by Karen Harper
“I must say, they are beautifully painted and carved, Your Majesty.”
“I’d hang all that for a gentle ride,” Elizabeth insisted, swallowing the tart taste of blood, then dabbing at the bite mark with a handkerchief. “For once, I think those with less wealth and position have the better way, to simply walk,” she went on with a bit of a lisp. “But it does keep the dust and rain off—and shelters me from anyone who would dare harm.”
“I know you prefer to ride ahorse, Your Grace.”
“But that can be dangerous, too. Thomas Gresham’s crushed leg came, you know, when he was ahorse on an errand for me on the Continent. A loud bang afrighted his mount, it reared, and that was that. He well-nigh died from his injuries, and the leg pain nearly cripples him yet.”
She thought again of Gresham’s pain over his daughter’s mental state. The parents had been relieved their child was not injured, yet was not the child’s malady worse than one that could be physically categorized and treated? At least, the queen had heard, Meg’s little Sally was well and being fed and bathed.
Both the queen and Rosie jolted and jerked as a wheel bounced through what must have been a hole as big as a pot. “Hell’s gates, Boonen,” the queen called to her coachman, and rapped on the ceiling, “keep a better eye out for those!” She would have slapped the leather curtain down over the window, but people were waving and cheering along the way between the Savoy and Somerset House, so she smiled and waved despite the jostling ride.
“At least a coach journey is usually smoother in the countryside,” the ever cheerful Rose said. “There the streets don’t have these modern cobbles, so is progress indeed better? But, Your Grace, is there anything special I should do when we arrive at Mrs. van der Passe’s starch house?”
“Do not let on that Hannah is dead until I inform them, and keep your eyes on their shop and on their faces. I’m sure Dingen will not appreciate an unannounced early-morning royal visit, but that is just too bad.”
The small scattering of Londoners from all walks of life cheered their queen as she emerged from the coach, smiling, nodding, surrounded by six guards who had dismounted. She waved at her people before she swept through the starch-shop door Clifford held open for her. Inside, there was much stir even before the twenty or so women bent over their tasks looked up to see—for all they knew—a grand lady with a small entourage cross their threshold.
Then, from the back, someone whispered, “Laws!’Tis the queen herself!”
Those closest curtsied, and the others followed; everyone gaped. One woman at the back of the room turned away and pounded up the back stairs.
Lady Rosie followed the queen in, and then came Clifford, who had ridden with Boonen. Clifford, Elizabeth noted as the van der Passes rushed down from their living quarters above the shop, was exactly the height and girth of Dingen’s brawny husband, Dirck.
“Oh, Your Majesty, a surprise and honor, ja, it is!” Dingen cried as she hurried through her women and curtsied low.
Her handsome attire indicated she might plan to oversee her shop, but not labor in it herself, for she wore both neck and wrist ruffs. Dirck was another story. Elizabeth noted he had hastily pulled on his black leather jerkin and a flat red-and-blue-striped taffeta cap. Sweeping off the cap, he sank into a bow just behind his wife.
The van der Passes were sturdy people of big frames and ample flesh with light brown hair, pale skin, broad faces with cheeks polished like pippins, and bright blue eyes. Elizabeth judged them to be nearly fifty years of age. It had always seemed to her that husbands and wives who had lived long together, especially if they oft worked side by side, began to resemble each other, and this couple attested to that belief. Both spoke with pronounced Dutch accents. Despite all the workers toiling here and her own fine attire, Dingen’s hands were rough and red, much more than Hannah’s had been.
“To vat do ve owe the honor of this visit, Your Majesty?” Dirck asked as he stood erect again.
“For one thing, I wanted to see this busy hive of activity. I have been proud to employ both you and Hannah von Hoven, so surely a visit is in order.”
“Oh, ja,” Dingen said, “but ve are bigger and better here dan her place.”
“Do you know that from mere hearsay or have you seen it?”
Though he had not been addressed directly, Dirck answered. “Got to know about one’s competition, eh, vife?”
“Oh, ja, and Hannah’s most welcome here in turn. Dat young voman trespass for sure, taking some of our London business,” she said, shaking a finger as if Hannah were here to be lectured, “but ve not call it trespass if she visit here. Perhaps she vould learn something to see a proper new mangle and our stirring stools instead of sticks.”
Dingen gestured to the three-legged stools that her women dipped in two big barrels to stir the thick, pasty starch mixture. That, too, looked different from what Hannah had been soaking in.
“May ve show you around, den, Your Majesty?” Dingen asked.
“I would count it a favor.”
At a flick of Dingen’s wrist, her women moved back against the walls to give them access to the array of tables, drying racks, and troughs of gray, thick starch a woman had been ladling out. But where was the large dipping vat?
The queen’s gaze snagged Rosie’s surprised stare; she gave her a barely perceptible shake of her head. She had planned to surprise the van der Passes immediately with news of Hannah’s death and then observe them, but she needed to see how this starch shop was different. That alone could have fostered competition and hard feelings between the two rival starchers.
“You see, Your Majesty,” Dingen said, holding up a thickbristled brush, “ve brush dis stiff starch paste in each fold of each ruff and dry it vell.” She gestured to rows of racks and shelves stacked with tiers of ruffs on wooden forms in the shape and size of necks and wrists. “Poor Hannah, she still use dat vat’ry starch—so I been told. Next ve dampen and set de ruff, de most difficult process. I tell you, it takes great patience—even teaching my vorkers takes great patience.
“Den, vit heated rods called poking sticks—ve are the only starch shop in all England can do it—ve set up to six hundred tiny pleats or S-curves of vide or small sizes and add a tiny dab of vax—one of my secrets, but I share it vit you—to fix the curves together so it not collapse like a ruined French egg soufflé, ja.”
It annoyed Elizabeth not only that Dingen kept subtly denigrating Hannah but that this Dutchwoman must enjoy French food. Even foreigners were now preferring things foreign.
“Oh, Your Majesty,” Dingen plunged on, her hands clasped before her ample breasts and her face nearly enraptured, “just vait til the next new ruffle fashions sweep your court!”
“If they sweep my court, I shall set the fashions while you set the ruffs, Mrs. van der Passe.”
“Oh, ja, of course, but it shall be dis starch house, not da small von Hoven’s place works vit you. I vill introduce—vith your approval, of course—colored starches, not just the ivory ones ve see now but yellows, pale reds, and lilacs, and encourage ruffs vit lace, tiny jewels, embroidery. I intended to beg for your permission, but since you are here—Your Majesty, I vould ask one boon.”
Elizabeth was becoming even more disturbed. What if these people—or even just Dirck—were actually guilty of harming Hannah? If the queen could prove that, what if, as Ned had mentioned and Cecil had suggested, this starch house collapsed in a flurry of suspicion and accusations over Hannah’s death? The queen knew she must indeed tread carefully here.
“Would both of you please step out into my coach with me?” she said, and, used to her merest hint being a command, started for the door.
She looked back to see the couple exchanging dire glances. Dingen wrung her hands while Dirck whispered to her, and they both nodded. Looking as if they were going to their doom, they followed her out and up the steps of the coach. Rosie climbed up, too, and, as a last thought, since Dirck looked large enough to harm a woman of any
size, the queen gestured for Clifford to climb in as well. At her nod, Boonen closed the door on the five of them.
“Ask your boon, then,” Elizabeth told the nervous couple.
“That you keep,” Dirck spoke this time, “that Puritan cleric from our shop. He’s come more than vonce unbidden—to preach and threaten us vit fire and brimstone from heaven and a place in the very bowels of hell.”
“Hosea Cantwell?” Elizabeth gasped. “He has intruded and threatened you?”
“Twice,” Dingen put in, “and said he vould return.”
Then, the queen reasoned, he could have been to Hannah’s, too. Had he found her alone, threatened her, they’d argued and things got out of hand? No doubt many homicides began as arguments, which led to accidents, and then the murderer panicked and tried to cover things up.
“I assure you I will speak to Hosea Cantwell,” she said.
“Ve only bothered you vit this,” Dirck said, leaning forward on the leather seat, “since he’s a member of your own Parliament.”
“Hardly my own Parliament, but I will see to it. However, I have come for another reason besides seeing your thriving establishment or hearing your hopes for future fashions. I regret to tell you that Hannah von Hoven was murdered yesterday by a person or persons unknown.”
Both of them looked speechless—and scared stiff. Dingen tried to say something but only sputtered. Dirck turned beet red. Elizabeth was surprised but suspicious when neither of them asked for details of the murder. Were they just too shocked, or did they truly not care—or did they already know?
“And,” the queen plunged on, pressing her advantage, “I have it on good authority that you, man, were seen near Hannah’s house the day she died.”
“But,” Dingen cracked out, “my husband could have nothing to do vit that! He oft goes about to buy goods or to deliver dem, dat’s all.”
“I asked your husband why he was there, not you, Mrs. van der Passe.”
“Vell, I vas taking a constitutional,” Dirck said, sitting up even straighter. “A valk, and the air in St. Martin’s fields is fresh, that’s all. Ja, I varrant I vas near the poor voman’s place, but hardly vent to see her—vouldn’t. Dere vas no need, for our starch house is far better than hers …”
He must have realized he might be digging himself a deeper hole, for he suddenly stopped in midthought.
“Ve regret the death of one so young and promising,” Dingen said, her voice wavering. “How did she die? Vat really happened?”
“That,” Elizabeth said, “is what the constable and coroner intend to discover. And since Hannah is gone, can your shop rise to the increased demands you will now face?”
As they both effusively assured her of that, she felt again they might indeed have arranged Hannah’s demise. Why, then, had Hannah sent her workers away? That smacked of preparation for some sort of lovers’ tryst, not a visit from the husband of her rival.
As the couple disembarked the royal coach, the queen looked past them and saw William Paulet’s lackey, Hugh Dauntsey, standing well back in the crowd. She refused to believe it mere circumstance—like Dirck just happening to be in Hannah’s neighborhood the day she died.
If Dauntsey didn’t live in this immediate area, she’d summon him to find out why he happened to be lurking here. She didn’t trust his puppetmaster Paulet not to try to upset her plans for England’s economic growth without him at the helm. Both he and his underlings needed watching.
Dauntsey’s icy gaze chilled her, so she sent Clifford to fetch Dingen back to the coach again. She came, this time, with her round, rosy face dour and her lips pressed so tightly together her mouth looked like a purse drawn in by strings.
The moment the coach door was closed again, the queen asked, “Are you familiar with a man named Hugh Dauntsey?”
“Hugh? Ja, he’s our money man, helps us good vit sums and figures, knows English taxes ve didn’t at first. He been seen near Hannah’s, too?”
“He’s in the crowd outside your door, that’s all.”
“Your Majesty, just’cause a starcher got herself killed, don’t mean me or my family involved. Just’cause Hugh Dauntsey outside our door or vorks for us, don’t mean a thing. If—if my Dirck loses the fine reputation ve got here—a reputation he long built as a Flemish knight, and ve left our homeland to come here … I just not go on. I just close my starch house and not go on.”
“Stay calm, Mrs. van der Passe. I simply wanted to bring the sad news to you myself and clear up a few things. There is no need for such fears and dire predictions. You may go now, as I’m sure you and your starchers have much to do.”
The woman scuttled out of the coach as if she had been burned. Elizabeth leaned back against the tapestried seat as the door closed yet again, and the coach bounced into motion. After all, she also had much to do.
Chapter the Sixth
“SO, NED, TO SUMMARIZE,” ELIZABETH CUT IN AS HE continued his extended, dramatized report to the assembled Privy Plot Council, “none of the neighbors you interviewed saw aught amiss at or near Hannah’s place the day she died, including anyone climbing out or in that large open window.”
Everyone seemed to take a breath when she interrupted Ned. It was nearly ten o’clock that night, and they were all exhausted.
“God’s truth, Your Grace, I thought you needed ample details about those I asked. All claim they were going on about their business. So it seems that Ursala Hemmings is the only one who saw anything suspicious, that being the Gresham girl hanging about—”
“Yes, I will deal with that later. It seems, then, we either have a murderer who did not seem out of place, even if seen, or one who is so wily that, even if a stranger, he convinced Hannah to send her women away so she would be alone in the loft.”
“Indeed, our prey seems coldly calculating,” Cecil said, “though we must not discount a possible crime of passion, a planned meeting that escalated to emotions. But whether it was an intentional murder by someone she knew or a spontaneous one by a stranger, we have a difficult and dangerous task ahead.”
“Exactly, my lord,” Elizabeth agreed. “Since Hannah sent her workers away, I yet wonder if she did agree to a tryst, though that starch loft is hardly a romantic bower. Jenks and Meg,” she said, leaning forward to see them on the other side of Ned, “is there anything else odd you can recall except the fact that Hannah gave her women an unexpected holiday?”
“Not that I can think of,” Meg said, and Jenks shook his head to back her up. For some reason, their visages both reminded her of thunderclouds.
“Ned,” the queen went on, “then I charge you to learn from Ursala who Hannah’s women were so that you may question them, each alone. One of them might have heard a hint, at least, of why they were released early that day. Or they might have seen or overheard something earlier about a liaison Hannah had planned, or have discovered someone who seemed sweet on her. Jenks, whatever is it?” she asked when she saw his expression turn even more grim.
“I can fetch Ursala’stead of Ned,” he said gruffly. “Then I can escort her to talk to Ned or just get the names from her, too, seeing I know where she lives.”
The queen caught the exaggerated way Meg rolled her eyes. Something strange was afoot here.
“Meg and Jenks, why the theatrics I usually expect from Ned? What is going on behind my back?”
“Nothing, Your Grace,” Meg murmured, not daring to look her in the eye.
“I just thought,” Jenks said, “you’d rather have Ursala here to talk to,’stead of letting the other whitsters and her sister know all about these doings, like if Ned goes there.”
The queen smacked her hand flat on the table. Everyone jumped. The nib of Cecil’s feather pen splattered ink on his paper.
“Yes—‘know all about these doings,’” Elizabeth repeated. “Here I am, relying on all of you to keep me informed about these doings, and something is going on I either need to know or at least need not to have bandied about covertly in my
presence. Jenks, tell me.”
The big man shifted in his seat as if he’d been caught at something dire. “It’s just Ursala’s real delicate right now, Your Grace, and Ned might upset her,” he mumbled.
“Might poach in your territory,” Meg muttered.
“Meg,” the queen cried, “I hope you have something to add to that, something spoken clearly that makes sense and contributes to my question.”
“I just think Jenks favors her—Ursala. So he might try to protect her when mayhap she shouldn’t be protected any more than any other person we suspect.”
Jenks turned toward Meg in his chair so fast it squeaked under his big body. “We don’t suspect her any more than the man in the moon!” he exploded. “The poor girl’s completely o’erturned by her friend’s death!”
Ordinarily, the queen would have demanded silence or tossed them out for arguing before her, but she—like Cecil, scowling across the table—chose to let them rail on.
“Ursala was out guarding the laundry in the fields,” Jenks insisted. “Otherwise, she wouldn’t have seen the Gresham girl there.”
“But maybe she wasn’t in the fields all day,” Meg countered. “With the others about, they could take turns slipping away. I do agree with Jenks, though, Your Grace, that it’s best not to let Ned squire her about. Ursala’s as fetching as poor Hannah was, and we don’t need his special attention to—to her, too.”
“Too? Ned?” Elizabeth said before Jenks and Meg could go at it again.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Don’t try to bluff or cozen me! I thought perhaps you’d best head off what Meg implies before I ask her to explain.”
Her principal player managed to look completely calm and even innocent, which made the queen think there was, indeed, something amiss.
“I assume, Your Majesty,” Ned said in his smoothest tone, “that Meg still has her dander up over the fact I visited Hannah von Hoven, weeks ago and only once, after that day you ordered me to take Meg’s starch roots to her, the day Meg was sick, and she’s still acting sick right now—lovesick, if you ask me, so—”