The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (11 page)

The letters were not produced. Norfolk declared that they were of a highly private nature and had already been sent on their way in the care of one of his own messengers. He added, however, that only one was from himself. Two had been written by Roberto Ridolfi, a banker. All three were addressed to people of eminence and were to do with money. He was not at liberty to say more.

Further details were not requested. I looked at Hugh and he at me. No one had mentioned ciphers and we were both privately convinced that Norfolk’s letter at least wasn’t concerned with money at all, but with courtship. However, neither of us had actually read any of the letters and we could hardly stand up in the courtroom and declare that we had reason to suspect (though without proof) that our gracious host, the noble Duke of Norfolk, was telling lies.

The three secretaries all bore the duke’s testimony out and Edmund Dean didn’t mention witchcraft. One of the maidservants, describing how the letters had been found, did start to talk about it but was cut short by the coroner, who as well as being a former soldier, was also a solid and hardheaded man in the middle years and thoroughly experienced in his present post.

“We’re talking of dagger wounds and letters concerning financial affairs, young woman. This is not the time or place for beldames’ gossip.”

It was agreed, by coroner and jury alike, that there was nothing to show whether the letters had been left behind deliberately or in error, by a man who had been ill and perhaps was still not himself. The verdict was murder by a person or persons unknown and further inquiries, said the coroner, must be set afoot.

When the inquest reached Walt, it was quickly decided that he had probably died by the same hand and that he had probably known something dangerous to Gale’s killer. This was borne out by one witness whose brief testimony moved my heart. It was the girl Bessie, who had been betrothed to Walt. She was dressed in black, except for her white cap and small ruff, and she was very young. I remembered hearing that she wasn’t yet sixteen. I could tell that she found the official atmosphere frightening. Nevertheless, she kept her small square chin raised, and though her voice trembled when she spoke, she made herself heard and she didn’t stammer.

Walt had told her, she said, that he had come into some money. On the day of his death he had come to her father’s tavern early in the morning and talked with her father, who had agreed that if Walt would put some of his legacy into the tavern, he could become a junior partner in the business, and could marry Bessie whenever the two of them chose.

Her father, following her as a witness, said that Bessie’s account was right, and two of Norfolk’s menservants agreed that Walt had indeed gone out early that day, and that he had been saying he would be able to marry soon, although he hadn’t mentioned any legacy and as far they knew, there was no question of such a thing.

From all of this, the coroner remarked, it seemed a fair guess that Walt was hoping to obtain money from Julius Gale’s possible killer, and that he had met whoever it was under Norfolk’s roof.

Norfolk’s servants were then questioned, and the easygoing habits of the servants’ quarters, where visitors came and went unquestioned, and the master of the house, normally, never went at all, emerged very clearly.

Some of the maidservants were distressed by the questioning. Two or three of them cried and said that their characters were being taken away, but no one seriously suspected them of anything. They were all sturdy girls but certainly no one could suppose any of them capable of ambushing a strong and healthy young man like Walt, stabbing him to the heart, putting a cord around his neck, heaving him up to the hook in the meat-hanging room, and then returning to her duties, cap and apron still miraculously straight and clean, to work and no doubt joke and giggle with her colleagues as though nothing untoward had happened.

The menservants were questioned more fiercely, but here sheer chance seemed to have put them beyond suspicion. They all seemed to have been working under someone’s eye—each other’s for the most part—between the moment when Walt was last seen alive, and the moment when Mistress Dalton discovered him dead.

Again, the verdict was murder by an unknown hand, though probably whoever it was had murdered Julius Gale as well. There was little to show whether the killer belonged to the Norfolk household or came from outside, but the latter (Brockley ground his teeth here, in disagreement) was possible. And that was that.

Once again, inquiries were to continue. Therefore, we couldn’t yet leave our inn, in case we were required again. However, the duke was in no mood for arranging entertainments and we saw that, at last, we could visit Cecil without difficulty.

“All the same,” I said to Hugh. “Cecil must know of this already. An inquest on a murder in a council member’s house! Someone’s bound to report it to him. Norfolk himself, very likely.”

“I daresay, but will he report all of it?” Hugh said. “Will he
admit that his own letter was to Mary Stuart and that one of Ridolfi’s was in cipher? Would I, in his place? We must still see Cecil if we can.”

Then we discovered that for the time being at least, we couldn’t. On the day after the double inquest, Norfolk went to Greenwich to attend a meeting of the royal council. He summoned us to sup with him that evening and told us that his news had been overshadowed by other and mightier storms at the said meeting.

By living quietly in the country, it appeared, we had deprived ourselves of a great deal of interesting information. It seemed that earlier in the year, there had been a particularly stormy council session. Sir Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, was a favorite of the queen’s but most certainly not a favorite of Cecil’s and indeed wasn’t popular either with his fellow lords or with the public in general. He had acquired the nickname of the Gypsy because of his dark complexion and it wasn’t a term of affection. At this earlier meeting, the Gypsy had loudly declared that the queen had seized the Spanish treasure on Cecil’s advice and, therefore, that it was essentially Cecil who had enraged the Spanish and closed Antwerp to our merchants, infuriating and in some cases impoverishing the merchants and, in short, endangering the security of the realm.

The queen, who was present, had spoken up in support of Cecil, wounding her Sweet Robin and causing him to look at Cecil as though he would like to kill him. Others of the council then began to take sides. Old scores had been hauled noisily into the light of day. The trouble had been so serious that it was still reverberating and today’s meeting had seen renewed hostilities. The queen was said to be short of temper and sleeping badly. The murder of a courier and a serving lad, however deplorable, hardly warranted the attention of a council that was in a state of schism about far higher matters. People were not only taking sides, but also forming alliances, some of them surprising.

“Some of the council don’t care for Cecil,” Norfolk told us at supper. “He’s a cautious, dried-up stick. He’s blocked the ambitions of many and will go on doing so while the queen trusts him
and thinks he can do no wrong. She’ll even threaten her pet dog Leicester with the Tower if she thinks he’s scheming against Cecil—I’ve heard her do it!

“And now,” he said, not altogether without enjoyment, “we’ve got fellows who normally can’t bear the sight of each other strolling side by side and drinking together and talking in corners because whatever they think of one another, they like Cecil even less. He’s going to be brought down soon.” He now sounded unmistakably pleased. “They’re going to discredit him. Even he’s afraid of it. He’s declared he’s seeing no one for the time being—he’ll be spending his days in his study, writing full accounts of everything he’s done or advised the queen to do, to justify it all. It’ll take him a long time,” Norfolk added, with his mouth full. He appeared at this point to think he had said enough and contented himself with winking at us and taking more wine.

We hoped he was exaggerating but when, the next day, after breakfast, we left the inn and went to Cecil’s house, we were politely turned away. Cecil was engaged with weighty matters and no one was to be admitted. Nonplussed, we went back to Howard House.

Norfolk was awaiting us. “I have an invitation for you. My banker, Roberto Ridolfi, has returned from his errand in Dover—of course, knowing nothing of all these disasters. I sent him a note, explaining what has happened to Gale, but assuring him that his letters are on their way. I gave my own courier an armed escort of three and since none of them have as yet been brought back on a bier, I assume that they’ve left the City unmolested. He sent me a reply at once, thanking me for all I have done and inviting me to dine at his house tomorrow. He is giving a dinner, with the Spanish ambassador as guest of honor, I understand. He states that I am welcome to bring with me any guests I may have with me. I still regard you as my guests. This dinner is to be quite a sumptuous affair, it seems. Will you come?”

We hesitated and he added: “I understand that the parents of Master Edmund Dean will be present. Signor Ridolfi is acquainted with them. Would it do any harm to meet them?”

I opened my mouth to decline, but Hugh forestalled me.

“We should be delighted,” he said suavely.

I had little to say after that. Later, as we were settling for the night, Hugh moved his bedside candle so that the light would shine on my face and said: “You don’t look happy. Is that because of this dinner invitation? Ursula, don’t you see? While we’re waiting to see Cecil, we may as well learn what we can. There may be good reason to look closely at Ridolfi. He’s obviously on amiable terms with the Spanish ambassador and that gentleman is no friend to England. Nor is his master, Philip of Spain.”

“Am I to understand,” I said, “that you think of us as being on an assignment now?”

Hugh considered. “Yes,” he said eventually. “I rather believe that I do. Even though no one has commissioned us. We just seem to have stumbled into this. We can’t just ignore it.”

I sighed. “I wish I were clearer about what it is we can’t ignore.”

“Two corpses?” suggested Hugh.

“There’s no evidence that they’re anything to do with Ridolfi, or the Spanish ambassador either.”

“Come, now, Ursula. There are connections. A letter in cipher, probably from Ridolfi, probably to Moray or Mary Stuart. The courier passes through Norfolk’s house, collecting more correspondence from Norfolk on the way, and then what happens? The courier is murdered. And so is a harmless lad, for no reason that anyone can imagine—except that perhaps he knew something about the murderer. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes. All right.” I was unhappy. “I accept that we should go to Ridolfi’s house, but . . . ”

“What is it? You don’t want to meet the Deans—is that it?”

“No. I don’t really want to meet them and I don’t like the way this business of the betrothal seems to be persisting, but that doesn’t matter so very much. It’s what was done to Walt!” I burst out. “Mistress Dalton was right; it was an act of contempt. It was
wicked!
It gives me gooseflesh all over. I . . . I can understand how those maidservants felt, the ones who kept on talking about witchcraft. I don’t mean Gladys; I’m sure it’s nothing to
do with Gladys. But to do that to Walt’s body was so nasty; like ill-wishing someone even after they were dead. Whoever did it is . . . is
vicious. Awash with spite
 . . . ! Hugh, there are inquiries going on into the murders. It’s being done! We have no responsibility there—or authority, either. I wish I’d never suggested that we ought to go to Cecil. I know I was the first to say that. But now I just want to run away from all of it!”

Hugh blew out the candle. “Come here,” he said.

His body, still firm even though he was far from young, wrapped itself around mine and transmitted warmth to me. He held me close against him. He had lately bestowed a pet name upon me, just as Matthew had once done. Matthew had called me Saltspoon because of my sharp tongue; Hugh, more gently, had observed that my name, Ursula, meant a bear, and had dubbed me Little Bear, like the star constellation which throughout the year swings around the Pole Star.

“Little Bear,” he whispered in the darkness of the inn bedchamber. “Something to hug, but something that has teeth and claws as well. Hug me but don’t forget your claws. Keep them ready for the enemy. It’s a dangerous world and sometimes a wicked one. We have to fight the wickedness, my dear. But not here and now. Here and now, curled up together in this bed, we’re safe. My dear little bear . . . ”

He never roused quickly; he was past the age for that. But I felt the heat in him, felt desire beginning, and encouraged it. Presently, we came together.

With Hugh, it was not as it had been with those who had gone before him. Hugh did not provide explosions of passion, starbursts and sunbursts, and cries of amazement. With him, it was more like a flower opening to reveal a glow of color; or the warmth of sunshine emerging unexpectedly from cloud. With Hugh, lovemaking was always immensely comforting, leaving me with a sense of safety and peace.

Presently, curled trustfully against him, I slept.

Hugh had done so much for me. Not least, he had freed me from my sorrow for the past, for Gerald and for Matthew.

With Hugh, I could rest.

All the same, I woke on the following morning with a blinding headache.

I knew why. I understood Hugh’s point of view and even agreed with it, but still I couldn’t make myself want to dine at Ridolfi’s, least of all in the character of a spy, on the lookout for conspiracies.

There had been a time when I enjoyed such things. I had once told a friend that I loved the call of the wild geese as they flew across wide skies, bound on huge journeys, that their voices were full of sea winds and vast empty spaces, and he had linked that to my liking for adventure.
Will you ever settle for domestic peace? I wonder,
he had said.
Or will the wild geese call to you for the rest of your life?

But I was younger then. I was approaching my thirty-fifth birthday now and I had chosen domestic peace years ago. I wanted to go home, and my body was very loudly saying so.