The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries)

by Buckley, Fiona

  Mason, interested, also at last embarked on a conversation with me. “It is true that prices aren’t rising as fast as they were. I have said it before, at this very table: a realm, like a household, must live within its means. A ruler who forgets that courts disaster, and Queen Mary’s reign was indeed flawed in that respect.”

  “Queen Elizabeth understands the subject very well,” I agreed. “She has made a thorough study of such things. I wonder,” I added casually, “if young Mary Stuart over in France has used her spare time as wisely.”

  “Excuse me,” said Dr. Crichton, “but is this style of conversation wise? In my experience, political matters are better not discussed too openly. Men have found themselves in the Tower for words said, perhaps not very seriously, at their own dinner tables.”

  “But no one has spoken against the Queen!” said Ann.

  “And who would report it if they did?” asked mischievous Rob. “Redman, are you a spy in the pay of Her Majesty, reporting everything we say to a contact at court?”

  Redman, who was arranging syllabubs in a row on the side table, turned round with a horrified expression on his face. “No, sir! Certainly not, sir!”

  Everyone laughed, but privately I was annoyed. I did not want Henderson, or anyone else, to put the idea of spies into Leonard Mason’s mind. Least of all one minute after I had trailed the name of Mary Stuart across the conversation.

  But Mason had already changed the subject, and Ann was asking Redman to bring the syllabubs to the table. I leant aside to get out of Redman’s way as he came to serve us, and carelessly knocked an empty goblet to the floor. He made to pick it up for me, but I slid quickly from my seat and retrieved it myself. I rose to my feet again, facing away from the table.

  Every tapestry workshop has its own dyemaster; everyone knows that. I had always had a good eye for colour and could design my own embroidery patterns. I had known at once that I had seen that tender blue, that subtly softened crimson, somewhere before, and recently. The pale highlights on the red robe of the prodigal son’s father, and on the blue gown of his mother, were so familiar. Facing the tapestry, even for a moment, gave me a chance to confirm what I had guessed.

  I had guessed right.

  • • •

  Rob Henderson and his men left not long after dinner. I spent most of the afternoon discussing study times with Ann and Dr. Crichton. It was a stilted and tiresome conversation, as Crichton had resumed his unbending manner. Soon after that it was time for supper. Then the winter dusk descended and we all retired to bed. I lay in my bed, hands behind my head, gazing into the darkness.

  I had much to think about.

  For one thing, I had come across another oddity, something more subtle, and in a way more curious than Mason’s unlikely experiments with gliding engines.

  For reasons unknown, either Mason or Crichton was lying like a son of Belial about those tapestries on the dining-room wall. When I picked up the fallen goblet and rose to my feet facing the wallhanging behind me, I had not only seen the gleam of silk in the distinctive highlights: I had seen the monogram of the Giorgio Vasari workshop in Florence, where Cecil’s copy of The Unicorn Hunt had been woven, and the initials HH, for Hans van Hoorn, in the lower right-hand corner.

  Crichton’s uncle might have left him the tapestries, but he certainly hadn’t had them for years. Van Hoorn had only been with that workshop for a year, at most. The uncle might be the one who was lying, of course, though I couldn’t think why he should. But then, why should Mason or Crichton want to lie, either?

  It was puzzling. Was there a parallel between Cecil’s report of a Dr. Wilkins who had bought a carpet with money he couldn’t possibly possess, and Leonard Mason whose dining-room walls were adorned with tapestries he couldn’t afford? Maybe, but it seemed so thin; it made no sense. Nothing made sense! I thought irritably.

  Something in me, though, some instinct, some antenna with which I had been born, had been alerted. Earlier that day, Dale and I had laughed over the idea of plots at Lockhill, but now I no longer believed the place was as innocent as I had hoped. And if it were not, then I had to know why. Cecil’s voice spent in my head again, telling me of a weaver and his young daughter, whose terrified and bewildered faces Rob Henderson had seen through the smoke of their pyre. Brockley and Dale thought I was foolish to come to Lockhill, but I was not. I had done right.

  I had writing things with me, and before Rob left for home, I had given him a sealed letter for Cecil. In it, I said that my reception at Lockhill had been oddly chilly in some respects and I was wondering if there had been an indiscretion somewhere at court or in Cecil’s household. Would it be possible to look into it?

  I fell asleep after a while and dreamed of being back in that boathouse, alone and cold and listening to the slop of the river outside. I awoke with my heart pounding. In my dream, the slopping noise had been oddly regular, and now I realised that I could still hear it. Someone in floppy slippers was walking past my door.

  I started up, wondering bemusedly if I should follow, until somewhere I heard another door open and shut and then all was silent again. What had I heard? Mr. Mason going to his study? Or a conspirator going to a meeting? My dream had left me shaky and the darkness pressed on me. I couldn’t bring myself to get up and give chase.

  Lying there, I became deeply aware that Lockhill was a strange place, not my home; that I had no home and that I longed for one. The month of May seemed far distant.

  I turned over on to my face. Into my pillow, softly, so that Dale couldn’t hear, I whispered, “Matthew.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Taking Steps

  “I have agreed to tolerate my offspring at dinner and supper,” Leonard Mason said at breakfast the next morning, “but they take their breakfast separately. I insist that we have one civilised meal during the day. Crichton is with them. It is a thousand pities he can’t regulate their behaviour better.”

  I had asked where the children were, as much as anything in order to relieve the stiffness in the atmosphere. Ann was chattering brightly of this and that, but Leonard Mason’s silence towards me was noticeable. There was no doubt at all, I thought, with a twinge of panic in my guts, that he disliked me, was for some reason suspicious of me. But he had shown no sign of this when I visited Lockhill last year: something had to be wrong in this household.

  “Crichton isn’t a natural tutor,” Ann said. “His real business is that of being a priest.” Her husband gave her a sharp glance and she added, “Well, Mrs. Blanchard knows that. When she visited us before, she heard mass with us. Would you wish to do so again, Mrs. Blanchard? You were born a Faldene, and so . . .”

  “I am also one of the Queen’s ladies,” I said politely. “To hear mass on one isolated occasion perhaps didn’t matter, but I think it best not to do so habitually. If you don’t mind too much.”

  “Not at all,” said Mason, with unmistakable frostiness.

  “We mean no harm by hearing mass,” Ann said earnestly. “We are a harmless family, God knows, and loyal to the Queen.”

  “We are a respectable family in all ways,” said Mason, regarding me coolly. “Even though it is true that our children are somewhat wild and the girls certainly require more training in feminine skills. My wife was most insistent that you should come, Mrs. Blanchard. You are welcome, whether or not you join us at mass, provided that you conduct yourself at all times as a lady should.”

  That sounded like a speech he had prepared in advance. Ann looked away and I wondered what Mason thought I was likely to do that was unbecoming to a lady—poke my nose into things he wanted kept private, probably. I would do well to take care.

  Mason was enlarging on the religious observances at Lockhill. “Most of my servants and some of the villagers attend mass, but they all go to the Anglican service at their church each Sunday, as well. Our vicar Dr. Forrest presides. The Church authorities know well enough that mass is said here, but they wink at it.”

  I said I was glad
that such a wise accommodation had been reached.

  A chorus of youthful shouts and yells suddenly broke out in the distance, and Ann said with a sigh that Crichton might have less trouble with the children if he looked more impressive. “Why must he dress like a scarecrow? Leonard, can’t you persuade him to dress better?”

  “Only by paying him more,” said Mason gloomily, “which would not be convenient. I’ll have a word with him some time and tell him to brush that gown of his, if you wish.” He had a restless air, as though he were longing to escape to his private researches into the mystery of flight. He flinched as the uproar crescendoed. “What a noise! I really am considering a school for the boys—which is why I can’t even think of raising Crichton’s wages. How I am to afford school fees, I can scarcely imagine. For the moment, however, I have work to do. I don’t wish to be disturbed.” He added, rising to his feet, “If the house catches fire, or some other emergency occurs which means that my presence is essential, I shall be in my workshop. I am going to make a new version of my gliding engine.”

  Ann sighed again. Mason gave her an enigmatic look, favoured me with a brooding one, and strode out. I smile at Ann and said that it was time I set to work as well.

  That was the Friday. The weekend passed without incident, but my discomfort did not abate. Mason and Crichton alike remained aloof, rarely speaking to me unless they had to, but I had the feeling all the time that I was being watched. I saw little of Mr. Mason, but when I did encounter him, his unsmiling manner towards me was disconcerting. As for Crichton, when I moved about the house, which I did as much as possible, because I wished to learn its layout, I several times encountered him unexpectedly, as though he were dogging my footsteps.

  Leonard Mason: Dr. Crichton. I had set out thinking that Mason, the Catholic master of Lockhill, was the likely conspirator, if anyone was, but Crichton, his priest, was no less probable. That curious lie about the tapestries certainly united them. Both quite plainly distrusted me, and I distrusted them. Now, whenever I saw a door standing ajar, I glanced covertly at it to see if one of them was behind it. I had a continual urge to look over my shoulder.

  Monday morning found me sitting in the dormer window of the top-floor room which Ann had given me for sewing lessons. It looked out over rolling countryside, meadow and wood and ploughland, under a windy grey sky. The girls were with me, sewing industriously. I had fitted their lessons into the existing routine quite easily. The children began the day with study, and then the boys were supposed to practise archery and swordsmanship, of which Crichton apparently had some knowledge. “Archery is out of date for warfare,” George told me solemnly, “but excellent training for marksmanship and the arm muscles.”

  Hitherto, the girls had looked on, and I gathered, also cheered, jeered, and during the swordplay, recommended their brothers to slit each others’ gizzards. Henceforth, I declared, they should spend this part of the day sewing with me. The new regime had begun on Friday. They were sulky at first but I tried to make the lessons pleasant and this soon wore off. Ann had made spasmodic attempts to teach them to sew and Penelope had quite a repertoire of stitches. Cathy, though the youngest, wasn’t far behind her and even showed signs of talent. Jane was clumsy and apt to stick needles in her fingers but in time I hoped to teach her how not to get blood all over her work.

  I had also begun dancing lessons, in which the boys took part, because dancing was a pastime shared by men and women. In fact, by Saturday evening I had been promoted to teach music as well.

  “My husband plays the spinet,” Ann said, “but he has no time to teach the children. We had an outside music master once but he doesn’t come now, at least as an instructor. He visits now and then as a friend.” Mason had had to pay him for giving lessons, I supposed. “He takes an interest in my husband’s researches and inventions,” Ann told me, “so he’s always welcome when he calls, but he and Leonard just disappear into the study or the workshop. It’s pleasant for Leonard to have someone to talk to, though. He sometimes gets Crichton to help him, but Crichton doesn’t like it. He’s not that kind of man.”

  I already knew that. I had once or twice walked through the yew garden to look at the workshop, and on my second visit I had found Mason pounding nails into his new brainchild, which was made of wood and canvas, while Crichton nervously held the nails straight, obviously afraid for his thumbs and just as obviously not enjoying himself.

  In the afternoon, the children sometimes rode. Ann said that she also tried at times to instruct the girls in house-wifery, but without must success, because the cook, Stephen Logan, who was large and aggressive, and his wife, the lean angular housekeeper, disliked having them “under our feet.”

  In the evenings, I had undertaken to see the girls to bed, and then Dale and I would go to the kitchen to talk to the Logans and the maids while we made warm bedtime possets for ourselves. The Logans were civil enough to us. They worked hard and Stephen had reason for his bad temper, since the spitboy had lately died and not been replaced. Logan had to turn his own spit.

  The Logans had a son, Edwin, a powerful and unsmiling young man who lived in the village but ran the Lockhill garden with the help of two other village lads. He also acted as the household butcher, slaughtering any animals or poultry needed for the table, and dealing with the carcasses in a gruesome back room off the kitchen, furnished with chopping blocks and an array of knives and cleavers.

  I had not really become acquainted with the butler, Redman, but I made a point of chatting with the two maids when I could. Joan was a widow in the middle of years, while Jennet, as I had surmised, was only fifteen. They too worked hard. Lockhill was badly understaffed.

  The last member of the household was Ann’s maid, Tilly. Tilly was elderly and ailing, and as far as I could make out, Ann looked after her rather than the other way about. Tilly had a little room of her own where she took most of her meals on a tray, and all I had ever seen of her was a wraithlike figure in grey, drifting aimlessly here and there in the house. I had never yet spoken to her.

  I had succeeded by now in learning my way about. Lockhill manor house consisted essentially of a frontage with two wings stretching back. The yew garden lay between them. The great hall, which went the height of two storeys and occupied much of the frontage, had once been much wider, but part of it had at some time been walled off and given a lower ceiling so that two extra bedrooms—one of which was mine—could be built above. The cut-off piece of hall was called the Long Room and was used as a passageway between the two wings.

  When there was company, Joan had told me, dinner was served in the hall and the dishes were assembled in the Long Room, on top of the arrow chests which held the shafts used by the boys in their archery.

  I had also learned, depressingly, that Mason’s study was not only apt to be occupied at night, but was inaccessibly placed at the far end of the west wing and could only be reached by first going through Dr. Crichton’s schoolroom, then a long, chilly gallery, and then the anteroom where Leonard sometimes slept. To get there from his bedchamber, he would have to pass my door. The footsteps in the night had no doubt been his.

  I stitched slowly, repairing snagged embroidery on Mason’s fawn doublet. On the Saturday, I had discovered Ann, in an unusually irritable mood, trying to do it in a hurry. “Leonard is fond of this doublet,” she had said, “but embroidery takes up time, and poor Tilly can’t help, not just now.”

  I had offered to do it for her, and now I worked at it with a distracted mind, glad that the new project I had found for the girls seemed to be absorbing them. Over the weekend, Mason had worn a cream satin doublet, decorated with the striking geometrical patterns of Spanish blackwork, which was highly fashionable, despite its origins in Spain. I had marked out some similar patterns on pieces of cloth, shown my pupils the basic stitches and set them to work. It was keeping them quiet, and I needed quiet in order to think. I was worried. Three days had passed already and still I had not found a chance to search Maso
n’s study.

  The reason was deplorable. Yes, it was true that an opportunity was hard to come by, but as yet I hadn’t even tried. The air of unfriendliness and suspicion in Lockhill had affected me, and I had again had a nightmare about being shut in that cold boathouse. Now, I was quite simply afraid of entering that study with my wire lockpicks. What if Mason caught me? What would happen next? I could imagine various answers to that and I didn’t care for any of them.

  I stitched miserably away and lectured myself. If a plot did exist, then how advanced was it? What if it ripened? What if it succeeded because I had let the chance of foiling it slip through my silly feminine fingers?

  Well, Mason’s nocturnal habits made a night attempt too risky, but there could be a chance this afternoon. Ann and Leonard had gone out, in their lumbering coach, to dine with friends in Maidenhead. They wouldn’t be back until supper. A clear field beckoned. I dared not refuse the invitation.

  This afternoon, all the children would be riding, taking turns on the three ponies which the stables boasted. Nearly everyone would be out of the way.

  Yes. Brace yourself, Ursula. This afternoon.

  • • •

  I needed Dale and Brockley to help me by standing guard. After dinner, therefore, Dale and I went to the stableyard, where Brockley was most likely to be found. As a married man, he had been allowed a room of his own which Dale could sometimes share with him. It was next to the grooms’ attic over the stables, and Dale said he was putting up some extra hooks for their clothes.

  We found him, however, standing with the gangling groom Thomas, at the foot of the outside staircase which led up to the room, and we could tell, even from a distance, that he was taking Thomas to task. We waited, tactfully, until he had finished before going nearer.

  When Brockley had had his say, Thomas, not noticeably disturbed, lounged away towards the door of the kitchen, and tried to steal a kiss from Jennet, who had just stepped out with a bucket of leftovers for the pig-barrow, which stood by the kitchen door and was taken, every day, down the hill for the benefit of the pigs, who lived in a noisome sty out of smelling distance of the house. Jennet swiped at him with the emptied bucket and darted back indoors and Thomas, whistling, sauntered off into the harness room.