The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) (18 page)

“I know of your plans to go to France,” said Rob, “and I wouldn’t blame you for asking leave to go at once!”

“And we would grant it, now,” said Elizabeth. “If, on the other hand, Ursula, you are prepared to try
again at Lockhill, I will not order against it.” Her eyes were asking me to go back to Lockhill.

Both of the men burst out in protest, but I was silent. As their indignant expostulations died away, I said, “When you talked to me at your home, Sir William, you spoke of Dr. Wilkins. You told me that in the days of Queen Mary, he had two of his parishioners burned, a father and daughter. And Rob, you witnessed it. You saw their faces through the smoke.”

Rob’s cheerful face became drawn, startlingly so, as if a cloud from nowhere had vanquished a midsummer sun. “You know about that?”

“I told her,” said Cecil.

“I’d sooner not be reminded. I never witnessed such a thing before and I hope I never will again. I got away as fast as I could but the screams followed me. I thought I’d never get out of earshot . . .” His voice faded away.

“If it isn’t to happen again,” I said, “if those days, when such things could happen to honest, innocent people, are not to return, then we
must
find out what is going on at Lockhill. I have to go back. Don’t you see?”

• • •

I took certain steps before I returned to Berkshire, however. Later that day, when the Queen and Cecil had gone, I made a will naming the Hendersons as Meg’s guardians, if for any reason I were to die. One of Rob’s clerks drew it up and Dale and Brockley were witnesses. It was something I should have done long ago.

“But it won’t be needed,” I said, “or not on account of Lockhill. I can’t promise not to catch smallpox or plague, of course. Gerald died of smallpox. It can happen to anyone.”

Brave words. Inside myself, I was very much afraid of returning to Lockhill, and the desire to abandon this dangerous and unnatural way of life and simply go to Matthew, was almost unbearably strong.

I had said I would go because of a private phenomenon which, to myself, I called the small cold voice. Last year, I had taken bitter decisions because that little voice in my mind had said that the safety of a realm must come before warmer, more human, more private considerations. During our council of war, it had spoken again, telling me that my fears for myself and my longing for Matthew must give way to greater matters. And perhaps Elizabeth let me do it because she too was acquainted with a small cold voice.

It was a hard decision, for me, anyway. Since girlhood, I had in times of trouble been afflicted by violent, incapacitating headaches which would not clear until I had been sick. The day after I made my will, I woke in the morning to find myself in agony, a steel ring round my head and a hammer pounding above my left eye.

I lay in a darkened room all day, and towards evening I vomited, not once but several times. The pain eased a little and I slept that night, but I woke the following morning to find that the ghastly cycle had begun again.

At three o’clock that afternoon, I vomited again, painfully, because my stomach muscles were aching
and I had nothing to bring up now except my own watery juices. After that, I recovered. During the long hours of anguish, deep within me, a battle had been fought and won.

Next day, I kissed my darling Meg farewell and set out once more for Lockhill.

I
returned to Lockhill on Wednesday, March 5. The weather had turned mild and sunny, with a light breeze, and this at least did something to put heart into me. I needed it, for I was having trouble with Brockley and Dale. I had never told them about Dawson, but they had been on the barge when Fenn was found and exclaimed over. They knew he had probably been murdered and that this was somehow linked with Lockhill. That, on top of the boathouse incident, made them very reluctant to return there. They obeyed orders, but under protest.

We arrived to find that strange things had happened during our absence. The top of the tower was now adorned with an extraordinary structure like a huge capital H, at least three times the height of a man, with a plank leaning against its crosspiece and lengths of rope trailing from it. George and Philip, meeting us in the courtyard, announced that this was the catapult with which their father hoped to give his new gliding engine the impetus to stay airborne. The engine was nearly finished, they said.

“Mother is upset about it,” Philip told us.

“Father’s thrilled, though,” George said. “He didn’t think he could assemble it so fast, but our old music master has paid us a visit and lent a hand. He’s interested in such things. Here he is!”

“George! Philip!” A small, busy man in an amber velvet doublet and breeches came through the porch, calling their names. “Dr. Crichton is asking where you are!” He had a thin voice, and as he came towards us, I saw that he had small crumpled features, and an insignificant blob of a nose.

“Mrs. Blanchard,” said George, “this is Mr. Mew who used to teach us music and still comes to see us at times. Mr. Mew, this is Mrs. Blanchard who is staying with us, and helping my sisters with their needlework. She has been visiting her own daughter briefly. Did you find your daughter well, Mrs. Blanchard? You were anxious about her, were you not?”

“I become anxious for no good reason on occasion,” I said. We had all dismounted, and I nodded to Brockley to take the horses away. “Parents often do! Meg is perfectly well, I am glad to say. I had a pleasant few days with her. Good day, Mr. Mew. Mr. Barnabas Mew, is it not?”

I had half-recognised Mew before George began his introductions. I gave him my hand, and a smile, hiding my surprise. I did not know what to make of this. Was it one of the coincidences which Cecil so rightly distrusted? Or pure chance? Dr. Crichton had now also emerged from the porch. He gave me a cursory greeting, collected up the boys and marshalled them indoors.

“Dr. Crichton,” said Mr. Mew, “has been helping Mr. Mason to find a school for those boys. The fees are a hindrance but Mr. Mason says he must find them somehow. I understand that the school’s proprietor may actually have an errand this way soon, and if so, will call and see the boys for himself, in their own home. School is probably what those lads need. I found them very difficult, myself.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. Dismissing Brockley, I walked indoors beside Barnabas Mew, and Dale followed.

We strolled into the parlour, which was no tidier than usual, with the baby’s cradle in the middle of the floor and Ann’s workbox, alongside a pile of mending, occupying most of one settle. However, the fire was lit and it was warm. Dale took my cloak and disappeared, and Jennet arrived with ale for myself and Mr. Mew.

“Surely,” I said to Mr. Mew, as we sipped, “we have met before. You come from Windsor, do you not?”

“Yes, indeed. I am a clockmaker there. Have you been in my shop, Mrs. Blanchard? Are you a customer?”

“No, but I saw you at court a short time ago. Did you not come to present a musical gadget to the Queen?”

“
You
have been at court?” said Mew, scanning my face intently and apparently with dismay.

“Yes, indeed! Wasn’t the gadget,” I said, “a little box which could be wound up and made to play a tune?”

“Oh my goodness. Oh, Mrs. Blanchard!” Barnabas
Mew, who had taken a comfortable stool, twisted about on it as though it were upholstered with nails instead of padded with a plump cushion in an embroidered cover.

“What is it?” I asked. “Mr. Mew, is something wrong?”

“My dear Mrs. Blanchard. Since you’ve been here, have you mentioned my visit to court, or spoken of my little musical plaything at all?”

“Well, no.” I had begun to speak of it once, I recalled, but Pen had interrupted me. “No, I haven’t.”

“I am relieved, I must say. Oh dear, how awkward!”

“I don’t understand. Of course I won’t mention it if you would rather I didn’t, but why not?”

“It’s Mr. Mason,” said Barnabas. “Oh my goodness, this is so
difficult.
He is a fine scholar—I believe his translation work, especially between English and Italian or Latin, is second to none—but he also likes to try his hand at gadgets of this kind or that. He often has good ideas, but he isn’t skilled enough with his hands to make things well. He made a spinet once, with my assistance, but it was a poor effort, and then he tried to invent a new kind of spinet altogether and—oh dear. He actually built the instrument and showed it to me, but alas, it had no volume to speak of and a very flat tone. He was most disappointed, and in the end he broke it up in, well, in a temper. The design was quite good, in my opinion, but the construction was faulty, you see . . .”

Here, Mr. Mew ran out of breath and appeared to lose his thread. I made encouraging noises.

“Well, now,” said Mew, “he is trying to make an
engine to fly on the wind. In fact, during the last two or three days I’ve been helping him as best I can. But I fear that this won’t prosper either. I have the advantage of being a trained craftsman: I was apprentice to a clockmaker and goldsmith and studied both crafts for years. I had the best of masters—a hard man, mind you, heavy handed, and many a time he made me weep for my own shortcomings—but he knew his work. Now, looking back, I value every hard, weary day of my apprenticeship. I am a very simple man, Mrs. Blanchard, but I understand my craft, and my little music box is the flower of it. Leonard Mason, I fear, is no true craftsman. If he knew that I had made something that I could present to the Queen, at court, well, he might be upset.”

“You mean he would be jealous?”

“Oh dear. It’s a hard thing to say of anyone, but yes, jealous, that’s the word. Please, Mrs. Blanchard, don’t mention that you saw me at court, or say anything about my music box.”

“Of course I won’t, if you don’t want me to,” I said.

Ann came into the parlour with the baby, greeted me with much more pleasure than Crichton had done, and observed that Mew and I had introduced ourselves. She then deposited the infant Ned in the cradle, picked up her workbox and sat down on the settle beside the pile of mending.

Mr. Mew, evidently feeling uneasy amidst these feminine concerns, excused himself and went off in search of Crichton and the boys. “I still take an interest in my former pupils,” he said.

Ann delved into the mending, picked up what I now
saw was her husband’s blackwork doublet and began to repair a split. “I spoke to George just now and he tells me you found your daughter well. I’m so glad,” she said.

I watched her worriedly. While she worked, she was rocking Ned’s cradle with her foot, but Ned had started to whimper with annoyance because the motion was erratic. Then I saw that despite her efforts to stitch and rock and make ordinary conversation, Ann Mason was near to tears. I went to her and put my arms round her and she dropped her work on her lap and began to sob helplessly.

“Mrs. Mason?” I said. “Ann? Is this to do with that silly gliding engine?”

“Yes, it is! That hateful thing! Leonard’s running made over it. He’s changed the shape of the wings, he says. And now he’s building a catapult to shoot it off the tower . . .”

“I saw it.”

“. . . but he says it needs to be guided. It needs to be turned this way and that to catch the air currents. And he says . . . he says . . .”

I knew what was coming next. I remembered what Leonard Mason had told us on the day I arrived at Lockhill.

“He says,” declared Ann in a desperate voice, “that the thing he ought to do is launch
himself
off the roof, sitting in it! He’ll kill himself! I keep trying to reason with him but he won’t listen! Oh, why couldn’t he have gone on translating things and studying and . . . making musical instruments? Even bad ones that won’t play!”

“Like his spinet?” I tried to introduce a lighter note.

Ann responded by hiccuping indignantly. “Yes! Did Mew tell you about that? Leonard’s built one poor spinet, and one that finished on the scrapheap. His flying machine will be no better. I know it. So does Mew: he’s more or less warned me. Why he’s let Leonard persuade him to help with it, I just can’t think. He’s weak and Leonard talks him round, that’s what it is. Leonard will break his neck and then what will happen to me and the children? I sometimes think we’re not real to him!”

“Please don’t cry,” I said. “Ann . . . I mean, Mrs. Mason . . .”

“I don’t mind if you call me Ann. If Leonard kills himself, there’ll be hardly anyone left to call me by my name. Even Cousin Bess just addresses me as Cousin when she writes. Please
do
call me Ann. Can I call you Ursula?”

“Yes, of course. Ann, listen, I’m sure you have more influence over Leonard than you think. It will be all right. These ideas are all very well in theory but when it comes to the point, he won’t want to launch himself off the roof any more than you want him to.”

“I hope not,” said Ann. “I just hope not!”

“I’m sure of it,” I said, wondering unhappily whether death from a crash off the roof into the courtyard might not be the best thing that could happen to Leonard Mason. I picked up Ann’s sewing, which had slipped to the floor, and observed that her efforts to pull the split seam together looked decidedly wild. “Shall I see to this for you?” I asked.

The baby was wailing. Ann got up and went to the
cradle. “I think he’s hungry.” She gave me a shaky smile. “You’re very kind, Ursula. You’ve made me feel better. If you could take that doublet off my hands, I’d be very grateful. You can use my workbox.”

• • •

Ann began to feed Ned and I set about unpicking the haphazard seam, thinking hard as I did so, not about Leonard Mason or his glider, but about Barnabas Mew. I had said that I should not only try to read Mason’s papers, but that I must also try to observe the people he met, notice who came to the house. Was Mew’s appearance significant?

The word
Windsor
kept pounding in my brain. Jackdaw had come from Windsor, and been killed there. Paul Fenn, it now occurred to me, had been found floating downstream, below Hampton. He had been last heard of near the boathouse. He had probably stolen the dinghy, and if so, he could have gone upstream. Windsor was above Hampton. Had he gone there? The word
coincidence
joined
Windsor,
chiming with it in my head.