The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries)

by Buckley, Fiona

  The room was welcoming, with many candles and a bright fire in the hearth, dispelling the January cold. The table was laid, draped in fine white damask. I hadn’t been in that room for some time and I noticed that since my last visit, it had acquired new wallhangings: a set of exquisite tapestries and an eastern carpet, in shades of azure and rose. Cecil, coming forward with his wife to greet me, saw me looking at them.

  “We have been enjoying a little extravagance lately, in a merchant’s warehouse,” he said. “I hope you like the result. Welcome, Ursula. Come and sit down.”

  Cecil in private was easy to talk to, and although Lady Mildred’s formidable intellect and preference for austere dark gowns intimidated some people, she had a good heart. They had both been kind to me when first I came to court, and since then, they had been kind to Meg. I liked the Cecils, and it came home to me that the deception I was planning would seem to them like a betrayal. A bleak misery descended on me, so intense that Lady Mildred saw it. In her blunt fashion, she at once spoke of it.

  “Ursula, my dear, we know that you are preparing to join your husband and are chafing at the delay, but the Queen is right: it is a bad time of year for travelling, and you are needed here just now. It is only for a while. Spring will be here before you know it. Come by the fire. We’re happy to have you, even if this isn’t quite a social occasion. We will begin in sociable fashion, at least. No business will be discussed until we’ve eaten our first course.”

  I tried to think of a suitable reply and couldn’t. Smoothly, Cecil bridged the gap. “My wife is resolved on putting off business until we have eaten our meat. She says it would spoil our appetites, and in this cold weather, that would never do. One must eat well in winter.”

  “Now, do come over to the warmth,” said Lady Mildred, drawing me towards the hearth.

  With great skill they then embarked on light conversation about the weather. To this, at least, I could respond. When the meal was served, the small talk continued, drifting from the weather and food to minor court gossip and then to the remarkable musical box which Master Mew had given the Queen. Pulling myself together and attempting to contribute to the conversation, I made some remark about Paul Fenn and what a smart young lad he was, and Lady Mildred said he was a treasure.

  “He’s from a good family, of course. The Fenns are Sussex people. They’re an old family though not especially wealthy. I believe Paul’s home isn’t far from Faldene, where you were brought up. In fact, I think they know your Uncle Herbert and your Aunt Tabitha slightly—not that that is a recommendation! But young Paul seems none the worse for it.”

  I agreed that Paul Fenn did not seem to have been contaminated by my uncle and aunt, and then, by way of a further contribution, I made a comment about the new wallhangings. One particular panel had caught my eye. It showed a unicorn trapped in a circle of people with hounds and spears. The spears pointed down at the doomed creature, which occupied the centre of the picture and the heart of a deadly vortex. But its head was high and its single horn proudly defied the spears. Glistening highlights, made of paler threads, lay along the spearshafts and on the folds of a huntsman’s pushed-back sleeve.

  “Surely, that’s a copy of a Brussels design,” I said. “When I lived in Antwerp with Gerald and he worked for Sir Thomas Gresham, we often went to Gresham’s house. He had a copy of that. It’s called The Hunt of the Unicorn. But this is finer. There’s silk in those highlights.”

  “Quite right,” Cecil said. “This was made in the Giorgio Vasari workshop in Florence. You can see the workshop’s monogram—the G and V intertwined, down in the righthand corner of each panel, with the initials of the weaver as well—HH for Hans van Hoorn—alongside it.”

  “A Flemish weaver?” I asked.

  “Yes. Bernard Paige, the merchant who sold those tapestries to me, knows the background of all his wares and will lecture you on them for hours if you give him the opportunity! According to Paige, this man, van Hoorn, is one of several Flemish craftsmen brought into the Vasari weaving shop a year ago to copy famous designs. Paige is importing the copies and they’re selling well. The Queen has commended his enterprise. She wants England to attract wealthy merchants and fine merchandise. Prosperity means solvency and that’s one way,” Cecil said, “of keeping enemies at bay.”

  “Such as Mary Stuart,” remarked Lady Mildred.

  With that, the talk veered for the first time towards matters political, and from that moment, I sensed that it was no longer desultory, and that Cecil had begun to guide it. He spoke, with seeming casualness, of the possible future of young Mary Stuart of Scotland, now that she was no longer Queen Consort of France.

  “She may marry again soon. There’s been talk of Philip of Spain’s son.”

  “I hardly think so,” said Lady Mildred with a sniff. “Don Carlos is said to be deformed and intermittently mad. It’s more likely that the wretched girl will come to Scotland and plant herself as a permanent nuisance on our doorstep.”

  By the time the sweet dishes were brought in and we were choosing between honey and saffron quiche or cheesecakes flavoured with rosewater, the change in the atmosphere was unmistakable.

  Cecil, putting a half-eaten cheesecake back on his dish, met my eyes and said, “The servants will not come back into the room unless I call them. It is time we came to the point.” The line between his eyes was very noticeable. This time, I guessed the cause was worry. “I wish we need not ask you,” he said abruptly. “Tell me, how went your last session with Master Bone?”

  “Quite well, I think. I need practice but I hope to become proficient quite soon.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Cecil said. “You have an unusual gift for this type of work, Ursula, although I shall never feel it is suitable for a young woman, least of all a young married woman. Frankly, I’m glad to think that after this you will be on your way to join Matthew de la Roche. Whatever my personal opinion of his opinions, you are his wife. You also have a child to rear. However, you have done admirable work for us in the past year. We have disposed of Dudley, I think, at least as a conspirator and probably as a suitor for the Queen . . . well, let us hope so! Though I must say I wish she’d marry somebody, and so do the rest of the council.”

  The table was still covered in white damask and strewn with dishes, but somehow, in that moment, it became a conference table. I cleared my throat. I knew I must give the impression that I was seriously attending the conference. “What is it that you want me to do?” I asked.

  “It’s a long story,” said Lady Mildred. “Let my husband approach it in his own way.”

  “The fact is,” Cecil said, “that unless and until Her Majesty takes a husband—preferably not Dudley—and a lawful prince is born, the Queen is vulnerable: to illness, accident, assassination or scandal. Scandal can be as damaging as death. If anything happens to her, then I don’t need to tell you where we shall all be. We shall have a choice between two of her cousins: Lady Catherine Grey, who would support the Protestant faith but is not in anyone’s opinion capable of taking the throne and holding it, and Mary Stuart of Scotland, who would bring back the heretic-hunt and the stake. Three hundred died that way in Mary Tudor’s reign. If the old religion were restored, there would be more deaths. Probably including my own. Tell me, do you know Señor Borghese, Bishop de Quadra’s private secretary?”

  “By sight, that’s all. Thickset, quiet, well dressed in an unobtrusive way.” I was taking pains to sound interested, but despite myself, the interest now began to be genuine.

  “That’s the fellow. He may well be wise to keep his excellent tailoring unobtrusive, or de Quadra might think he’s overpaying him! They are a fine pair,” said Cecil. “De Quadra takes backhanders from the French for keeping them informed of events here, and Señor Borghese takes backhanders from me, to keep me informed of his master’s doings! Though he doesn’t pass on everything. He didn’t tell me of Dudley’s plans—I owe that to you. By the way, you were watching Dudley. What made you th
ink that de Quadra’s document case might yield something?”

  “I’d noticed that Dudley kept sidling up to de Quadra in anterooms,” I explained. “People do that when they want to remind someone of something without an official interview.”

  “Sharp of you! I said you had a gift. Well, one of the things that Borghese did pass on to me was the fact that some prominent former Councillors—men from Queen Mary’s administration—have been writing to de Quadra enquiring if he has any ideas about ways and means of restoring the country to Catholicism. I’ve got them all in the Tower now, as a warning to others.”

  “I heard about that.” Recently, it had been a talking point for the whole court. “But in that case . . .”

  “You are thinking that now Dudley and the ex-councillors have been put in check, the danger is over? I wish it were so, but Señor Borghese also handed this to me.” Turning, he reached over to a sideboard behind him and picked up a document which lay there in readiness. “This is a copy of the original, but a faithful copy, so Señor Borghese assures me.” He handed it to me. “It may not please you to read this,” he added, “but I think it spells danger. I am sorry.”

  It was another dark afternoon. Cecil pushed a candle nearer to me to make reading easier. I took the sheet of paper up and studied it.

  “Oh, no!” I said, with passion, when I had done.

  I felt so strongly, that for several moments I actually forgot about Matthew and my half-formed scheme to travel to France. I had been swept back, beyond my marriage to Matthew, to the previous autumn, when I was travelling in Berkshire and stayed, briefly but memorably, in the household of Leonard and Ann Mason, of Lockhill.

  What a bitter misfortune, I thought, that in this unpleasant context, I should come upon the names of people I knew and liked, under whose roof I had slept. I could see them before my mind’s eye.

  Scholarly, intellectual Leonard had in some ways reminded me of Cecil. They were the same general type, although Cecil had a wife who could match his intellect, and his happy marriage had kept him human. Ann Mason, with not enough servants and too many children; housewifely Ann, who was in awe of her husband without in the least understanding him; poor Ann had a harassing time of it with Leonard, and he in turn had fled to his translations and his books on science as a way of escaping the noise and confusion.

  It was a chaotic household, but it was united in its fashion. If Leonard Mason were caught dabbling in treason, Ann and the children would suffer wretchedly, from grief as well as disgrace, and short though my acquaintance with them had been, I now discovered that I minded.

  I stared at the letter again. De Quadra hadn’t been the tempter, it seemed. De Quadra’s correspondent was merely informing the bishop of something that would interest him. This plot, if there was one, did not have its roots in Spain, but in France. Just now, the name of Mary Stuart had undoubtedly been brought into the conversation with intent. Pretty, charming, greedy Mary Stuart believed that she ought to be Queen of England as well as Scotland, and had had herself declared so by the heralds who cleared the way for her when she went to chapel. Cecil was right. This could be dangerous. I could only pray that the writer of this letter, whoever he was, was completely mistaken.

  Whoever he was. The name at the foot, which had been copied in a neat and characterless hand, was Jackdaw. It meant nothing to me whatsoever.

  “Is Jackdaw a spy’s professional name?” I asked Cecil. “Who is he? Do you know?”

  CHAPTER 4

  King Henry’s Groat

  Cecil was a spare, well-made man who usually looked younger than his forty or so years, but his light blue eyes were not young. They were tired and experienced. “Oh yes, I know his identity,” he said. “His real name is Jack Dawson. Or perhaps I should say it was Jack Dawson. He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” I queried.

  The knowledgeable eyes became bleak. “He was an agent working for de Quadra. Jackdaw was a codename, yes. We knew all about him, courtesy of Señor Borghese again! His base was in Windsor, and he worked, ostensibly, as a pedlar with a regular round, but he was always willing to go out of his way to carry letters—he provided a messenger service, as it were. Heaven knows how many people have had their confidential letters quietly inspected by Jackdaw!”

  “What . . . happened to him?” I asked.

  “He lodged with an elderly widow on the outskirts of Windsor, and kept a rowing boat for use on the river. Early in January, he set out one evening, after dark, to visit a young woman on the other side of the river. There was an accident. Next day, the boat was found overturned, floating, and Jackdaw’s body was discovered up against a landing stage downstream, near Kingston.” He stopped, and there was a silence.

  “Drowned?” I ventured.

  “It’s hard to say. The body had been much bumped about. One side of the skull was dented in.” Cecil showed signs of discomfort. I guessed that he did not much like discussing such matters with women. “The landing stage could have done it,” he said. “Or perhaps not.”

  I studied the letter once more. “He says he believes that he has found traces of a scheme to assist the cause and ambitions of Mary Stuart. He then goes on to say, ‘I cannot yet be sure whose brain has hatched the scheme or in what it consists, but I shall soon go again to the Masons at Lockhill and will attempt to discover more.’ Sir William, I can hardly credit—”

  “That this could concern the Masons whom you know?” said Lady Mildred. “But they are Catholic supporters.”

  “They contributed money,” said Cecil levelly, “to train priests for the purpose of undermining our Anglican regime. That’s almost treason in itself.”

  “They wouldn’t have thought of it like that,” I said. “I’ve worried about them ever since last year, and others like them. Some of the Catholic supporters I met were such good people, really, so likeable. I never enquired what happened to any of them, but I’ve thought about them often. I liked Ann Mason especially. She has a difficult life.”

  “I daresay. In fact, the authorities agreed with you in the main. Most of the people you visited on your journey were left alone. We didn’t even fine them. The only exception was your own uncle, who really had gone too far, and even he hasn’t come to much harm. He’ll be released from the Tower soon. His gout is causing anxiety and the council are willing to be merciful, now that he has had a good shock. I assure you, neither the Queen nor the council are anxious to interfere in the small activities of ordinary households, even when they’re giving money for dubious purposes. However, this suggests something more than a charitable dropping of coins into a begging bowl.”

  “But . . . you must have made enquiries about the Masons . . . and others . . . ?” I said. “Surely, if anything were wrong . . .” My voice trailed away.

  “Yes, we made enquiries,” Cecil agreed. “We looked discreetly into the affairs of the Masons and the others who contributed to the cause of training priests. We were merciful, but not careless! The Masons were reported to be loyal and harmless, despite their preference for Catholic forms of worship. This information is a complete surprise. However, for some time, I have thought that something was going on somewhere—something quite different from Dudley or the ex-councillors. It’s not unexpected. The fact that Mary Stuart is no longer queen of France, but believes herself to be queen of England strikes me as alarming. She’s at large on the political landscape like a panther escaped from a menagerie . . .”

  My mind was now disturbed for Ann Mason’s sake as well as mine, but this made me laugh. Lady Mildred laughed, too. Cecil gave us both a pained look.

  “Mary Stuart is a living invitation to intrigue. I was never quite sure how competent the man was whom I sent to investigate the Masons. He’s been withdrawn now. My doubts were probably justified! Let us get back to the matter in hand. There have been indications. To begin with, there is a Dr. Ignatius Wilkins. You won’t have heard of him, but he was a priest in Queen Mary’s day and incidentally denounced two of his pari
shioners as heretics and got them burned.”

  “His own parishioners?” I said.

  “Yes. Ordinary people, a weaver and his daughter—the daughter was only nineteen.” Cecil’s eyes were angry. “They couldn’t believe that bread and wine could mysteriously turn into flesh and blood, and said so, and they couldn’t believe either that anyone would want to hurt them for being, as they saw it, honest. They said it wouldn’t be honest to pretend they believed something when they didn’t. Rob Henderson, your Meg’s guardian, was in their town by chance and he saw them die. Not of his own choice; he was caught up in a crowd. He told me afterwards how he saw their faces through the smoke, full of terror and bewilderment that this could be happening to them . . . he didn’t stay until the end.

  “Enough of that. It’s all over. They can’t be brought back.” Cecil pushed his emotions down. “Wilkins is no longer a parish priest. He gave up his parish two years ago, because he is Catholic and could not accept the Anglican form of worship. He has been watched, so we know a good deal about him. He now runs a school in High Wycombe. It isn’t a very good school. Dr. Wilkins, in fact, is hard up.”

  I had been reminded of Aunt Tabitha and Uncle Herbert, and that ghastly, gloating description of a man dying in torment. It had left a mark on me. Before then, living as I did in the power of my uncle and aunt, I had feared them, but after that, I began to hate them, for they had filled my mind with images which polluted it and spoiled my joy in innocent things. Never, since then, had I been able to enjoy that characteristic scent of autumn, the woodsmoke of the November garden bonfire. I would breathe it in once—and then Uncle Herbert’s face, full of hateful pleasure, and Uncle Herbert’s loathsome voice, uttering loathsome words, would force their way into my mind. Even a warm and friendly hearth would disturb me if it smoked, and blew the smell out into the room. I thought of the weaver and his daughter and wished that Dr. Wilkins were not merely hard up, but starving in a ditch. I took a mouthful of quiche and had to struggle to swallow it.