by Neal Roberts
He smirks. “The Privy Council might disagree, as it’s fervently hoped such domination will be merely temporary.”
Marie nods, but remains lost in thought. “Also, I saw Stephen talking to Doctor Lopez one time, about a month before … the incident.” He turns to her, surprised. “I didn’t recognize Lopez when he first came over to me by The Rose, nor all that terrible day. But the next day when I saw him at Creechurch … as he was about to walk down the stairs to the cellar, I saw his profile clearly. Yes, it was him. I’m sure of it.”
“Where did Stephen and Lopez speak with each other?”
She seems lost in thought. “This will sound odd, but Stephen brought me in the coach one time to Eton. The boys’ school?”
“Yes, I know of Eton. I attended there.”
“Oh, then you may know the building. It looked like a headmaster’s home … but there were several buildings that could fit that description. We rode up in a closed carriage, and Stephen got out. Doctor Lopez was already standing in front of the building. Upstairs, the windows were open, even though it was still quite cold outside, and there was an awful row going on inside. I heard two voices. One belonged to an older man, and one to a younger. They were arguing, sometimes nearly screaming at one another. Very ugly. All the while, Stephen and Lopez were talking gravely with each other, doing their best to ignore the ruckus. Then, Lopez handed Stephen something, and Stephen hopped back in the carriage, very relieved to get away from the place. He ordered our driver to pull away immediately.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
“Who? Stephen and Lopez? Not as I recall.”
“How about the men arguing upstairs? Could you make out what they were saying?”
Again, she seems lost in thought. “Well, they were shouting like mad at one another in Spanish, or what I took for Spanish, which I speak fluently. The dialect was strange to me, though, and hard to follow. It sounded almost as though they had a speech impediment, but of course they both spoke in precisely the same way, which usually means a dialect of some kind. I seem to recall the young man addressing the older man as ‘father,’ and the older man fervidly denying paternity. ‘You are no son of mine,’ and so on. Come to think of it, I vaguely recall Lopez referring to the older man as ‘Don Antonio.’ I caught a glimpse of the old man through the window as we pulled away. He looked a dissolute old drunkard. There was a yellow stain on his open shirt. I think it may have been … vomit, but I can’t be sure.”
Noah recalls Henry saying that “Don Antonio” was the name of the man to be placed on the Portuguese throne by the English Armada expedition. “Could they have been speaking Portuguese?” he inquires.
A moment of silence passes in the dark. “You know, they may have been, for I’m uncertain whether I’ve ever heard Portuguese spoken. Perhaps I have, spoken by some toothless old salt, but never realized it was a different language from Spanish. The number of dialects spoken on the Iberian Peninsula seems infinite. One can never be sure when a dialect has assumed the character of a different language, unless one is told. Anyway, as we pulled away from Eton, Stephen showed me a batch of letters that Lopez had handed him, and said that he had to hand them over to a messenger who would be on our vessel leaving for Antwerp the next day.”
“Then, Lopez must have known you were withholding information that day in the hearse, when you said you did business only with Spain.”
“Perhaps. But, he might have assumed that I’d been deluded into thinking I knew everything Stephen had been doing in our business. So, Lopez might have thought I was simply mistaken. I’m not sure he even knew I’d been waiting for Stephen in the carriage at Eton.”
Noah has a lot to think about now. “It also means Lopez was doing an autopsy on a man he knew at least in passing, yet never mentioned that to the man’s widow. Any other confessions?” he asks.
“Just one.”
“Out with it.”
“I’m leaving at the end of April for Antwerp. They’re not accustomed to having a woman run a business over there, so I have to set things up with my eldest son as the new owner. He needs to be introduced to important people, needs to sign things, and so on.”
“How long will you be gone?” he asks, disappointed.
“A couple of months, at least. Probably through the summer. Just getting a favorable wind to cross the Channel can take days, or even weeks.”
He’s silent, wondering how he will live without her now that she’s carved a place for herself in his heart.
She leans forward and takes him by the shoulder. “Don’t think me unspeakably cruel. I wanted you to remember me while I’m gone, as I shall remember you. I don’t want some other woman claiming you while I’m not present to stand guard. You do see, don’t you?” She says doubtfully, “You won’t forget me, will you?”
He laughs. “Were I to live forever, I could never forget you.”
She hugs him tight.
Chapter 9
IN A SPARE anteroom outside the Privy Council Chamber at Westminster, Essex paces nervously, his eyes darting expectantly down the hall.
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon, Robert,” Southampton assures him.
Essex arches an eyebrow. “He’d better be. It’s imprudent to keep Her Majesty waiting, to say nothing of the Cecils and the other jackals on the Council.” Before he can speak further, Skeres darts around the corner, heading their way, his scarred face flush, drawn into a sweaty grimace. He bows low to Essex, and hands up a sealed scroll.
Essex glowers at him and grabs the scroll away. “You came straightaway?”
“Aye, m’lord. Doctor Lopez’s seal is still warm.”
But Essex is above any need to test such a foolish representation. “Skeres,” he says, “did he tell you this contains the promised intelligence?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Essex draws himself up in evident satisfaction, and comes close enough to Southampton to whisper. “Wriothesley, please await me here, and keep this scoundrel with you.” He disappears with the scroll into the Privy Council Chamber.
To break the tension, Southampton asks: “And how fares the good doctor?”
Skeres shrugs. “His body’s in middlin’ health, m’lord, yet he strikes me as a man forever sick in his soul. I’d never urge you or m’lord of Essex to trust him a whit.”
Suddenly, a woman’s derisive laughter rings through the anteroom.
Skeres looks up at him with dread. “Is that — ?”
Southampton nods gravely. “Her Majesty.”
Essex emerges from the chamber, his face red, eyes bloodshot. In his hand is the unfurled scroll. He turns sharply on Skeres, upbraiding him in a hoarse whisper. “How dare you tell me that only I have this information? The Queen just laughed in my face. She said she’s known it for weeks!”
Skeres bows low, which only infuriates Essex, who begins beating him roundly.
Southampton stays his hand, and tugs him away from the cowering Skeres. “Robert,” he says, “did the Cecils laugh, as well?”
Essex scowls. “What does it matter?” he begins, but then trails off. “Now you mention it … no, they didn’t.”
“Did they seem … disquieted?”
Essex nods thoughtfully. “What of that?”
“One can’t be sure,” says Southampton, “but it appears the good doctor has been feeding his intelligence to the Cecils before we ever hear it.”
Essex can barely croak through his consternation. “But I’ve been paying him for it.”
Southampton shrugs. “The Cecils may have been paying him more.”
Essex calms visibly, and takes a deep breath. “Please rise, Nicholas,” he says. “I beg your pardon. I was carried away — ”
“I understand, m’lord.”
“It is Lopez’s loyalty I doubt. Not yours.”
“I do understand, m’lord.”
“Rise, Nick, please,” says Essex, giving him a hand up. “Has Lopez received from Spain any inf
ormation newer than this?” he asks, indicating the scroll, its seal smashed to pieces.
“Nay, m’lord, but … but one of his main sources of intelligence from the Continent returns from Spain tomorrow evening.”
“Who?”
“His name’s Tinoco, m’lord. Another little Spaniard.”
“Ah, I see. Well, let’s see if we can’t get Tinoco’s new intelligence before Lopez does. Secretly, mind you. If the Cecils report his intelligence to the Queen before Lopez shares it with us, then we’ll know they’re in conspiracy with Lopez.” Essex paces thoughtfully. “Invite Tinoco to that tavern you favor in Eastcheap.”
“The Boar’s Head, m’lord?”
“The very one. Ply him with drink. Get his intelligence and secure his silence with money, threats … whatever works. Report this intelligence immediately — and exclusively — to me and m’lord Southampton.” Essex turns to Southampton and smiles smugly, which unnerves Southampton even more than his churlish display of bad temper.
“A well-considered plan,” says Southampton.
“Once we can show the Cecils in conspiracy with Lopez, all that’s left is to show that Lopez has committed at least one serious crime in England, which no doubt he has. And then we’ll have the Cecils where we want them.”
Essex hands Skeres a bag of coins. “Show some initiative, Nick, and there’s more for you.” Skeres nods silently and slinks out the way he came.
Southampton regards Essex skeptically. “You’re forgetting one thing, Robert.”
“What’s that?”
“You still need your man to become Attorney General.”
Essex nods smugly. “And who’s there to stop us? No one suspects any connection between the Attorney Generalship and a possible prosecution of the Cecils, now, do they?”
Southampton shrugs. “No one … but perhaps Henry Neville — ”
Essex waves away the suggestion. “Ach, he’s one of us.”
Southampton makes no reply, but in the back of his mind lurks the recurring image of Neville’s friend, the barrister.
Noah prepares to leave Marie’s house. She’s assured him that her children will not be returning until Sunday evening and that, until then, the servants will be sent home each evening and instructed not to return until noon the next day. That promises Noah three more evenings alone with her, and the mere thought of them puts a spring in his step.
Though his visit with Marie was chaste, to avoid endless ribbing and possible scandal he needs to ensure that no one at Gray’s Inn sees him march out of the widow’s house, so he leaves by the back door, which is hidden from Gray’s by a hedgerow of tall yew trees, and hugs the concealed side of the house all the way to the road. Instead of taking the most direct route to Gray’s Inn, he walks a great circle so that, by the time he appears to any inquisitive eyes at Gray’s Inn, he will not be approaching from the telltale southwest.
He arrives at the inn about twenty minutes later. Although Finerty stands guard in the same window as he did yesterday, Noah reminds himself that he has important matters to discuss with Jonathan, and no time for frippery. He sticks his head into Jonathan’s ever-open doorway.
Jonathan appears to be studying a yellowed land map spread out on his desk. “Noah!” he chirps, then lowers his voice. “How’s the widow?”
Noah’s jaw drops. He puts his finger up to his lips to silence Jonathan. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And I’m sure you do!”
Grumbling, Noah shuts the door behind, plops onto the only uncluttered chair, and leans forward. “And how might you be sure of that?”
“Thistlethwaite was in his office last evening at dusk and looked out of the window, about to hail you, when you” — Jonathan pretends to search his memory — “‘vanished from the steps of a private residence,’ I believe were his words. I suspected the residence might belong to the widow. Does it?”
“No,” he lies. Thistlethwaite! After all the legal business Noah has sent his way, one might have expected some discretion.
Jonathan purses his lips skeptically. “Then whose house was it?”
“I didn’t come here to talk about where I spent last evening.”
“Oh, but please do!” Jonathan implores.
Noah regards him impatiently.
“Don’t worry,” says Jonathan, with a smirk. “Thistlethwaite hadn’t mentioned it to anyone else, and I told him he’d better seal his lips if he knew what was good for him. He assured me he would be governed by my suggestion. Oh! I almost forgot.” Jonathan smiles. “He sends you his compliments. But I must say that your having left the courtroom with the widow yesterday was quite enough to get tongues wagging about here. Yesterday, your victory in court had you lauded as the conquering hero. But today, on speculation alone you’re an object of worship! She really is quite beautiful, y’know.”
“Why is Finerty still in the window?” asks Noah. Although he hadn’t intended to discuss the toy, it now seems a good idea to distract Jonathan from further conjecture about Marie.
“He’s not still there. He’s there again! I took him away last night, and put him back in my closet. The same four jesters who stole him in the first instance came in here and took him back. Incidentally, they wanted me to tell you that they’re very interested in working with you in any capacity you wish. Anyway, as far as the dog goes, they threatened to glue my boots together if I remove him again.” Jonathan looks at his feet. “And I haven’t the boots to spare.”
“Go get them,” says Noah.
“The boots?”
“Not the boots. The jesters! I think they might be of some help in the Rodriguez investigation.”
“Oh! All right.” Jonathan rolls up the map, and stuffs it into a cylinder. “I’m not sure they’re all here, though.”
“Don’t mention why I wish to see them, but tell them that, if they don’t come, I’ll set Master Treasurer on them.” Jonathan leaves the room
It’s common knowledge that virtually every resident of Gray’s Inn is in violation of the rules to some extent, most often by arrears in payment. The treasurer, who is in charge of enforcing rules of all kinds, is known to apply them most strictly against barristers behind in rent.
A few minutes later, what sounds like a squadron of soldiers approaches Jonathan’s room and comes to parade rest outside the door.
“Let me by,” Jonathan can be heard saying, apparently shoving his way through, so he can enter first. “Here they are,” he announces. “The four jesters!”
Four broad-shouldered, solidly built young men file in, each wearing one or more items of barrister’s attire, but none of them properly dressed. They are all earnest and fresh-faced. Three are blond; one of those is a handsome, confident fellow, while the other two, perhaps a bit more retiring, appear to be brothers, possibly twins. The fourth young man, much darker than the others, is shorter, but still strapping. Together, they could make a good foundation for a football team. Eyes downcast, they all appear contrite.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” says Noah gravely.
“Good afternoon, Master Ames,” they intone as one, sounding like a well-behaved, but strangely baritone, choir at Eton.
The handsome one steps forward. “I’m Arthur Arden, sir.” He breathes deeply. “We meant no offense, Master Ames. We all went to see your cross-examination yesterday, and, when you poked fun back at Inner Temple, we got a bit carried away. We’ll take the dog down from the window — ”
“Let it be,” says Noah. “Master Hawking, how much did the dog cost?”
“Tuppence, sir.”
As all four fellows prepare to reach into their pockets, Noah nearly laughs aloud. “I’ll bear the freight,” he assures them, handing four pence to Jonathan. “Buy James a bigger dog.” He turns back to the four. “That’s not why I called you here.”
All eyes but Jonathan’s register surprise, and focus on Noah, just as he’d wished.
“Jonathan tells me y
ou gentlemen would like to assist me in a case.” This brightens them up. “May I ask you all a few questions?”
Arden glances back at the others. “Certainly, sir.”
“Are you fellows satisfied to become good workaday barristers, arguing over wills and indentures the rest of your days?” Unsurprisingly, he has no takers. “Or would you prefer to see what life is like in the rougher trade?”
The four look at each other, and smile.
“What would that entail, sir?” asks Arden.
“Well, I expect you all know that English Common Law is at its very worst in any case of political importance. Would it trouble you to be involved in such a case? Before you answer, permit me to remind you that a political case can make or break a career, especially those as new as yours.”
“So, what’s the possible benefit, sir?”
“Well, first of all, if you’re on the side of the politically powerful, you might ingratiate yourself with that party, gaining a clear path to advancement thereafter. Even if you lose the case, if you’re popularly seen as a good lawyer, you can become famous, and people who can readily pay your fees will seek you out when they’re in trouble.”
“And what would we have to lose, sir?”
“Nothing important.” Noah smirks, contemplating his own and Jonathan’s predicament. “Your careers. Possibly your lives.”
There’s a thoughtful pause.
“May we talk among ourselves, sir?”
“Certainly.”
They file out into the hallway, and the door closes slowly and quietly behind them. In a minute, a soft rap on the door is followed by the four filing back in. Arden speaks first. “Are we to understand that you are already involved in this case, and that you are in need of our help?”
“Yes,” Noah nods gravely. “But I am no longer young, gentlemen. I can take care of myself, and am prepared to follow through alone, if need be.”
“Well … we’re in, sir.”
Noah breathes more easily. “Very well, then. I have a few questions. Are any of you titled nobility?”