The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries)

by Buckley, Fiona

  Cecil was continuing. “For a man who is far from well off,” he said, “Dr. Wilkins has been splashing money about in a most remarkable way. Ursula—this is not a change of subject—just look once more at our new wallhangings. Not at the tapestries this time, but at the carpet to your left.”

  I did so. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Is it Persian?”

  “It is indeed,” said Lady Mildred. “We bought that from Bernard Paige, just as we bought the tapestries. It came by way of Turkey and Venice, as all goods from Persia do. It was somewhat expensive, just over . . .”

  I was still trying to eat my quiche. The sum she named made me choke again.

  “Oh yes,” said Cecil. “It’s silk, made from thousands on thousands of tiny knots. It would never come cheap, although if we could arrange some direct commerce with the source, which doesn’t involve the Venetians and the Turks taking a cut, the prices of such goods might come down a little. The council is discussing the possibility, as a matter of fact. We fell in love with that carpet, I fear. We were in an extravagant mood. So, apparently, was Ignatius Wilkins, who was in the same warehouse at the same time. He, too, bought a Persian carpet, but believe me, Dr. Ignatius Wilkins just can’t afford that sort of thing.”

  “Has he been asked where the money came from?” I enquired.

  “Yes. I did that myself—a casual question there and then in the warehouse. You must be doing well, to afford a purchase like that, my friend. He said he’d been lucky at cards.”

  I recalled the cost of Cecil’s own carpet and said, “If he was that lucky, he’s been cheating.”

  “Or lying,” said Cecil. “And being paid, extremely well, for services unknown. That’s one example. There are others. A few words overheard at a dinner party for instance: a cryptic comment to the effect that Mary Stuart might be nearer to the English throne than most people realised.”

  Elizabeth had called herself slender and brittle. I thought of her, of her pale shield of a face, her glittering dress and slim, jewelled fingers, her intelligence. And her fears. She had said she was a bulwark to England, but she was just one person, she had told me, just one life. Her life, her good name, stood between the realm and . . .

  The smell of smoke. I shuddered.

  “You don’t think Jackdaw died by accident, do you?” I said.

  “No,” said Cecil. “It was a wonder that he was found, you know. The current in the Thames runs at a deep level. When people fall into the river by accident, they are often swept downstream underwater and straight out to sea. However, found he was, and there was an inquest. The verdict was accidental death, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “He was an experienced boatman; the evening was calm; and he had claimed to be on the track of a plot against the Queen. How does it sound to you? Incidentally, at the inquest, Dawson’s landlady—a very decent woman, sixty years of age—said that she had gone out that evening to call on a neighbour and that when she came back, she had a queer feeling that someone had been in the house—that objects had been moved. Dawson’s pedlar’s stock, which he kept in boxes in his room, looked stirred up, she said, though Dawson himself was a tidy man. But she also said that nothing had been stolen and the jury dismissed it as all her fancy.”

  “It would be rather a coincidence,” I said, “if someone really had entered that house on the night that Dawson died, but had no connection with his death.”

  “Exactly,” said Cecil, “and I distrust coincidences. The jury, of course, knew nothing of Dawson’s secret activities. It seems to me that someone wanted to be rid of him, and that they searched his room for any record he had made—of discoveries at Lockhill, perhaps.”

  There was another pause, then, from the neck of his gown, Cecil pulled out what seemed to be a pendant of some kind, and lifted it over his head. He handed it across the table to me. “Look at this.”

  It was a silver chain, from which hung a silver coin, a groat, with a hole drilled through it to take the chain. The date on the coin was 1546, near the end of the reign of King Henry. I turned it over in my hand, puzzled.

  “It was given to me in a handful of change years ago,” Cecil said. “I kept it to remind me of what needs to be done to make England truly prosperous. You yourself, Ursula, know what it is to be hard up, but your money would have gone further if it had been good money. Look at that groat closely. Can you see that it’s discoloured?”

  I examined it. He was quite right. I had seen many such coins before though, and there was nothing very strange about this one. I looked at him questioningly.

  “It’s a genuine coin of the realm,” Cecil said, “but it contains less than half the silver that it should. King Henry despoiled both gold and silver coins because he had spent too freely from his treasury. Since then, his son Edward and his daughter Mary have reigned in turn, but although they issued better coins than he did, they left much of the bad money in circulation. Elizabeth, advised by me, intends to have all the bad money removed before the end of this year. We need Elizabeth for more than just holding off a Catholic revival. We need her to make England solvent again. To protect her, Ursula, I am even willing to use you, a young woman who should not be engaged in this kind of work, to help me hunt down anyone who could be a menace to her.

  “You know the Masons, and you and Ann Mason apparently liked each other. Like Dr. Ignatius Wilkins, Leonard Mason is hard up. He is not employing any new servants just now, at least, not manservants, but there is a chance of getting a woman in there. Ann is concerned about her daughters. She has a new baby and cannot give the girls the attention they need. Their tutor, Dr. Crichton, is quite unable to instruct them in embroidery or dancing . . .”

  “I’ve seen Dr. Crichton,” I said. “I got the impression he was quite unable to instruct anyone in anything!”

  “Really?” said Cecil. “No wonder you seem sorry for Ann Mason. Well, my wife will tell you the rest.”

  “We didn’t wish to brief you until we had prepared the ground,” Lady Mildred said, “but this has now been done. As it happens, one of the Queen’s Maids of Honour is a cousin of Ann Mason’s, and they correspond occasionally. As part of William’s enquiry into the Masons’ affairs, many of those letters have been read. We have learned much about the household. I had a casual talk with Bess, and then wrote to Mistress Mason, saying that I had heard from Bess that she was concerned about her daughters’ education, and reminding her of your existence. I didn’t claim close acquaintance with you. If something is going on at Lockhill that ought not to be, they will not want close friends of the Cecils on the premises. I pretended that all my knowledge of you came from Bess, and from the Queen.

  “For your information, my dear, you have been badly pulled down by a winter illness and need a rest from the court. You have no family to whom you can go—your former guardian, your Uncle Herbert, is unfortunately in the Tower. But I said I understood that you had once visited Lockhill and this had given me an idea! I trust,” said Lady Mildred austerely, “that I sounded like an interfering busybody, one of those people who organise the lives of total strangers. I did my best to give that impression. I suggested that you should go to Lockhill and help with the girls.”

  “There was some correspondence on the matter,” Cecil said. “They asked for more details about you—whether you really had a good knowledge of embroidery and dancing, for one thing! As if,” he added dryly, “any of the Queen’s ladies would not! We gave you a glowing reference . . .”

  “We know that you have the skills required,” put in Lady Mildred.

  “And in the end,” said Cecil, “a letter came, saying that you would be very welcome and asking you to write to them yourself, to make final arrangements. Well, Ursula? Will you go to Lockhill?”

  Part of me wanted to. I had been appealed to by the Queen, and here in this warm, bright room, I was being honoured—one could say flattered—by the confidence and trust of the Secretary of State and his wife. The memory of Ann Mason and
my sympathy for her had been reawakened. Oh, yes. I was almost ready to consent.

  However, my mind was made up. I was going to Matthew and I would not be seduced from him. Once I was away from the court and the Cecils, this spell would break. The sooner I made my escape, the better.

  For the moment, I must go on pretending, but the pretence need not go on for very long. It must be convincing, however, so I asked the right question.

  “But what am I to do when I get there? Apart from teaching the girls galliards and Spanish blackwork?”

  “Let us be clear,” said Cecil. “Jackdaw is dead. That amounts to a warning. This may mean danger for you and—perhaps—disaster for Lockhill. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Where does the picking of locks come into it?” I asked.

  “I want you,” said Cecil, “to get into Leonard Mason’s study, and search his correspondence.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Ferry to the Future

  One of the tasks which my first husband, Gerald Blanchard, carried out for Sir Thomas Gresham was to find people who could be bought, or blackmailed, into working secretly for Gresham rather than for the Spanish administration in the Netherlands. Gerald always kept a careful eye on them. “Some of them make me extravagant promises,” he told me once, “but usually under duress, and that kind of promise doesn’t count. I never expect them to be bound by their word.”

  All the same, the giving of one’s word does count for something, whether you want it to, or not. To keep up my pretence of co-operation, I had said to Cecil that I would go to Lockhill and search Leonard Mason’s correspondence, and the mere fact that I had said it had a peculiar effect on me. I dithered.

  I didn’t speak of my secret intentions to Brockley and Dale. They both knew that I intended to join Matthew and that the Queen had said I could go in May. Now, just as if this still held, I found myself explaining my mission to Lockhill to them, and of course impressing secrecy on them. Anyone would think, I said to myself crossly, that I actually meant to go to Lockhill.

  Cecil had instructed me to write two letters: one to the Masons, accepting their invitation and setting a date for my arrival there, and one to Matthew, telling him that I couldn’t come until May.

  “I’ll find messengers,” Cecil said.

  I didn’t write the letter to Matthew, but I penned the one to Lockhill, setting the date of my arrival there for the following week, Thursday January 20, which left me with time in hand to make my own preparations. Cecil accepted it, because it gave time for my letter to reach Lockhill, and he himself wished to make some arrangements for my escort on the journey.

  Now, I said to myself, I must see about getting a passage to France. Yet I still did nothing.

  Two main tasks faced me: one was to visit Thamesbank and gather Meg up; the other was to get Brockley to find me a ship. I wanted Brockley and Dale to come with me, and this would mean extra expense. I had more money than I used to have, but I still couldn’t afford to charter a ship. Unless Brockley could find a captain who was actually bound for the Loire, we might have to land somewhere else and travel overland on hired horses.

  It seemed not only very difficult, but also terrifying, as though I were standing on a cliff edge and trying to summon up the courage to jump. It meant abandoning the shelter of the court and going forth into the world with no official permission. What if I were caught? I was haunted by visions of prison cells, here or in France. Almost equally alarming in a different way was the prospect of being simply brought back and kept at the court, but with my credit gone. I did not know what to do.

  Two days passed. I had dined with Cecil on Tuesday, and it was Friday before I found the will to act. I lived through a hard morning with Elizabeth and the other ladies, practising a complex new dance, accompanying the Queen to an audience, trying to sound normal, and worrying, worrying. I was free after dinner, and as Dale and I made our way back to my little cubicle, I decided that I must speak to her and to Brockley at once. I must think about Meg, too. If I told the Hendersons that the Queen had asked me to bring Meg to court, I might be able to remove her from Thamesbank without arousing curiosity . . .

  I went into my cubicle, and a letter from Matthew was lying on my bed. Kat Ashley hadn’t been needed this time, to work out who the letter was for, because the name on it was Mistress Ursula Blanchard.

  Dale saw it at the same moment. “Ma’am! Look!”

  “I know!” I snatched the letter up, tearing the paper away from the seal, and sat down on the bed to read it. It seemed to have been written in a hurry. My name, in Matthew’s distinctive script, was written clearly, but the seal was faint, as if the wax hadn’t been soft enough, and the writing inside was straggly.

  My very dear Ursula,

  I have seized a chance to come to England. I must keep out of sight, as I am a hunted man in your country, but I am not far away from you. A boat will await you at the river gate of Whitehall Palace, every morning at eight for the next few days. When you can, slip away and board it. The boatman will bring you to me. We will think of a way to fetch your little girl, if you wish. Then we will travel to France together. I have to ask you to leave your servants behind for the time being. Too large a party might attract attention.

  In haste, and with love,

  Matthew.

  I turned to Dale, and knew by her face that my joy showed in my eyes. “Matthew’s here. He’s in England. He could be maybe not a mile away!”

  I leapt up and went to the window, looking out across the Whitehall maze of buildings as though I were a mariner at sea, peering for a sight of land; as though by gazing outwards and concentrating hard, I could detect Matthew, find him with my spirit as a pigeon finds its loft.

  It was like a miracle. I had no need, after all, to find my way to my husband through a hostile world. He had come to find me. Moving from the window, I held the letter out to Dale. “Read it if you like.”

  Dale was literate. She scanned the letter almost as quickly as I had. “Oh, ma’am! How wonderful for you. You’re going? Without the Queen’s permission?”

  “Yes, of course! Matthew’s come for me!”

  “I’m glad for you, ma’am. Only . . .” She hesitated. “I don’t quite like you going without me and Brockley.”

  “No, nor do I.” For a moment I felt dampened. “But it seems it can’t be helped,” I said. “I will tell Brockley to find a way to get the two of you to France. Dale, I want you to put a bundle of clothes together for me: linen, some toilet things, something I can carry easily, but it must have all the essentials. Unless the weather is impossible tomorrow morning—as long as it isn’t snowing or raining in bucketfuls—I will go then. I’m not on duty first thing, anyway. Oh, Dale!”

  • • •

  I was transformed with excitement. Throughout the rest of the day, I still strove to appear normal, but more than once the other ladies gave me odd looks and I knew that my secret exultation was showing on my face.

  It was slightly dampened when I spoke to Brockley, who said that he was surprised that Master de la Roche was not willing for me to bring my servants. “A gentleman of your husband’s type and standing, madam, usually expects his wife to be properly attended. I shall come with you to see you safe into his company, at least. I must say, I wish that his letter had said where he actually was.”

  “He couldn’t do that, Brockley. What if the letter went astray and the wrong person read it?”

  “Who brought it, madam? Have you enquired?”

  “Yes.” I had, but the result meant very little. “A young man, moderately tall, that’s all the gatekeeper could say. I don’t think it was Matthew himself, though. He’s very tall!”

  I was glad to get away to bed that night, although sleep did not come for hours. When I woke next day, the weather was cold and grey but dry, and there was nothing to hinder my departure, except that my inside suddenly clenched up with nerves and I had to go three times to the privy. I began to fear that I wouldn’t get mysel
f to the river gate on time at eight, and I didn’t know how long Matthew’s boat would wait for me. In the event, I was a few minutes late, but the boat was there, a small one, with a solitary oarsman in it, muffled up against the cold, I hurried past the guard and down to the landing stage with Dale behind me, carrying my bundle, and Brockley striding at my side. The boatman saw us and stepped out on to the stage.

  “Mistress de la Roche?”

  “Yes. And you are . . . ?”

  “An acquaintance of your husband.” He glanced at Dale and Brockley. “I have orders to bring only you, madam. No one else.”

  “I must attend Mistress Bl—de la Roche until she is with her husband,” Brockley said. “Then I’ll take my leave.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but my orders are firm.” The boatman was unrelenting. “No one is to know where Master de la Roche is. I am to bring his wife to him and no one else. Would you care to step into the boat, madam?”

  “Now, listen—” Brockley began, but I stopped him.

  “Brockley, it’s all right. I’m going to Matthew.” I turned to the boatman. “How long will it take us to reach him? Will you at least tell me that?”

  “Not long, madam, a matter of a half-hour, maybe, upstream.”

  “Very well.” I turned to my servants. “I just want to get there. You come to France as soon as you can. Let me just vanish.” I took my bundle from Dale and kissed her, and clasped Brockley’s hand. “We’ll be together again soon.” I could see Brockley simmering, and longing to restrain me by force, but he didn’t, of course. I smiled at them, and let the boatman hand me into his craft.