Assassin

by Lady Grace Cavendish

  Well, Mrs. Twynhoe was a real disappointment. She didn’t even have any warts! She was a short, round person with a beaming face and soft grey curls under her cap and she had arms like a sailor’s. She took the baskets from us as if they didn’t weigh anything and put them on the long wooden rollers they use to help smooth out the linen.

  “Mrs. Twiste said I should stay to help you if you needed it, Mrs. Twynhoe,” said Ellie with a little bob.

  Mrs. Twynhoe beamed even wider. “Oh, there now, of course you can, my dear. And call me Mrs. Bea—Twynhoe is such a mouthful, I couldn’t even say it properly meself on my wedding day. If you could help me roll the sheets once I have the steam working, perhaps your friend could hem a sheet for me—I’ve just put it sides-to-middle and it needs a good needlewoman.”

  She gave me a thimble and a needle and a skein of thread and an enormous linen sheet already pinned and then she and Ellie set to work stretching the sheets over the rollers using hot-metal irons from a small brazier. It looked very difficult and skilled and Ellie was impressively efficient. The big airing room soon got hot and steamy. I was sitting by the window stitching at the sheet as nicely as I could. I wondered how she knew to give me that job and then I thought she had probably seen me often enough, following the Queen in procession, and I just hadn’t noticed her.

  Ellie was chatting away to her about herbs and I listened carefully. “Half the soapwort in the kitchen garden got eaten by some nasty fly,” she said. “We’re having to buy it in from my Lord Worthy’s gardens on the Strand.”

  “Oh, that’s a nuisance. Did they plant it in among garlic and carrots?” asked Mrs. Bea.

  Ellie shook her head. “The new Head Gardener likes things in straight rows and squares and he hates mixing plants in the same bed.”

  “More fool him then,” said Mrs. Bea wisely. “Garlic is a charm to protect against blackfly.”

  “Mrs. Bea, Lady Grace wanted you to tell her what you know about darkwort,” said Ellie finally.

  Mrs. Bea’s jolly red face suddenly looked serious. “That’s nasty stuff, my dear. No good is ever done with darkwort.” Mrs. Bea’s eyes suddenly became like the Queen’s—sharp enough to make a hole in your head. “And why are you so curious about darkwort?” Then she suddenly remembered my mother. “Oh, my dear…”

  “Mrs. Bea, I’ve reason to believe that Sir Gerald Worthy died of it the day before yesterday,” I put in.

  Mrs. Bea stopped smoothing the linen sheet. “Do you now?”

  “Yes. I know because I recognized the faint yellow froth on his lips and that bitter smell,” I replied.

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Bea stared very hard at me and then at Ellie and then took the newly-smooth sheet off the rollers and folded it up with Ellie’s help, speaking as she did so. “Darkwort is a herb, related to belladonna or deadly nightshade. It’s very rare. If dried and pounded, it makes a poisonous powder with no taste, though when mixed with certain substances—wine, for instance—it stains yellow.”

  “Where might somebody get hold of darkwort?” I enquired.

  Looking thoughtful, Mrs. Bea went and poured herself some mild ale out of a jug on the table by the door, offering us some as well. Ellie has never been known to turn down food and drink, and I had some because the heat in the room had made me thirsty. It was very good, better than I’d expected, flavoured with preserved lemon peel.

  “Now then,” Mrs. Bea said, sitting down and smoothing out her apron. “Perhaps four apothecaries in London might sell it. It is very expensive. At least ten shillings for a scruple.”

  “Which apothecaries are they?” I asked.

  Mrs. Bea smiled at me. “I think I should not give you reason to run gallivanting around London town asking what villain has bought darkwort recently, even to save your future husband,” she said.

  I sighed. “How can I do it then?”

  “Marry, I shall go and ask them myself,” said Mrs. Bea stoutly. “And they’re more likely to tell me the truth than you, my dear, since they know me. And then I shall tell you.”

  She was being so helpful I decided to risk it. “Thank you, Mrs. Bea,” I said carefully. “And what’s also really needed is for someone to look around the chambers of people like my Lord Robert, quietly, without alarming them…”

  “And find if there’s darkwort powder?” Mrs. Bea’s bright eyes were considering me. “Hmm. How is the sheet coming along?”

  “Hm? Oh, I’ve finished. It was only plain sewing,” I replied.

  She took the sheet from me and looked at the hem very critically, then nodded her approval. “I think you and Ellie might have a little free time now. I’ll tell Mrs. Twiste I sent you in search of some pillowslips and sheets that are missing.” She dug in a chest. “Here’s a white cap and apron so you look the part, my dear.”

  Ellie smiled and curtsied and so did I because she was kind and she didn’t have to help us, did she? Then we took the linen bag and rushed out and down the passage.

  I was glad of the cap and apron—they would be a useful disguise in case we met anyone who knew me. I put them on. Ellie explained that when fetching things from the courtiers’ chambers she was always sent with someone, partly to prevent any pilfering, partly to make sure no one treated her badly. Both Mrs. Twiste and Mrs. Bea had dim views of the average gentleman.

  We made our way down to the next floor, which is the Long Gallery, above the Queen’s Apartments. It sounded as if elephants were galloping about in there. Ellie stopped me going in and we hid at the bend of the stairs to listen to the musicians playing the drum and viol while the Maids of Honour practised their dancing. The Dancing Master was wailing as usual, “And two and one and leap…” There was a thunderous series of thuds. “Like a feather!” shrieked the dancing master. “On the toes! Mon Dieu, ce sont les vaches … vraiment …”

  Ellie giggled and so did I. After a minute the music stopped and there was a rush of footsteps on the stairs, followed more slowly by the Dancing Master and one of the musicians, both drinking from little flasks.

  When they had all gone we entered and found Masou standing gravely on his hands and walking up and down—he had been roped in to provide a partner for girls who needed to practise.

  “No, I cannot come,” he said to us when we told him what we were going to do. “Mr. Somers wants me to be able to walk on my hands and juggle with my feet and I must practise for a new tumble he has made.” He went up and down again, looking as if he could walk to York like that. “And also, laundrymaids may poke about in chambers but if I should be found there, they’ll think I was thieving.”

  So we left him and made our way to the Grace-and-Favour Chambers to begin our search. The first place we went was my Lord Robert’s chamber. I had to be sure, before we looked elsewhere. One of his men was sitting by the door, playing a game of cards. He looked very depressed.

  Ellie marched right up to him. “Mrs. Twynhoe wants me to find some sheets and pillowslips,” she said.

  The man shrugged and opened the door. I slipped in quickly, carefully hiding my face, and Ellie followed. We found quite a small, odd-shaped chamber, with a bed with four tall carved corner posts, and a truckle bed, and more mess than you would believe possible. The floor was covered with chicken leg bones, half-chewed sausages, bits of paper, and dirty hose. I was fascinated. It was nearly as bad as a Maid of Honour’s chamber.

  We discovered pots of ointment, with prescriptions from my Uncle Cavendish stating that they would prevent skin blemishes. Our hearts thudded when we found packets of herbs secreted in a chest amongst Lord Robert’s hose. Ellie picked up a note that was with them and handed it to me to read. It was in my uncle’s writing. He had prescribed a potion to cure a stammer. “Boil marigolds, agrimony, and borage in posset drink, sweeten it with sugar, and let the patient drink it going to bed,” I read out loud. Poor Lord Robert. It clearly hadn’t worked.

  Nowhere did we find a yellow powder that might be darkwort. I did discover, however, why Lord Robert was s
o poor. It seemed he was always losing money at cards to other courtiers, and losing more at dice in the City inns. One small chest was almost full of bills and letters about debts. He seemed to owe money to everybody I’d ever heard of, and plenty I hadn’t.

  There was also a letter, written but not finished, from Lord Robert to his Lady Dowager mother, dated 14 February:

  Dearest Mother,

  You will be pleased to know that I have at last managed to make a good match, thanks to the Queen’s kind offices, and your good advice. I expect to be out of debt as soon as I am handfasted to the heiress of the Cavendishes. As you predicted, beloved Mother, she liked pearls better than any of the other gifts on offer, they being a flask and a knife. Luckily, I find her not too foul-visaged, although hardly begun to own womanly curves, being rather skinny. She seems virtuous and cheerful and her worst vice is that she talks constantly. No doubt time will improve her greatly.

  “Huh!” I said, feeling very hurt. I’d thought the pearls meant Lord Robert had found out what jewels I like best; but no, he’d asked his mother what girls like. And worse, much worse, he’d only been interested in my estates. How disgustingly unromantic. And who was he to say I was “not too foul-visaged” and talked too much? Better than not being able to talk at all, I think.

  I didn’t tear the letter up, although I wanted to. I read the important bits to Ellie, who clearly didn’t know whether to be shocked or amused, and then I put it back in the chest. Since it was perfectly obvious Lord Robert didn’t deserve me, he could have his pearls back and tell his conniving mother it had all gone wrong!

  But still, no yellow powder anywhere.

  Ellie had found one pillowslip that didn’t belong there and put it in her bag. Then she looked at me. “Well?” she said.

  “I’m still going to help him get out of the Fleet,” I told her. “But I certainly won’t marry him. Now, Lady Sarah next, I think.”

  Ellie raised her eyebrows. “Why her?” she asked curiously.

  “Lady Sarah was after Sir Gerald at the ball,” I explained. “Maybe she hated him because he was chasing me.” Then I added bitterly, “Though I know for a fact he was only doing what his uncle, Lord Worthy, told him. After my inheritance too, no doubt.”

  “Well, of course he was,” said Ellie tartly. “They all were, except Sir Charles, who is surely rich enough.”

  We came out of Lord Robert’s chamber and Ellie thanked the man, who went on playing with his cards. We walked on quickly down the Stone Gallery, across the little bridge, and into the upper story of the Privy Gallery to the chambers of the Maids of Honour and Ladies-in-Waiting.

  In my chamber, Ellie sorted through the many pots and potions belonging to Lady Sarah. Not one of them was sulphur-yellow, though several were purple and more than one looked and smelled like dung. There were the usual white lead and cinnabar to make a red colour, and ground lapis lazuli and malachite for colouring eyelids blue or green, and some sticks of kohl. One bottle held something which Ellie sniffed and announced was probably a tincture of tansy and pennyroyal mint, and another was labelled FOR THE ALLUREMENT OF ALL KINDS OF LOVE, which made me laugh.

  There was also a miniature of Sarah, which made her face much more heart-shaped than it really is and her chest even bigger. We also found dozens and dozens of love letters from moonstruck courtiers, including several each from Sir Charles, Lord Robert, and Sir Gerald! I scowled. They were supposed to be courting me; how dare they write rubbish to Lady Sarah, too? Surely having a big chest isn’t that important?

  “Yes, it is,” said Ellie, when I put this to her.

  I couldn’t resist poking my nose round the door of Mrs. Champernowne’s chamber, which was tidy and clean, with a big pile of books next to the bed, including two with nothing except boring sermons in them. No yellow powder.

  We decided to look in Lord Worthy’s chambers as well—it was only fair to search everyone’s room. There was more paper piled up there than I have ever seen in my life. Ellie poked around, found a sheet with a nasty stain on it under the bed, and put it in her bag. I discovered a recipe to cure baldness together with a screw of green powder and several pots of ointment. I took the lid off one of the pots, but it smelled so strongly of horse dung that Ellie screwed up her face in disgust—though she was on the other side of the room—and I was nearly overcome! I quickly put the lid back on.

  Then off we went to look at Sir Charles’s room. Ellie protested at this. “Sir Charles is a kind old thing. He left me a lovely gift on Christmas day with two mince pies—and he made sure I got them,” she said, with her hands on her hips.

  “Well, we’ve got to investigate everybody who’s even vaguely possible, Ellie—nobody’s beyond suspicion except the Queen,” I said firmly.

  Sir Charles’s Grace-and-Favour Chamber was near to the Court Gate, close to one of the small staging stables.

  There was a servant there, fast asleep on the truckle bed, so Ellie and I had to creep about. We did have the excuse of looking for Mrs. Twynhoe’s pillowslips. We checked the few pots on the table, looked under the bed and in the clothes chest. No yellow powder.

  It wasn’t until we were about to go out of the door again that I realized a funny thing about Sir Charles’s shoes. They were lined up at the foot of the bed—two pairs of smart shoes to wear at Court, one pair of riding boots, all quite new. And then there were other pairs of shoes under the bed, and another pair of riding boots, rather more worn. But these looked smaller, and when I put one of the old shoes next to one of the new ones, I could see clearly that the old ones were quite a lot smaller. “Look at that,” I whispered to Ellie. “Isn’t it odd?”

  “What?” said Ellie.

  “His shoes. Look, the new ones are big and the old ones under the bed are small. It’s as if Sir Charles’s feet grew suddenly, like mine did last year. But he’s too old to have growing feet.”

  Ellie looked and frowned in puzzlement.

  Suddenly I heard footsteps in the passage. Sir Charles’s voice called out, “Stevens, are you there?”

  Ellie and I looked at each other in horror, and then Ellie scuttled under the bed and I went with her. We hid in a nest of footwear and old hose as Sir Charles came into the room.

  I looked at his feet. He had another pair of boots on, very smart, brand new, and his feet were very big. I tried to remember Sir Charles’s feet when I’d seen them before. Had they changed?

  Sir Charles went over to the manservant on the truckle bed and shook him awake.

  “Wuzzat?” muttered the man. Then he woke up properly and we heard him scrambling to his feet. “Um. Yes, Mr. Amesbury.”

  Ellie and I looked at each other. Mr. Amesbury?

  “Go and check on my brother. Make sure he has water and can’t get out,” said the man who I had thought was Sir Charles.

  “Yes, sir, if you say so,” replied Stevens sullenly.

  “I do say so, Stevens.” The voice was cold and nasty, nothing like Sir Charles’s friendly rumble.

  I felt my jaw dropping open. Sir Charles wasn’t Sir Charles—he was somebody else entirely! With the same face, maybe, but bigger feet and … A thought popped into my head. Didn’t Sir Charles have a brother? I screwed up my eyes, trying to remember. A brother who had died in France …

  If he’d died! What was his name? Harry? No. Hector.

  “Best put a knife in him, sir, then drop him in the Thames,” said Stevens, who was pulling on his jerkin. “That way—”

  “Thank you for your advice, Stevens. I am perfectly well aware of what’s best,” snapped the impostor. “However, I cannot possibly do it until I know all his business dealings—and where he has hidden the deeds to his house.”

  “Don’t think he’ll tell you, sir,” said Stevens. “Not wivout some better persuading.”

  “I know my brother, Stevens. He’ll tell eventually rather than starve.”

  What a horrible way to talk about your brother! Ellie’s eyes were like saucers. I was having to hol
d my hand over my mouth because the smell of stale cheese from the old hose was making me want to cough.

  “And then once I’m safe I think I shall become ill for a while, so I can get rid of this padding,” the impostor continued. He clearly was the not-so-Honourable Hector Amesbury, brother to Sir Charles.

  Hector sat on his bed and changed into his riding boots with help from Stevens.

  “First I must make an appearance at the stables,” he said, “or somebody will wonder why my horse-mad fool of a brother has suddenly gone off the beasts. But then I shall come and … talk … to him again. Tell him that.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stevens was by the door. “Couldn’t I just … rough him up a bit—give him a taster, sir?”

  “Very well. But don’t do too much damage,” Hector told him, still in that nasty cold voice.

  “No, sir.”

  I still had my hand over my mouth, fighting not to cough. I really hoped Hector would go soon so I could get away from the hose. Ellie didn’t seem to mind the smell but she was shaking. What kind of brother was Hector Amesbury? He’d imprisoned Sir Charles and was starving him! It was outrageous. Especially as Sir Charles was so fond of his food.

  As the door shut behind them I scrambled out as quick as I could. Ellie followed more slowly, still trembling.

  “Lord save us!” I said. “Perhaps he murdered Sir Gerald.”

  “He must have done! If he could imprison and starve his own brother…” Ellie shook her head. “And poor Sir Charles loving his food, and all.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “And that’s why Doucette didn’t like him,” I added thoughtfully. “Doucette knew it wasn’t Sir Charles, the clever animal. And that’s why he couldn’t sing ‘Greensleeves’ properly at the ball! But why? Why would anybody do this to their own brother?”

  We rushed back up to the Long Gallery to tell Masou. He was carefully flipping himself over from walking on his hands to standing upright, doing a somersault on the way.