a fire it’s cold up there,” I said. “I believe we may be sitting there later but I shall take an extra shawl. A place of that size really needs a good fire every day to keep it anything like comfortable.”

I was speaking casually, and Jennet’s response flabbergasted me. Turning scarlet, she all but glared at me, and said, “The master’s not tightfisted, ma’am, begging your pardon. The Masons just can’t afford waste!”

“Jennet, I didn’t mean . . .”

If Jennet had a certain resemblance to a bovine, it was now a cow about to charge in defence of its calf. I also noticed with interest that, presumably because I had been teaching the girls more or less as a paid governess would, I didn’t have quite the status of a genuine guest of the Masons. Jennet might address me as “ma’am” but she was prepared to take me to task.

“The gallery hearth gobbles fuel, the master says.” Jennet knelt and poked the parlour fire quite fiercely. “He wouldn’t have fires up there at all, but in winter the place’d get damp without ’em. So the family sit there now and again, just to keep it aired.”

“But, Jennet—”

“I’ve only bin here since November, but at Christmas the master give all us servants lengths of cloth for to make new clothes—linen for underthings and good warm woollen cloth for kirtles and breeches—and I had my linen and piece of cloth same as the rest, though I’d only just come. And Redman says it’s the same every Christmas.”

“Really, Jennet! You are being quite rude!”

Jennet stopped assaulting the fire, looked round and met my eyes. She stood up hurriedly. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, ma’am. My mam—God rest her, she’s been gone since two years now—my mam allus said my tongue’d get me into trouble one day. I didn’t mean . . . only I’m that grateful to the master—and the mistress—because this is a good place. Me and Joan even have a feather pillow on our bed instead of a straw one and we get enough to eat, and it just upsets me, thinking that anyone might think . . .”

“Your loyalty is very right and proper, Jennet, but you must not flare up like that. I shall not speak of this to anyone, and we’ll say no more about it this time. You’re very young and no doubt have much to learn, but your mother was right: you really must control your tongue.”

All the same, the financial state of Lockhill could be a fruitful kind of gossip. How was I to strike a balance between quelling Jennet and encouraging her to talk? I did my best.

“I was
not,
” I said, “suggesting that your master was mean. I know that isn’t true. I know what stinginess is! I was brought up by an uncle who used to give his servants
his castoffs every Christmas. Now, he
was
tightfisted.”

“Old clothes at Christmas, ma’am?”

“I’m afraid so. And
very
old ones, at that. I do sometimes pass on a kirtle or bodice to Dale, but they’re always in respectable condition and at Christmas I gave her a length of new material.”

“My Sunday gown’s one the mistress passed on to me, but that was in good order too, ma’am, though I had to let a bit in to make it fit.”

“Mrs. Mason is very good hearted,” I said. “I am fond of her. She has many worries, I think.”

“Well, that’s just it.” Jennet began to pile wood beside the hearth. “She needs more people in the house. That maid of hers is no more use than a sick headache, if you’ll excuse me. Mr. Mason could do with another man about the place, as well. I’ve heard him say so. But he said, with the children to bring up, they’ve just got to make do where they can.”

“I must tell him to make use of Brockley’s services if that would help,” I remarked. “Brockley is very reliable.”

“He uses Dr. Crichton mostly,” Jennet said. “The master’s always caught up in something. I hear him talking now and then and I don’t understand half what he talks about; I just marvel at it. He’s a wonderful man. He’s always thinking about deep things and he don’t like being disturbed, so Dr. Crichton gets sent on errands. Thomas is allus wanted round the stables.”

“Thomas is interested in you, isn’t he?” I said.

“
Him!
” Jennet tossed a white-capped head disdainfully. “I can hardly put my nose outside the kitchen
door but he’s there, trying it on with me. He’s a nuisance. I wish the master
would
send him off on errands sometimes!”

“Is Crichton ever sent to London?” I asked idly, threading a new colour into my needle.

Jennet was too inexperienced to wonder why I had rebuked her one moment and then begun to chat to her in this over-friendly fashion. To her, wanting to talk was as natural as breathing. “Oh yes, twice since I’ve been here,” she said. “I think he likes it. Gives him a rest from those boys. I think they get on his nerves.”

“I daresay,” I said.

A vague idea had formed in my head although I couldn’t quite see how it could help, and it wouldn’t be easy to follow up, either. Meanwhile, I dangled another conversational bait, just to see what would happen.

“Jennet,” I said, “I have a small daughter, boarded out with friends not far from London—near Hampton, in fact. If I wanted to send a letter and didn’t want to spare Brockley, is there any messenger I could use? I believe there was a man called Dawson who used to carry messages for folk in this part of the world. I can’t recall who told me, but is it so?”

“Dawson? Oh, him. Yes, ma’am, there was a Jack Dawson used to come round selling knives and needles and ribbon lengths and whatnot. The mistress said he’d deliver letters if you paid him, if he didn’t have to go too far out of his way. I wouldn’t know, not being able to write. He was a funny sort of fellow with a . . . a kind of shuttered-up face.” Jennet was not unobservant, in her way. “I didn’t like him. I remember once I asked
him to wait in the hall while I told the master he was here, and when I went back to say Mr. Mason was just coming, he’d wandered off into the dining room and I swear I see him listening at the door to the back room. There was someone in there, talking, though I don’t know who. He moved away quick when he heard me come in, but not quite quick enough. He was a snooping sort of fellow. He hasn’t been round for a while now, though, and I did hear that he’d died.”

“Oh, dear. All right, Jennet. I’ll think about it and perhaps ask the Masons. That’s enough wood, I think.”

This time I was dismissing her, and she obediently went. I sat on over my needlework, thinking. So Dawson listened at doors. His discovery at Lockhill was probably something overheard, rather than something seen or read. I longed to know what it was, as a matter of curiosity as well as for the practical reason that I needed the information myself.

I gazed into the fire, frowning. What of the idea I had had while I talked to Jennet? It wasn’t much of a notion but it was my only brainwave so far. I must think about it. I admitted to myself that I would rather do that than tackle Mason’s desk again. This was craven, but there it was.

I snipped a last bit of frayed embroidery out of the doublet on my lap. If I concentrated, I would finish this task in another half an hour.

When you start probing for information, you never know what you’ll learn. While talking to Jennet, I had picked up one further—albeit useless—piece of interesting information.

Unless I were much mistaken, the newest Lockhill maidservant was spurning the advances of Thomas the groom, not so much because she didn’t like him (though I could understand it if so), but because she was wildly in love with Leonard Mason, whose mental processes were as far beyond her grasp as the moon in the sky, and to whom she was merely an inefficient menial who muddled up his desk.

Poor Jennet.