The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) (21 page)

Beyond this seemingly harmless step there were others, much less harmless. I knew they were there, but I wouldn’t look at them directly, not yet.

For the moment, I said to myself, I would simply go to Windsor, to Barnabas Mew’s shop, and order a musical box for Meg.

I
had barely returned from Thamesbank, but it couldn’t be helped. I worked the girls hard that Friday and Saturday and wouldn’t let them take their ease even on the Sunday, but made them do a further two hours of embroidery, as soon as mass and breakfast were over.

I had hoped to see both the Masons at the breakfast table on Monday, but only Ann was there. To her, I said that the girls had earned a short holiday, and that I wished once more to make a short journey on a private matter. “I shall only be gone overnight,” I said.

“We had better tell my husband,” Ann said. “He broke his fast early and went out again to his workshop. He doesn’t like to be disturbed, you know.”

“I’m afraid the matter is urgent,” I said. “If you think I shouldn’t go without telling him, then I must see him.”

“Well, he would expect to be informed,” Ann said, pushing her platter away. “We’ll go together.”

Though I had been out to the workshop several times, I had only paused to watch for a few moments, never to interrupt, and I had not been out there since
I came back from Thamesbank. Now, it gave me a surprise.

Leonard Mason’s working shed was large, with wide double doors and a roof steeply pitched to give plenty of height inside. Even so, it was hardly big enough for the vast wood and canvas bird which was taking shape within. Ann and I hesitated, wondering how to get ourselves and our farthingales past the wings which blocked our entrance. Ann called, and after a moment, Leonard appeared from the dim inner regions, ducking under a wing and regarding us testily.

“What is it? I am really very occupied just now. I asked Crichton to help me again before he started work with the boys this morning, but he put his thumb in the way of my hammer in the first few minutes and now he’s gone off in a fit of temper.”

“Oh dear. Poor man,” said Ann anxiously.

Her husband merely looked annoyed. “What about poor me? Some tasks are very difficult when one is on one’s own. Now, what is it you want? I can see from here that the house isn’t burning down.”

Ann explained. The furrows deepened between Leonard’s nostrils and the corners of his mouth. “Another jaunt, Mrs. Blanchard? Well, as I have said before, you are free to come and go. I have to admit that Pen acquitted herself well while you were away. You are evidently training her to take responsibility. For that, I suppose I must commend you. What is the purpose of your journey this time?”

Clearly, I ought to produce some sort of reason for my sudden departure. I couldn’t pretend to an urgent message, as they knew quite well that no messenger
had arrived for me. I fell back on the useful excuse of discretion.

“It is a matter which arose when I was at Thamesbank. I have been worrying about it and I have come to the conclusion that I need to attend to it personally. Please forgive me for not saying any more. It concerns . . . an errand for Her Majesty.” Well, it did, more or less. “We—her ladies, that is—are taught never to discuss the Queen’s business, even the most trivial matters.”

“The Queen’s business, is it? It sounds very grand.” Mason shrugged. “Well, travel safely! What more can I say?

I thanked him, and then, noticing that the huge wood and canvas wing beside me was a curious shape, curved on one side and flat on the other, I made an attempt at politeness and asked its creator why.

For once, Mason smiled at me, the furrows on his face bending into sharp outward angles. Mason’s work was the way to his heart.

“Ah! Now, that is to do with a theory of mine. Come into the workshop—just press back your skirts and you’ll find that you can edge through. You too, Ann . . . that’s it.”

“Oh,
Leonard,
” said Ann protestingly. “I’m sure Mrs. Blanchard doesn’t want to—”

“Over here, both of you,” said Leonard, unheeding.

The interior of the workshop was furnished with a workbench along the back, a small brick furnace, and a brazier. To one side lay a pile of timbers and wooden slats, and on the floor stood a pail of water, fairly clean, and a rusty old bucket full of what smelt like glue. An
earthenware jug and basin were on the workbench, along with a set of drawings, assorted tools and a couple of large spoons. A sizeable leaded window at the rear of the shed meant that the light was good.

Mason dipped a jugful of water from the pail and then pushed back his right sleeve, picked up a spoon and held it pointing downwards into the basin.

“Now, Mrs. Blanchard. Just take up the jug and pour water very slowly and carefully, down over the spoon, from above, where I am holding the handle. Never mind about getting my arm wet. Observe how the water behaves.”

I couldn’t imagine what I was likely to observe, but I did as I was told, while Ann watched with an air of patience.

“There! Do you see?”

“Er . . . no,” I said. “The water just flows down over the spoon. Doesn’t it?”

Mason sighed. “Dip another jugful and try again. Very slowly, now. Watch carefully. Does the water flow over the spoon in a thin stream, or does it spread out over the curve at the back of the spoon?”

I peered at the spoon as I poured. “It spreads out. But it spreads over the inside of the spoon, as well.”

“Yes, but what if I filled in the inside of the spoon so that it was flat? Then, the water would have to spread over more metal at the back than at the front. A curved surface is bigger than a flat one. When I saw that, I realised that if the wing were curved on top, then the air passing over it in flight would be thinned out, because it would have to flow over a bigger surface than the air flowing below, across the flat underside
of the wing. And perhaps that would help the wing to be buoyant. Do you see?”

“I think so, but would it make so much difference?”

“Can you really understand it?” Ann asked me. “It all seems so extraordinary to me.”

I understood it well enough, but I still didn’t think it would work. However, to say so would have been tactless, so I merely repeated to Mr. Mason that I had grasped the point. Almost beaming now, he picked up his drawings and began to show me exactly how he intended to use the structure on the tower roof as a catapult.

In the end, it was another half an hour before I could get away, but by the time I did, his manner towards me was more friendly than at any time since I arrived at Lockhill.

What a good thing, I thought, that when he searched his study cupboard for drawings of glider wings, he hadn’t glanced to his left. Thinking of that incident would bring me out in a sweat for the rest of my life.

• • •

We set off an hour later. It was a bright, fresh day, with sunshine and racing clouds and sounds of birdsong, but I soon noticed that Dale and Brockley were very quiet, and before long, I had grasped that they were scarcely on speaking terms. Clearly, they had had a tiff. Well, that was between husband and wife and there was nothing I could do about it. All couples have their quarrels.

Attempting to distract them I suggested that we sing. My two obedient servants tried, but their efforts were so unenthusiastic that I gave up.

I was provoked into saying, “Do cheer up, you two. Look what a lovely day it is!”

All they said was, “Yes, indeed, ma’am,” in flat voices. I stopped trying.

At heart, I wasn’t too cheerful myself, if truth be told. I was anxious about the task ahead. I had come to the conclusion that I would need Dale and Brockley’s help, and I just hoped that they were willing to give it.

I wanted to speak to Brockley first, out of Dale’s hearing. Choosing a place where the road was wide enough for two to ride abreast, but not for three, I edged Bay Star alongside Brockley’s cob and began to talk.

“. . . I need to look at Barnabas Mew on his own premises, and to see the premises themselves. I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for, but I’ll tell you how far I’ve got.” I described the bill for the remarkable quantities of copper and tin, the discovery on Mason’s desk of a diagram for Barnabas Mew’s music box, and the strange matter of the dining room tapestries.

“Mason and Crichton say they were left to Crichton by an uncle, but they weren’t. Crichton bought them on Mason’s behalf. Only, Mason can’t possibly afford them. I think someone is paying him secretly for something, and perhaps he is looking for ways to enjoy the money without being too conspicuous. It’s very mysterious,” I said, “but it does look as if Barnabas Mew and Mr. Mason are somehow entangled, and Barnabas lives in Windsor.”

“And so, madam?” Brockley gazed at me from under the large hat, which I knew, without asking, once more concealed his helmet.

“Barnabas Mew,” I said, “may have been concerned in a murder.”

“Paul Fenn?”

“Possibly, but not just Fenn. If I’ve been too reticent, it’s because I don’t want to frighten Dale. Fenn’s death has frightened her already, which is why I’m talking to you alone at this moment. There was another man, a Jack Dawson . . .”

I explained all I knew of Dawson’s mysterious demise on the river, and the fact that his landlady believed someone had searched the house that same evening. “I’m not going to investigate his death in any obvious way,” I said, “but he claimed to have discovered traces, at Lockhill, of a scheme to aid the cause of Mary Stuart. He then met his death, probably at Windsor. Barnabas Mew links the two places.”

“It all sounds,” said Brockley disapprovingly, “most confused, madam, and I can’t see that any of it really points a finger at Mew—or adds up to a reason for prying into Mr. Mew’s affairs, either.”

I said slowly, “I think . . . it’s like a midden.”

Brockley looked astounded, as well he might. “A
midden?
Madam, I don’t understand you.”

“A mass of bits and pieces,” I said. “All in a pile, breaking down at the edges, melting and oozing into each other, creating a bad smell, but . . . fertile. Something might sprout from this heap of dubious oddments; I really think so. At least, I must try to find out.”

“But, madam, how
can
you can find out? You can hardly question Mew openly!”

“I know, but I can do what I did in Mason’s study and search his papers. He must have a room for writing
letters and adding up accounts. I must get into it if possible. I’m interested in the extraordinary amounts of metal that he’s been buying. Sir William Cecil told me to look for oddities, and that’s an oddity if ever there was one.”

“I don’t like the sound of this, madam.”

“Neither do I,” I said frankly, “but if there is a scheme and it’s allowed to mature—what then?”

“The English aren’t fools,” said Brockley. “How many people would really want to exchange our Elizabeth for a French-reared chit nearly ten years younger?”

“Quite a few,” I said. “Those who are so in love with the old religion that they would put anyone on the throne who would restore it, whether it be a prattling baby or a convicted murderer, let alone a pretty princess. And then there are those who are in love with gold and can be bought. What if such people caused something to . . . to happen to Elizabeth. The door would be open for Mary. And what if she came through it with a foreign army? I don’t
think
Spain is in any position to put an invading force in the field for Mary, but if the prize were sufficiently tempting, who knows what Philip might do? If any action I can take will help to prevent such things, then take it I must.”

“I follow you, yes.” Brockley nodded. “You may well be right, but . . . I know I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: it’s not a lady’s business!”

“The Queen is a lady, Brockley.” It had been Elizabeth’s own justification for letting me return to Lockhill. “It’s her business, is it not?”

Brockley made a noise which I could only call a growl, but then he said, “Just tell me what to do.”

I described the plan which I had formed, through much brooding, over the weekend. Brockley listened and raised no more objections beyond saying, “Well, you’re right to keep Fran in the dark over this. She needn’t know what Mew might have anything to do with Fenn’s dying—and she’d better not know about Dawson at all.”

We dropped back to ride one on either side of Dale and explain to her what was wanted. Even without any suspicions that we were riding into the lair of a possible killer, her response was to look both unhappy and sullen.

“I’ll do my best, but I’m not sure about it. I can’t abide lies and deception and—”

“You’ll do as the mistress says!” snapped Brockley.

“I said, I’ll do my best!” Dale’s tone was anything but enthusiastic and she wouldn’t look at either of us.

“Thank you,” I said, blankly.

• • •

Towns are smelly. After riding through fields and woods, one always notices it. Windsor is a small, compact community which has grown up around the castle it serves, but its few streets are as fetid as any street near London Bridge. They assaulted our nostrils with the usual reek of horse-dung, rotting litter from spilt nosebags and carelessly swung shopping baskets, and the half-invigorating, half-repulsive smell of the river, which bore rubbish as well as fresh water downstream to the sea.

Which had been known, I thought grimly, to convey corpses.

I knew the town already, and I believed I knew where Barnabas Mew’s shop might be. I led us over the bridge and on into Bishop Street, skirting the castle walls. We passed the public meeting place, which is a roofed shelter with a cross on top, and at the crossroads in front of the castle, I guided us to the right, into Peascod Street. This was lined with houses and shops, and there before us was the clockmaker’s sign I had half-remembered. And, yes, it was Mew’s. We drew rein and dismounted.

The shop was modern, its white plaster walls patterned with timbers, its roof neatly thatched. Its second storey overhung the street, supported on black timber pillars. Instead of an open shopfront, it had an ordinary door, and a window alongside, with examples of its owner’s handiwork displayed behind the leaded panes. Tethering posts had been invitingly placed at the edge of the roadway. We tied our horses to them and went up the steps to the door.