Quite gently, Poppy caught the screaming baby-parcel as he dropped it and put it on her shoulder, stepped back so Joachim could keel over, breaking a bench as he went because of the heavy gold dust bags round his waist.
Mary Liddle tutted, took the baby from his mother, and marched into the kitchen, muttering about foreigners. Poppy sat down next to her brother and patted his hand while he writhed on the floor. “Gott behüte dich,” she said to him softly and he took breath to argue and then stared up at the shelf beside her as if there was a person there. “Du?!” he said in disgust and his eyes rolled up.
Carey came in cautiously with his second dag pointed at Joachim. There was no need for it, and Carey released the lock with a whirr and put it carefully down. He looked absolutely exhausted, poor man, was covered in mud and gravel, and seemed ready to keel over himself.
“Poor poor Joachim,” said Poppy. “Poor Mutti. So clever and so stupid.”
“Are you all right, Mrs Burn?” Carey asked wearily, since she had run to his horse in the street to tell him Joachim was in Annamaria’s house with a gun, and he expected her to faint or cry or something.
Poppy looked up at him and smiled, not realising that she had blood sprayed on her face and her hands wet with it. “I’m remarkably well,” she said consideringly and then noticed her bloody hands and made a grimace of disgust. Freda, whom Joachim had slapped and knocked down, was bringing a bowl of water for Poppy to wash in. “Danke,” she said and then shook her head at Carey. “But, Sir Robert, I think you need to get some rest.”
Radagunda Hochstetter came into her kitchen, feeling frightened and confused. There had been an explosion at the mine early in the morning. She had heard it while she was copying the adjusted figures into the account books to show the shareholders. Then later there had been a further loud bang from Crossthwaite.
She had gone outside, peered northwards, trying to see what was happening in Keswick, sure it was something to do with that very unpleasant young Englishman, Herr Ritter Carey. Or Joachim, who had been like a desperate man in the last few days, though he wouldn’t tell her what was wrong and shouted at her if she tried to probe a little. He had fallen out of his boat late at night a few days ago and tracked muddy wet footprints all across the clean kitchen floor, always mopped last thing at night. She didn’t think he had been drunk, he had denied it in the morning, and it wasn’t like him. The disgusting Englishman Carey had invaded her island, searching for Joachim, making ridiculous accusations and so the whole house had to be cleaned and scrubbed from top to bottom as well as the door-lock replaced. And Maria had gone yesterday, claiming she had a cold, back to her mother in Keswick.
So she came in from the back courtyard and found the kitchen full of her children, Annamaria and Mark Steinberger, Emanuel, not Veronica who was living in Newcastle with her husband, the Mayor, nor Susanna who was also married, not Joachim for some reason, Daniel, David and not Elizabeth, who was still a maid…All her strong grown children of whom she was so proud—and Little Rady, or Poppy, as she preferred to be called..
Radagunda swelled with anger. What was that evil unnatural child doing in her sacred kitchen? It would all have to be scrubbed again.
She pointed at Poppy and hissed, “Get out! I don’t know you, you are not my daughter!”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why am I not your daughter? What have I done?”
“You…you went off with your brother, no doubt you disported yourself with all the men you met, you found one of them that was stupid enough to think of marrying you, you married him like a peasant, pleasing yourself, and then you killed him….”
“No, actually,” said Poppy, cutting across her, “it was Joachim who did that. Joachim told Lord Spynie that it was James who had tried to kill him and Lord Spynie sent two assassins to murder James in his own manse.”
“Nonsense.”
“Also, have I killed men? Have I tried to kill the King of Scotland as Joachim did? No. Did I kill poor John Carleton? No, Joachim did that with a red-hot swordblank. Did I kill Rosa Carleton, his widow, making his son an orphan? No, Joachim did that.”
“I met him here,” said Mark Steinberger, “in this kitchen late at night on the day that Mrs Carleton was killed and dumped in the lake, with rocks to keep her down. Joachim was wet through.”
“No, he fell out of his boat…”
“He tried to kill the Ritter Carey with an arquebus but missed and killed his man instead…”
“He was defending this island from invasion…”
“Herr Ritter had a warrant from Mayor Allerdyce. Which he had because of the killing of the Carletons.”
“Ridiculous. Joachim would never…”
Emanuel sighed and all eyes went to him. “You are utterly blind about Joachim, Mother. I have always wondered why you love Joachim more than me, than all your children. Is it because he’s like you…he was like you, in caring for no one but himself? Well…?”
Emanuel rubbed his eyes. “I have worked so hard all these years to do your bidding, to...deserve your love.” He smiled sadly. “I should have asked you if you deserve my love. Well?”
Radagunda couldn’t think what to say. She was bewildered. Why didn’t she like him as much as Joachim? It was true he was the most dutiful of sons, but…
“But thank God,” said Poppy coldly. “God helped us resolve the problem of Joachim, because Joachim died this morning, at Annamaria’s house, where he was threatening to shoot my baby.”
Annamaria, whom Radagunda trusted, nodded at this. “He was, Mutti. He was like a madman, demanding clothes and a horse and…”
“And aiming his pistol at wee little James Postumus Burn.” Poppy’s voice had iron in it. “He was holding him up by his bands and threatening to shoot my baby who had never done him any harm.”
“Yes,” said Annamaria, “and you told him to shoot you, not the baby.”
It wasn’t precisely that Radagunda didn’t know what to say. It was just that the breath was stopped in her throat at the thought that Joachim would do such a thing. She couldn’t understand it.
“So I hid a knife in a pile of clothes and offered them to him and when he saw Herr Ritter in the street aiming his dag at him, he turned and I stabbed him. Herr Ritter shot him at the same time and he died.”
Now Radagunda felt that her heart had been hit with an axe. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her little Joachim, stabbed and shot at the same time? He was dead? It was too much.
“Your precious little Joachim was a cold killer,” said Mark Steinberger, “who never cared for anybody but himself and had no respect for you either. I say good riddance.”
And all the people there except Radagunda herself, nodded. She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that they would say that about their own brother, her own son, her own…
“He always used to laugh at the way Mutti called him ‘her own little Joachim,’ didn’t he?” said Annamaria casually. “Do you remember, Poppy? He said it really annoyed him, but he let Mutti do it because she always let him get away with things.”
Poppy nodded. “Do you remember, Mutti, I wrote you a letter when I first went away with him and I was keeping house for him in the Netherlands, and I said I was worried because he would say he didn’t like someone and the next thing you knew, they were dead?”
Radagunda said nothing. That was the first of Poppy’s letters that she had burned. Had Joachim really said that about her, that he didn’t like it when she called him lovingly “her own little Joachim”? Was it even possible he…he didn’t love her?
If Poppy had told her such a thing she would never have believed it. She didn’t believe that nonsense about people dying in the Netherlands. But Annamaria had no imagination and…
“Do you want to view the corpse, Mother?” asked Emanuel, wearily. “Annamaria has got it i
nto her parlour and she and her gossips will lay it out this evening. Do you want to be there?”
Slowly Radagunda shook her head.
“The funeral will be in a few days, but it will be a quiet affair with no paid mourners, just family.”
“Oh, no, we must have…”
“Oh, yes, Mother,” said Emanuel with a firmness she had never heard from him before. “Yes. We will have no procession, no wailing or black cloaks, it will be simple, for Hochstetter family members only and we will bury Joachim respectably in Crossthwaite churchyard and there will be an end to his wickedness.”
Once again she couldn’t speak, the words cramming her throat so none could get out. It was too much, she couldn’t stand it. She stood up and all her children stood with her, showing respect (as Joachim didn’t very much, that was true). “I…” she started, shook her head. “I…” she tried again and then she gave up trying to speak and walked out to the courtyard. Behind her she heard the scrape of chairs as her children sat down again to thrash out the order of service for…for her little Joachim. Strangely, they were also speaking of gold, Joachim’s gold, and what to do with it.
She felt utterly alone, utterly bereft. Why was God punishing her like this? The child she had nearly lost unbaptised to the measles, the child of her heart ever after because he had nearly died, was he really the killer they said he was?
She thought back to the time when they had visited the Queen’s palace at Whitehall, when Joachim had been eleven years old. There had been a consequence to that trip, when Joachim had disappeared for a few minutes, one she had never ever told him about. A week afterwards, she and Daniel, her husband, had been summonsed to appear before the Board of Green Cloth in Whitehall, a mysterious committee of men that administered the Queen’s Court. Neither of them had known what it was about and she had been a little annoyed at the high-handedness of summoning her as well as her husband. Women didn’t appear in court; they had men to do that for them.
She had stood behind her husband and listened without understanding to the quick English from the snowy-ruffed, bearded men. Daniel had then turned to her and asked if Joachim had gone missing while they were at the palace of Whitehall.
Instinctively she had lied. No, she had said as definitely as she could. He had been with her the whole time.
CThis is serious,” Daniel had said. “A stableboy was killed, stabbed in the stomach by another boy wearing green brocade and furs like Joachim. The Board of Green Cloth must investigate any violent death within two miles of the Queen’s person or her palaces, so they are asking us about it because you were there and the clothes sound like Joachim’s.”
Her mind went immediately to the guide. Had he told them what had happened? She wanted to ask about him but also didn’t want to tell them about him if they didn’t already know. “Why are you accusing my son of such a terrible crime?” she asked, playing for time, allowing tears to come to her eyes. “He’s a good boy.”
Daniel turned back to the committee and spoke in English for a while, listened and then turned back to her.
“Nobody admits to being with you. Did you have a guide?”
She didn’t let her breath puff out of her body or relax, because the cold eyes of the Englishmen were on her. “No,” she lied, “and Joachim was with me all the time,” she said. “You know I would never let him go exploring.” She found her handkerchief in her sleeve and wiped her eyes.
Daniel turned back to the men and spoke for a time, with just the right mixture of respect, deference, and firmness. There were a couple of further questions from the Englishmen, probably about Radagunda’s truthfulness. She knew Daniel would be able to answer well, she was always truthful and she was a good wife to him, she knew that.
When Daniel had finished speaking, the men talked quietly to each other and then the one in the middle leaned forward and spoke at some length with a small smile. Daniel bowed low again so she curtseyed as well and they were led out of the panelled room and out into the passage.
Daniel had waited until they were back in the boat, on the way back to the Steelyard, before he asked her quietly if she had told the truth. For just one moment she thought of telling him what had really happened, but it would only be a burden to him and worry him and…No. She lied again and smiled at him and laughed at the idea that she could have let Joachim explore in a strange place like Whitehall Palace, until he smiled and kissed her fingers and left the subject.
As soon as she got back to the lodgings, she went upstairs to the boys’ room and checked Joachim’s dirty shirts, tangled on the floor, of course, not in the laundry bag. Yes, one had a little dabbling of brown on the right cuff, as she had spotted on the night they came back from Whitehall. She took it and folded it and put it in a basket, went out to the meatmarket at Smithfield where she sent her woman to look for liversausage and then stuffed the shirt behind a counter when no one was watching. She ordered a quarter of a sheep to salt down for the winter and came home again, her heart still hammering, waiting for God’s vengeance.
She had known that Joachim had killed something because he had been unusually calm and loving after the Whitehall trip, but she had thought it was only a dog or a bird again. That it had been a boy…Well, the boy had presumably been baptised, although like all non-Anabaptists he had gone straight to Hell anyway. And really, when you thought about it, did it matter if a heretic died earlier or later?
And so she had managed to forget about it, for surely Joachim had a good reason to do it, if he had indeed stabbed the stableboy. It made her feel even closer to him, because she had been able to protect him again, just as she had by her prayers against the measles. So she had endangered her immortal soul by lying about it to her husband; what did God expect? She was his mother.
She looked down. There he was, beside her, curly hair flying, cap lost, arms up to embrace her and she picked him up and felt him nuzzle her neck and say, “Mutti, Mutti, Mutti.” She stood there and hugged her little Joachim to her and slowly he changed in her arms into a block of stone and then faded away.
She knew she would never ever see him again, not even at the end of Time when Jesus came in Judgement, because he would go to Hell for killing a fellow Anabaptist, Rosa Carleton, while Radagunda would go to Heaven. That was fact. Never, never again would she feel him nuzzle her neck and say “Mutti, Mutti, Mutti.” Her heart slowly changed from steel to lead.
The inquests were held the next day and Bangtail’s funeral was set for the day after. Carey paid for Bangtail’s shroud and the gravediggers and the sermon which was read by the curate at Crossthwaite church. Pastor Waltz was there, who had tried to distract Carey so he could be shot. His face looked guilty and Carey hoped he felt something. At least he had turned up, but Carey saw no need to speak to the man.
Red Sandy stood like stone through the service, his face more like his brother’s than it ever had been before, his jaw clamped. Carey invited him to say a few words by the grave and he stood like a post for so long, Carey wondered if he would ever speak. Then he said, “Bangtail Graham wisnae my friend last spring for I thought him a fool then. But we made friends later in the summer and he was the best friend I iver had. I loved him. God rest him.”
He dropped crumbs of earth onto the corpse and turned away. Carey’s throat ached for the man.
They went to the commonroom of the Oak Inn for the funeral ale and found all the drovers there. Carey watched while Red Sandy downed quart after quart until he passed out.
The following day, with his whole body black and blue with bruises and hurting like hell, Carey had a tense but fruitful meeting with the remaining Hochstetter brothers and Mark Steinberger, from which Frau Radagunda was absent. She was busy with the accounts, they said. Among other very satisfactory decisions regarding a pension for him in silver, they gave him a valuable green velvet cloak lined with marten that was much better than the fur-lined cloak he had l
ost in Goldscope mine. They also dealt with the question of Josef Carleton, the smith’s son, who had been orphaned by Joachim. With the help of the Mayor, the Hochstetter family would find and appoint a smith from the area who could make the tools they needed, who would work from Carleton’s smithies as a paid man. Josef could either stay with him, or, if he chose, with his uncle Mark Steinberger, to complete his apprenticeship and journeying, until he was old enough and experienced enough to take over the business himself.
Carey had ordered his men to start packing up. Since Bangtail’s two horses had nothing to carry, on Mr Anrick’s suggestion, they bought four kegs of the Deutsch dark double-double beer to sell to Bessie, and twenty pounds of the meaty spiced sausage as well, funded ultimately by Mr Secretary Cecil.
Mr Anricks had not yet finished reading all of Mrs Burn’s books but thought he would in a month or so. Carey sat with him in the parlour over two silver cups of aquavitae.
“How did it go with Young Hutchin?” he asked.
“Ah, yes,” said Anricks, “the young devil is made for intelligence work, although he can’t read and write. He is well-settled in the large Widdrington stables, on the grounds that you want him away from Carlisle and the malign influence of his uncles. I imagine he’ll be running all the boys there in three months. I advised him to put his time at church to good use and follow the readings in the Book of Common Prayer, and left him a hornbook so he can learn his letters.”
Carey nodded. He was confident that if Elizabeth could stay at the King’s Court and away from her husband, she would be very well until her husband finally died of his gout. But would her husband let her stay, that was the question? It made his sleep a little easier at night that he now had a man—well, a youth—placed in the Widdrington stables who could ride for Carlisle if need be.
A Suspicion of Silver Page 30