The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) (32 page)

“It’s all right, Brockley. I already know. It’s my husband, isn’t it? Matthew de la Roche? Are they still here?”

The padlock clicked open at last and with a sigh of relief, Brockley shook off his chains and swung his feet off the bed. “Not very comfortable,” he said dryly. “Although I did have enough play to get at the water jug and the chamber pot. Yes, madam. They’re both here. They only arrived after dark last night. Didn’t want to arrive openly, in daylight, it seems.”

I said nothing. There was nothing to say. Matthew was here, close to me, but he was with Mew and Wilkins. He was one of the enemy.

“Mew and Wylie brought them down here,” Brockley explained. “You know, I could have liked your husband if we’d met in some other way. He saved my life. Wilkins wanted me put down. He used those words—as if I were a rabid dog. But Mr. de la Roche wouldn’t have it. He said that I was your servant and that you were his wife and you were coming to France with him and that I was to come too, and he wouldn’t have me touched, for your sake. Then Wylie let out
that you were probably dead, and your husband got hold of him and slammed him up against the wall and asked him what the devil he was talking about. I spoke up then, and shouted that we’d been ambushed by an archer yesterday and nearly killed . . .”

Heartsick, I sank on to the end of the bed. Brockley regarded me with sympathy, but pressed on with his tale.

“Mew tumbled it all out then, about you peering at his files and asking strange questions. He said he hadn’t known what to do—how was he to know you and Mr. de la Roche were married? He just about knew that Mr. de la Roche existed, and he never expected to meet him. You’d alarmed him and he’d tried to get rid of you. And with that,” said Brockley, with some enjoyment, “your husband let go of Wylie, caught Mew by the throat and shoved
him
up against the wall instead. Mew had your husband’s fingers on his windpipe and I never saw a man so terrified.

“He kept on choking out that he was frightened and he’d been doing his best. He’d had enough of killing, with Dawson and Fenn . . . it all came out about them, too. It seems that your husband knew nothing about them. He demanded details. Wylie had done most of the dirty work, it seems, like knocking them on the head, though I don’t think he’s any too competent, even at murder.” Brockley sniffed disdainfully. “If he was trying to kill me when he hit me, he didn’t succeed, and he said he’d tied weights to Fenn’s feet before he dumped him in the river. If so, they came off! Your husband was furious about it all, if that’s any comfort to you.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, I think he would have choked Mew outright, but Wylie and Wilkins pulled him off. Then he started striding up and down, being frantic about you. He wanted to rush off back to Lockhill then and there, except that he couldn’t, because he didn’t have a horse. His own horse and Wilkins’ mare were both tired and so was Mew’s roan, because Wylie was out on it, delivering commissions to customers today, and stables don’t like hiring horses out overnight unless you’ve got orders with an official seal on. Mr. de la Roche cursed and swore and then tore his hair. He really did, madam. I never saw anyone do that before.”

I had never seen it, either. For a moment I even felt a glow, remembering the passion which had exploded between us at Lockhill, proud that this man was so much in love with me that he would tear his hair to think I was in danger.

The glow didn’t last. Danger surrounded us all and there was no time for self-satisfaction. “What then?” I asked shakily.

“Mr. de la Roche said he’d wait until dawn and then take his own horse and go. He said he’d try to get a little sleep, but I doubt if he’s slept much.”

“Matthew was at Lockhill when we got back there,” I said. “You went off without seeing him. Dr. Wilkins was with him. According to Cecil, Wilkins may be involved in this mysterious plot we’re investigating. I knew that Matthew might be in it too, but I hoped . . . I hoped . . .”

“Did you promise to go to France with him?” Brockley asked. “At once, I mean, instead of in May?”

“Yes, I did, but now . . . I’ve been mad, blind! I
didn’t want Matthew to be involved and I made myself believe he wasn’t! I’ve done everything wrong! I’ve sent for help! I’ve betrayed Matthew again! If he’s caught here . . . Brockley, I’ve got to speak to Matthew, get him away somehow. Even if the others escape too, I
must
save Matthew. I . . .”

Brockley’s hand closed on my arm. “We’ve got to save ourselves first. We get out of here first, then we think of how to warn Mr. de la Roche. We’re wasting time. Come on, now. If we—”

“Shhh!” I said urgently. “I came in here in the first place because I thought I heard something. I’ve just heard it again. Someone’s moving upstairs.”

We stood there, waiting. “I fed the dog,” I whispered, “on cold chicken, but it barked once or twice, just the same. And if Matthew’s been lying awake, which is highly likely . . .”

We heard feet and voices descending the cellar stairs.

One of the voices belonged to Matthew.

Brockley picked up a length of chain and swung it to and fro, but I shook my head at him, and he put it down. I took up my dagger, but only to put it away in my inner pocket. There was no point in fighting. Matthew and whoever was with him had reached the adjacent room. We heard Mew’s voice, shrill with alarm (and also slightly hoarse—Matthew had strong fingers, as I well knew), exclaiming that he could smell the candles: they must have been used. A familiar and beloved voice told him to light them again. For Brockley and me, that voice was our chance of survival, but I had not wished to hear it in this place.

Then the door was flung open and in came Mew, with a lantern in one hand and a dagger in the other, and an air of having dressed in a rush. His feet were slippered and he was in shirtsleeves, with half his lacings undone. A scarf, however, was knotted round his neck, no doubt as a comforter after my husband’s ministrations. Behind him came Joseph Wylie, similarly attired, except that he hadn’t needed a scarf, and was equipped with a three-branched candlestick and a cudgel. Next came Wilkins, bearing neither light nor weapon. Wilkins had dressed himself in gown and shoes, but he still had a nightcap on his head. The effect would have been ridiculous, except for the cold anger in his eyes.

Matthew, the tidiest of the four, feet shod, shirt more or less fastened and a doublet tossed on top though not done up, brought up the rear, a drawn sword in his hand. He stopped short at the sight of me, and I saw that he could hardly believe what his own eyes were telling him.

This time he spoke my name twice. The first time was a question. “Ursula?” The second was an exclamation of horror. “Ursula!”

“Matthew,” I said, and then, feebly, “It must be well past midnight by now, so . . . good morning.”

• • •

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I wanted to shout to Matthew to get away quickly because I’d sent for help and he risked being taken, but Mew and Wylie were there, and above all, so was the odious Wilkins. They chained my tongue.

I needed to speak to Matthew alone, but for the moment, I couldn’t see how. “I should have known
you’d come here,” I said tiredly. “It was so obvious.”

“It wasn’t obvious at all.” Matthew sounded exasperated. “You don’t know as much as you think. But what are
you
doing here? How did you get in here? And why?”

“Because Brockley came here on my behalf, of course! He didn’t come back, so I came to find him. I was afraid for him. I got in over the back fence and through the window.”

Matthew’s three companions all stared at me as though I were myself a gryphon or a unicorn. “Well,” said Wilkins grimly. “What now?”

“We go upstairs,” said Matthew decisively. “I’m not going to conduct this conversation in a cellar. Come along.”

He was very much the one in charge. I was simultaneously proud of his powers of leadership, and in despair because, once more, what he was leading was something utterly repellent to me. With Brockley, I followed Matthew out of the basement and up the stairs. The others came behind us, and I was uneasily aware of Wylie’s cudgel and Mew’s dagger. Only Matthew, I knew, stood between us and death at their hands.

Upstairs, Matthew led us out of the little back office and into the parlour which I had seen through the window. Wylie was still carrying his candlestick, and used it to light those in the parlour. It was cold there, but a faint glow still came from the hearth, where a half-burnt log lay on a pile of ash.

“I don’t see why we all have to freeze,” Matthew said briskly. “Someone do something about that fire!”

Wylie obliged, stirring the ash roughly with a poker
and tossing in twigs from a woodbasket. A small flame sprang up. I sat down wearily on a settle and Brockley sat next to me.

Matthew stood facing us. He looked at me with a sadness and a bewilderment which I found grievous to see. It was as though I were no longer the Ursula he had known; no longer his Saltspoon, but a puzzling stranger.

“I didn’t believe it, you know,” he said. “Wilkins warned me. He said that you were at Lockhill and that Cecil had sent you there, and he thought Cecil was using you as an agent. He had a man in Cecil’s house—Paul Fenn, who has I gather come to a sorry end—and Fenn said he had heard Cecil say you might learn something at Lockhill and that the Cecils were pretending they didn’t know you well, when they did. I said it was nonsense: who would employ a young woman as a spy? It
still
seems impossible, but it seems that believe it, I must.”

“After what she did to you last year, I wonder you found it so hard to credit,” Wilkins said. He, too, had remained standing. “She is a heretic spy. Well, I did my best to save her, since you care for her. As you know.”

“Dr. Wilkins has now told me that he tried to have you brought to me, when he first became aware of Cecil’s plans,” Matthew said. “After you told me of that attempted abduction, I challenged him. It appears,” he said wryly, “that I must apologise to you for that unhappy experience. You wouldn’t have been left long in the boathouse, but there was some difficulty over finding a ship to carry you to France.”

I remembered fretting over that very problem. It
was faintly amusing that the self-assured Dr. Wilkins had run up against it too, but my sense of humour wasn’t working too well just then. “If you didn’t believe that I could be employed by Cecil,” I said, “then I didn’t want to believe that you were Dr. Wilkins’ partner. I wish you were not.”

“I’m not,” said Matthew. “I told you, you know less than you think.”

He did not enlarge and I felt too weary and too disbelieving to ask questions. Wilkins, growing tired of standing, now seated himself coolly in a massive carved armchair which looked as though it belonged rightly to the master of the house. Mew, as if feeling himself at a disadvantage even in his own home, had sunk meekly on to a stool. There was a pause, while Wylie got the fire going properly and Matthew went to pull curtains across the window. Wilkins watched him coldly, and once more I sensed bad feeling between them.

I was glad of Brockley at my side. I knew him better, in many ways, than I knew Matthew. Brockley was part of everyday life. I was gradually realising how deeply exhausted I was. I wondered how long it would be until dawn.

How could I get Matthew alone, to warn him? He might well warn the others anyway, but that would be his choice. The idea of alerting them myself stuck in my gullet. Well, there was time in hand yet; help could surely not arrive before morning. Even if Dr. Forrest had acted at once, his messenger would have a long ride before the rescue proper could hope to set out.

If only, I thought feverishly, I could think of a way
not just to speak to my husband privately, but to detach him from these others, turn him against them, so that he would see what they truly were, and abandon them . . .

The small-hours parlour, growing warmer now as the fire burned up, had a dreamlike air. In the candlelight our shadows were huge and distorted. They fled or glided over the panelled walls and the one wallhanging (another cheap affair of painted cloth) and across the ceiling when anyone moved.

I was aware of the tangled relationships among us, as complex as a maze: man and wife; lady and manservant; prisoners and captors; and this odd collection of conspirators. Wilkins was a priest and must have a degree in theology—what was a doctor of theology doing hand in glove with a clockmaker? What was the term for conspirators such as these? A sort of traitors . . . an assortment of traitors . . . such an ill-assorted set of traitors . . .

I jerked myself awake. It was hardly the moment for falling asleep, but nature had almost outwitted me. Brockley was speaking, his voice comfortingly normal. “I suppose,” he said, “that it was next door’s dog that gave the alarm.”

“Yes. I heard it,” Matthew said. His eyes were on my face. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, “for my anxiety over you.”

“I wasted some good chicken on that dog,” I remarked.

That made Matthew smile, only briefly, but just for a moment, his diamond-shaped eyes sparkled and the tiny laughter-lines at their corners deepened. That smile had haunted my dreams.

Desperately, I opened my mouth to say, “Matthew, we
must
speak privately!” but Wilkins spoke first.

“Like it or not, Matthew, your wife and her manservant are not of our faith, and they have learned too much of our plans. They have seen the cellar. You won’t deny that, I take it?”

“Your plans, not mine,” said Matthew. “And what does it matter what they’ve seen, or learned? They have had no chance to tell anyone what they saw.”

He turned to me. “I can still hardly believe what I now know of you, Ursula. Last night, I was half mad with fear for you—I couldn’t help myself. But all the time I keep asking myself, what
are
you? What kind of woman? What kind of wife? But perhaps it isn’t too late to turn you back towards me and towards God. You remain my wife, and I still care for you.” His voice was harsh with pain and conflict. I could hardly bear to hear it. “You must come to France now,” he said. “You have no choice any longer. Perhaps we can still do something about fetching your daughter. Where is your woman, Dale?”