The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (34 page)

Walsingham rushed around the desk and tried to intervene but was sent staggering by a blow from Dean’s fist. He reeled back against the desk, which rocked, sending the document boxes in a cascade to the floor, where the struggling pair fell over them. Hillman, flat on his back, was trying to get his hands around Dean’s throat. Then Dean, twisting eel-like, freed one hand and went for his dagger. The blade flashed in the air. Hillman abandoned his attack on his adversary’s throat and seized his wrist instead, holding the steel away. I remember seeing the sequence quite clearly, as though it were happening in slow motion, although in fact it took only a few seconds. At the end of those few seconds, Cecil still seated unmoving at his desk, raised his voice.
“Guard!”

The armed men he had said were at hand were in the room before the word was well out. They seized the combatants, dragging them apart and holding them firmly. One of them wrenched Dean’s dagger from his hand and threw it clattering onto the desk. Hillman’s nose was bleeding. “I’b sorry,” he said nasally to Cecil. “I’b very sorry. But if he killed Julius . . . ”

“You may release him,” Cecil said to the men holding Hillman. “His behavior was natural if deplorable. Sit him down and do something about his nose; I don’t want blood all over my study. Behave yourself from now on, Master Hillman. As for you . . . ”

He turned to Dean. Dean stared back at him. His dark hair was tangled and his doublet half off, and if I didn’t know that the eyes of human beings can’t actually shoot sparks, I would say that his were doing so. Blue sparks, lightning color. Hot and cold both at once. Sparks of hatred.

“You stand accused of the murders both of Julius Gale and the boy Walt,” said Cecil. “Of Gale because he was working for us and making us privy to the correspondence that Norfolk and
Ridolfi were having—with a view to reestablishing Mary Stuart on the Scottish throne and one day, perhaps, installing her on the English throne and destroying our reformed religion. Of Walt because he discovered your guilt and tried to make you pay. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” said Dean, astoundingly. His chin came up. “I killed them both. I’m
proud
of it. I’d do it again.”

There was a stunned silence. At my side, I felt Meg trembling. I took her hand.

“Be careful what you say,” said Walsingham. “Witnesses are present, who are likely to repeat what they hear when you come to trial.”

“It’s
when,
is it? Not
if
? I am to be arrested, that’s clear. Well, so be it. What I did, I did for the one true faith. I’d do it again! If I must lose my life, I give it gladly. Gale was an enemy. He was trying to betray a noble cause and it was right that he should die!”

“How did you know he was bringing letters for us to see?” Walsingham asked with interest.

“He’d picked up letters from Howard House before. Once when he had to wait a day for a letter to be ready, I came upon him reading an English Bible. It belonged to Norfolk, more shame to him. But if Gale were reading it—and he was doing so with attention, not with disapproval—then I knew that he was not to be relied on. And then, as it chanced, I was returning from an errand just as he finally set out and I saw him take the wrong road. I thought about that English Bible and I wondered what he was doing, so I followed him. I followed him
here.
Then I knew. So, the next time he passed through Howard House, with letters from Ridolfi and from Norfolk, I followed him again, only that time he knew that someone was on his heels and he turned back.
The duke saw to it that he got away safely, though at least he never managed to reach this house, Master Cecil. The time after that, he tried to come here again but on that occasion, I was cleverer. I went out ahead of him, waylaid him, killed him, and took the letters back to his room. That’s why they weren’t found on him but in his clothespress!”

His voice was ringing out, his pride in what he had done so great that it had overwhelmed his fear of the doom he was bringing on himself.

“Why did you take the letters back?” Walsingham asked him.

“To keep them safe, of course! Oh, people would wonder why he wasn’t carrying them but he had been ill. He could have left them behind by accident. But that damned boy was about the house and he saw me go into Gale’s room, and the cheeky, inquisitive wretch peeped in at the door and saw me put the letters in the press. Later on, when Gale’s body was brought back and people were saying his letters were missing, the boy understood what he had seen. Then he came to me and demanded money! Well, he’s burning in hell now, and I am glad of it!”

“And you left him among the hanging carcasses,” I said.

“It was there that I killed him.”

“And stole the pendant from him?” asked Walsingham sourly.

“No,” said Dean disdainfully. “He fought back. I was a trifle clumsy.” He sounded as though he were apologizing for a minor inefficiency. “I had one hand round his mouth, trying to make sure he didn’t cry out, while I used my knife with the other, but he twisted like a snake and that sleeveless jerkin he always wore was flapping about and getting tangled round my knife-arm. I did see a glint as something slid out of the pocket, but I thought nothing of it until afterward, when I went to change my doublet. It was a black doublet and it didn’t show bloodstains much but it was wise to change it—and there was the pendant, with its chain caught up in a bit of pulled embroidery on the right sleeve.”

“So you kept it,” I said.

“Was I likely to go back and return it to him?” retorted Dean.

“But to hang Walt like that,” I said. “On a meathook . . . ”

“It was a measure of the scorn I felt for him.” The contempt in Dean’s voice brought the gooseflesh out on my skin. Meg was now clinging to me with both hands.

“Was Gale’s illness real?” I asked suddenly. “Or did you cause it, regardless of the other victims, in an attempt to kill him before he left Howard House?”

Dean looked at me, with nearly as much disdain as he apparently felt for Walt. “Do women question men upon such matters? Are you Secretary of State, mistress? Or one of his minions?”

“Mistress Stannard is one of my minions, as you put it,” said Cecil. “And one of the queen’s minions. She is welcome to question you.”

“Was that illness,” I said, “really bad chicken or something else?”

“Answer her,” said Cecil.

“Oh, it was bad chicken at first. Norfolk’s kitchen is sometimes as chaotic as his thinking and you must have noticed what a muddled mind he has. I fetched you to help Gale—remember? I hoped he’d die but I had to pretend to do my best for him! It was an opportunity, though—oh yes, you’re right there. I slipped something in one of the possets that were made for him and prayed it would make an end of him, but he was too strong. So it had to be my thin-bladed knife and an attack along the road.”

“And an attempt to blame poor Gladys; to pretend she caused it all by witchcraft!” Meg shrieked. “How could I ever have thought I liked you!” She stared at him with loathing and then hid her face against me.

“I can’t see why you had to kill Gale,” Walsingham remarked. “You had only to tell his master Ridolfi that he wasn’t trustworthy and get him dismissed.”

“He betrayed our cause! Was he to escape with nothing but dismissal? He betrayed our faith and our noble Lady Mary, who is our hope for the future! When she is on the thrones of Scotland and England, then she will bring the light of truth back to those poor lost lands . . . ”

“The siren queen has claimed another victim,” muttered
Hugh. “Where is she now? Tutbury Castle, isn’t it? She ought to be sitting on a rock and combing her hair to entice foolish sailors.”

“When I saw her last year, it hadn’t grown again properly after she cut it before she fled from Scotland,” I muttered back. “I’ve heard she’s taken to wearing wigs.”

This mundane exchange steadied me. It also steadied Meg, who let out a little snort that was at least half a giggle and turned her face up to me. “Just put Dean out of your mind,” I whispered. “One day we’ll do better for you. You’ve been very brave. Keep it up.”

“This land,” Cecil was saying, “and Scotland too, in my opinion, will do very well without your help, Master Dean. Take him away!”

“One moment!” As the guards started to pull Dean toward the door, he resisted. His eyes were on me and on Meg. The men paused.

“Mistress Margaret. I am sorry that our acquaintance was so short and sorry that I have caused you pain. I will always remember you. Perhaps you will remember me too, as the first man to give you his heart—though it was of silver, not gold, as hearts are supposed to be.”

“I have one more question,” I said. I stared at him, hard, meeting that piercing glance and refusing to be browbeaten by it. “One of the letters Gale was carrying,” I said, “was in cipher. Have you any idea what was in it? I think Signor Ridolfi wrote it.”

“You need not try to shield Ridolfi,” Walsingham put in. “He will be arrested later today. We already have evidence against him.”

“Indeed? Then I am proud to say that yes, I have talked to Signor Ridolfi and he was open with me. That letter was a plea to Queen Mary never to yield to persuasions to abandon her religion, for on her rest the dreams of all who are faithful to the true faith. And an assurance that His Holiness, the Pope, would give his blessing to anything done in the cause of bringing the true faith back to England.”

“Ridolfi has had a lucrative career on English soil,” Walsingham remarked. “The extent of his gratitude amazes me.”

“Signor Ridolfi longs for Queen Mary’s release from captivity.” Dean rolled out the fine phrases proudly, exaltedly. “Like me, like many others, he longs for her triumphant coronation as Queen of England and Scotland both. And for the destruction of her enemies, and all who nurture evil in her lands.”

“Such as poor Gladys, I suppose,” I said bitterly.

“Very likely,” said Cecil. “And I think that just now, we had better not inquire into the full meaning of that word
anything
—which the Pope has undertaken to bless. Take him away.”

“Poor Gladys,” Dean said mockingly over his shoulder, as he was pulled toward the door. “A wicked woman if ever there was one. I’ve spoken with Johnson. He was at Howard House today. No one now, alas, can claim that Gale died by witchcraft, but the testimony of Norfolk’s kitchen staff, and of respected men from the places where she has lived with you and your husband, will be enough, I think. She has ill-wished people and two Hawkswood villagers died this summer—and did she not fling a curse of coldness at the Reverend Fleet of Faldene?”

“People do die, now and then, and the cold curse was just a nonsense!” I snapped.

“But it seems,” said Dean, “that shortly before that day, he had married a young wife. He will testify that after Gladys Morgan ill-wished him, his wife became cold to him . . . ”

“Perhaps she didn’t like the way he treated one of his parishioners. Neither did Gladys. That was why she uttered that absurd curse! I already know that Fleet’s wife has died and it was nothing to do with Gladys!”

Dean ignored the interruption. “His wife’s manner to him distressed him so much,” he said, “that he could no longer play the husband to her, and now he is widowed, because his wife took cold not long ago and died of a lung congestion, which people do more often in midwinter than in summer.”

“These things happen,” said Cecil impatiently. “They are the natural misfortunes of life. They occur without any ill-wishing.”

“Indeed? Well, Mistress Stannard. You are fond of that old woman, Gladys Morgan, perhaps. I think that when she suffers her well-earned fate, you will suffer too. I rejoice at it.”

“Take him
out
!” barked Cecil. “
Now
!”

“I shall be proud,” said Dean, clutching at the doorpost so as to speak a final word, “
proud,
do you hear? Proud to die as a martyr for my faith!”

“
You
talk of ill-wishing?” I said savagely to Dean. I turned to Hugh. “Do you remember what I said once before?
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!
He killed Gale out of sheer spite and those last words of his, just now, they were spite as well and yet he dares pretend to be righteous about Gladys! I wonder what it’s like to be as full of malice as he is?”

“Saints and martyrs,” remarked Cecil, as Dean was at last removed and Walsingham began to pick up his fallen papers and boxes, “are the greatest nuisances in society. Pickpockets are far less trouble!”

Meg had given way. She wasn’t making a noise but the tears were streaming down her face. “I’m not crying about him,” she whispered defensively, through them. “It’s Gladys. Oh,
Gladys
! I loved her stories and she isn’t a witch, she
isn’t
 . . . ”

Sybil, very pale but as ever, in command of herself, left the window seat and came to us, trying to help me soothe her. Meg looked wildly from one of us to the other. “Will Gladys really be . . . ? But it isn’t true; she didn’t; she couldn’t! I’ll speak up if she comes to trial! Oh,
Mother
!”

Hillman’s nosebleed had been stopped. He still looked disheveled, and there were bloodstains on his clothes. But his face was kind as he came forward. Clearly he wished to speak to Hugh and to me, and we turned to him inquiringly.

“When I was fetched here today,” he said, “I learned that Johnson tried to involve me in this business of Gladys Morgan—and I was also told that when I had all those violent dreams, the night before I left for Scotland, it was because you had—er—given me something, Mistress Stannard . . . ”

“Yes. I did. I’m sorry, but . . . ”

“I wish I’d known what was behind it. I would have loaned the letters to you if I’d known. I am not on Edmund Dean’s side.”

“That’s obvious!” said Hugh, looking at the bloodstains.

“And, Mistress Meg—please don’t cry. It’s brave of you to say you’ll speak up for Gladys but be careful. You are young and it will be easy for vicars and physicians to say she has bewitched you; even that you’re a witch yourself.” He looked at me. “You must take care of her. If nothing more can be done for Gladys—at least protect this young girl.”