by S. J. Parris
I did not, but I nod in any case, anxious not to interrupt.
‘I got the girl away from her parents and pressed her on what Cecily had written of this beau of hers.’
‘The one you assured me did not exist?’
She purses her lips.
‘Never mind that. Apparently Cecily had been writing to her sister every week – the maids’ letters are supposed to go through me, of course, but they find ways and means to smuggle them out. She was not keen to tell me, but I can be extremely persuasive.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
She nods, as if appeased.
‘Well – this beau. Cecily had written to her sister that she was soon to become a countess.’
‘So he was an earl?’ My blood quickens again; in my excitement I clutch at her sleeve.
‘Unhand me please, Bruno.’ She smooths the silk down, but when she deigns to glance at me I see her eyes are bright with the relish of her tale. ‘So he said. I had to prise it out of the girl with threats in the end. Told her if she didn’t give me the name and any more girls died, I would tell the queen in person that she was responsible for hiding the murderer. That put the fear of God in her, I can tell you. They’re stubborn creatures at fifteen.’
‘I can well imagine.’ I picture the terrified sister cowering before Lady Seaton’s waspish tongue. ‘She gave you a name?’
‘Not a name, but a title. She claims Cecily never told her his name. She confided only that he called himself the Earl of Ormond.’ She leaves a dramatic pause for me to digest this. I shrug to indicate my ignorance.
‘So – do you know this man?’
She turns to look at me directly and her expression is gleeful.
‘That is the whole point, Bruno – there is no one of that title at court!’
‘But then – he could be anybody claiming a false title,’ I say. ‘How will it help us?’
‘I didn’t say it was a false title, just that to my knowledge there is no one known as the Earl of Ormond at court. And I know everyone,’ she adds, as if I had tried to suggest otherwise. ‘I thought it might be something you could look into. I dare say it might be some old family name that has become assimilated into another house or become defunct – the annals of the English nobility are full of half-forgotten subsidiary titles like that.’
‘So – he was English, then?’
She frowns, as if unsure of my point.
‘Well, I assumed so. How else could he have persuaded Cecily that he held an earldom?’
I push my hair back from my face, impatiently revising my theory; Courcelles speaks good English, but his French accent is so pronounced as to make him sound comical to native speakers. Lady Seaton is right; he could never have convincingly posed as an English noble, and Cecily would surely have mentioned either to her sister or to Abigail if this impressive suitor had been a Frenchman. No; much as it frustrates me to have to let go of the idea, though Courcelles’ face may fit, I don’t believe he was posing as the Earl of Ormond.
‘But how would I ever find out about such a title?’
She looks at me as if I am being wilfully stupid.
‘The College of Arms hold all the records. At Derby Place, off St Peter Street. I am sure they would know something.’
‘Where is Ormond?’
‘How should I know, Bruno? I am not a cartographer.’
‘Did you tell Lord Burghley about this?’ I ask, curious.
She sucks in her cheeks again.
‘There is no love lost between Lord Burghley and myself. I never had the sense from him that he cared very much about the maids. Their deaths are a political problem to him, and he will find a political solution, you may be sure. Meanwhile my girls are terrified, Bruno, that this killer has his eye on more of them. My queen is afraid too, though you would never hear her admit it. These murders were grotesque threats against her. And it is poisoning the atmosphere at court – we look at every man now wondering, Is it him? Is it that one? He must be found and put where he cannot harm any more of us.’ She wraps her shawl closer around her shoulders as another gust scuffs up the leaves in the yard. ‘I was not willing to be dismissed yet again as a foolish woman by Lord Burghley. But you had a look about you, with your sharp questions and your sharp eyes. When I saw you with the French ambassador at court I realised at once that you must be one of Francis Walsingham’s recruits. You need not answer that. I am as discreet as the grave.’
I neither acknowledge this nor deny it.
‘I can assure you, my lady, I am doing everything I can to assist with catching this man, and I am grateful to you for your trouble. But I think you are wrong about my lord Burghley. He lost a daughter himself, of about the same age. I think he cares far more than you would credit.’
She ponders this as I nod curtly and move towards the gate.
‘Bruno?’
I turn back, expectant.
‘Don’t forget your manners. My title is quite real, I promise you.’ But there is a mischievous twitch at the corner of her mouth. I make a low bow, apologising, and when I look up, she is already on her way back into the house.
At a run through Bucklersbury, where the density of apothecaries’ shops fills the air with a curious mix of savoury herbs from their remedies, I don’t stop now to glance over my shoulder; if my pursuer is still behind me, let him show himself, for I feel there must be something significant in this information of Lady Seaton’s, I feel I have this elusive killer’s identity almost within my reach. He seduced Cecily Ashe with a handsome face and a title he had borrowed, or invented, or perhaps it is his own genuine title though not one he uses, but if the earldom of Ormond exists, or has ever existed, I will find out who among the remaining suspects might have any connection with it. Already my mind is leaping ahead of the facts and settling on Throckmorton. Though I encountered him only twice at Salisbury Court, I recall him as a personable young man, no great beauty like Courcelles, but good-looking enough to deserve the description. He is English, of good family – might he not have persuaded Cecily that he had a title?
My thoughts are flying faster than my feet; along Great St Thomas Apostle and then cut down Garlick Hill to Thames Street and due west to St Peters. I thank my good fortune as I run that I spent much of the summer wandering the streets of the city, exploring its neighbourhoods, the haunts of its guildsmen and merchants, its wealthiest quarters and its slums. I wanted to know its streets, to piece it together in my head; since I meant to make it my home, I felt I should take the trouble to get to know it. Now, though I will never know it as intimately as those born with the stench of the Thames in their nostrils, I have at least committed to memory a good many of the main thoroughfares, so that I do not always have to stop and ask strangers for directions. London is not a friendly city to foreigners; better never to admit that you are lost.
In St Peter Street I do stop a smartly dressed man to ask if he knows where the College of Arms is to be found; he points me down the road to a large three-storeyed house on the north side. On the west range of the building I find a gatehouse with its portcullis raised; inside the quadrangle a man in a tabard bearing the royal arms steps in front of the main door and asks me my business. I pause, bent over, and rest my hands on my thighs, trying to recover my breath; he watches me with some concern.
‘I need to find some information on a particular title,’ I say, between gasps, when I am able to speak. His eyes narrow.
‘For what purpose?’
‘To see if it exists.’
‘On whose behalf?’
I hesitate. Whose authority would serve me best here? I cannot risk associating myself with Walsingham, and if I claim Burghley he will ask to see some letter or seal of proof – not unreasonably, since my appearance is less than professional.
‘I am personal secretary to the ambassador of France, the Seigneur de Mauvissiere,’ I say, drawing myself upright and pushing my hair out of my face. I lean in and drop my voice. ‘It is a delicate matt
er.’
A flicker of mild interest passes over his face; he nods and opens the door for me. I find myself standing in a paved entrance hall hung with silk banners in sumptuous colours, a menagerie of lions, eagles, unicorns, gryphons and cockatrices gently undulating in the draught from the open door.
‘You will need to speak to one of the officers of arms,’ the doorman informs me. We both look around; the hall is empty. ‘Hold on.’ He crosses to a door at the far end, his heels clicking on the flagstones, puts his head around and calls to someone inside. A few minutes pass in silence. I smile awkwardly at my guide; he nods encouragingly towards the door. Eventually a stout man appears dressed in the same tabard, his chins bulging over his ruff. He also regards me with suspicion.
‘This gentleman,’ says the doorman, and I do not miss the edge of sarcasm in the description, ‘needs to look up a title. Says he’s from the French ambassador on a personal matter.’
‘Do you have a letter of authority?’ says the man with the chins, who I presume to be the officer of arms.
‘I’m afraid not.’ I pat my doublet, as if for proof.
He presses his lips together and folds his hands. For a moment I think he is going to refuse.
‘I have money,’ I blurt.
The officer gives a wan smile. ‘Oh, you won’t get far without that. What is the nature of your enquiry?’
I glance between them.
‘My lord ambassador’s niece has received a proposal of marriage from an English gentleman who claims to be the heir to a particular earldom,’ I whisper, as if to draw them into the intrigue. ‘But my master does not know of this title and wants to verify the young man’s credentials.’
The two men exchange a knowing smile.
‘That old trick,’ says the older, suggesting he deals with such matters on a daily basis. He holds out a plump hand. ‘The College must generate income to preserve our archive, you understand.’
‘Of course,’ I say, patting the breast of my doublet, where I wear my purse slung under my arm beneath my cloak. The money I had meant for my new boots would have to be sacrificed to a nobler cause. ‘What is the price?’
‘Depends upon how long it takes me to find the record,’ he says, and by way of demonstration he pushes open the door from which he entered to reveal a high room lined floor to ceiling with wooden shelves, each one piled with bound manuscripts and rolls of paper. ‘Records of grants of arms and pedigrees going back a hundred years, since the College was incorporated by King Richard III,’ he says proudly, indicating the collection as if it is his own work. ‘Which is this spurious title, then?’
‘The Earl of Ormond,’ I say. Already it has taken on a sinister sound in my mouth.
‘Oh, then I cannot help you,’ he says, looking crestfallen. ‘You had better save your money.’
‘Why not? It is not a real title?’
‘It is not an English title,’ he says, with careful emphasis. ‘I believe it is Scottish, and we do not keep the records for the Scottish nobility. For that you will need to travel to Edinburgh.’
A dozen expressions must have chased one another across my face in an instant, because he seems to take pity on me.
‘There is someone who might be able to help you, though. Wait here.’ And he strides importantly away through another door. His footsteps fade and I am suddenly so overcome by tiredness that I have to sit down on the foot of the marble staircase that leads up from the entrance hall.
‘To be honest,’ says the doorman, who remains propped against the wall, apparently too interested in my quest to return to his post, ‘most times, the ones that claim to be earls probably aren’t. I mean, your actual earls don’t need to make a song and dance about it.’
I raise my head from between my hands. ‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.’
After an interval I hear the officer’s footsteps returning; behind him shuffles a white-haired man dressed in the same livery, who carries himself with an upright, military bearing despite his slow progress.
‘This is Walter, our longest-serving officer at arms,’ announces the man with the chins. ‘He has the best part of our records committed to memory, you know. If – God forbid – we should ever suffer the ravages of a fire, we should be turning to Walter to recreate our archive from here.’ He taps his temple. ‘But he is Scottish by birth and he knows a great deal of the Scots titles too.’
‘Well,’ says the old man, in a rich voice with those curling vowels I have come to recognise, ‘I regret to say age is stealing the names and dates from me piece by piece. But the earldom of Ormond I do still recall, if you are interested?’
I leap to my feet, nodding.
‘Please – anything you know.’
‘Well.’ He clears his throat, as if to embark on a long history. Uncharitably, I find myself hoping this explanation will be brief. ‘The title derives from Ormond Castle in the Black Isle, you know, but the earldom was forfeit in 1455 after a rebellion against the Scots king.’
‘So the title is extinct?’
‘It became a subsidiary title of the Dukes of Ross, but that title was also lost at the beginning of our own century. Now –’ he pauses, swallows, and raises a shaky finger like a schoolmaster waiting for his pupils’ full attention – ‘the Dukes of Ross were Stewarts, but the earls of Ormond were all of the house of Douglas.’
I scarcely hear the officer at arms naming his price; my fingers reach for my purse and hand over coins almost of their own accord while I continue to stare at this old man without focusing. Douglas. The name repeats in my ears; why had I not seen it sooner? Douglas, the proven killer for hire, with that lawless charm he could turn on men and women alike, his rakish smiles and winks, his dirty jokes. Had he thrown in his lot with Marie and the Guise faction because he thought they had the best chance of rising to power after the invasion, or did they just offer him enough money to make the murders worth his while?
I thank the officers and blunder through the gatehouse of the College of Arms into the street. The light is fading now, a chill early dusk settling over the city as thin fog rises up and wraps the buildings, turning the streets unfamiliar. Already lamps are being lit in windows along the street. I pull my cloak up close around my face, my earlier bravado dissipating; here in the darkening streets I am alone and vulnerable, and this new knowledge makes me feel even more exposed. I recall the day Douglas had come upon me so suddenly in the street as if by chance; he must have been following me, even then. The fog will be no deterrent to him, nor will it to Henry Howard’s men, if they have been tracking me, and the watch will not start making its patrols until the bells have rung for eight o’clock. It is a matter of a few hundred yards along St Peter Street to St Andrew’s Hill; if Fowler is at home, we can hire a boat to Walsingham tonight, or at least as far as Whitehall and Lord Burghley.
Feeling bolder, I set out along St Peter Street, keeping close to the shadow of the buildings. A few lone riders head west out of the city along the middle of the street, and the last street traders trudge past with baskets and panniers over their shoulders. The cries of the gulls over the river sound remote and melancholic in the half-light. I walk briskly, my hood up; the creeping fog seems to muffle the sounds of the city, or echo them from unlikely quarters. I have scarcely reached the corner with Addle Hill when an arm grabs me from behind, tightens around my neck, and I am dragged backwards into a gap between two houses; I try to cry out but he is pressing the breath from my throat. My assailant is a tall man, and strong; he almost lifts me off the ground and though I try to kick my legs behind me I cannot reach him. With his free hand he pins my left arm behind my back, but in this manoeuvre I am just able to twist my body enough to draw the dagger at my belt with my right hand. I have one chance at this stroke and a bare fraction of a moment to think about it as he chokes his arm tighter around my neck; I arch my back, curve my right arm and aim the knife behind me at his midriff. He seems to sense the movement just before it happens and tries to dod
ge it, but he is not fast enough; he lets out a howl of pain and his grip loosens sufficiently for me to pull in a ragged breath, bend my knees and then stand suddenly, so that the top of my head cracks against his chin. When he lets go of my left arm, I am able to wheel around and face him, the knife held out before me; he is limping but un deterred, though I am lighter and quicker, and I move back in a series of feints, drawing him out into the empty street, away from the safety of the shadows. He swings his arm to throw a punch and I duck, at the same time making a lunge with the knife, which I stick in the soft flesh of his upper thigh. As he roars and flails his fist for me again, I kick upwards and catch him in the groin so that he staggers backwards. But he is strongly built and not inclined to give ground; he swings for another blow, I dart back and my foot twists against a rut in the road. I fall backwards, landing hard on the ground with him towering above me; he reaches for his belt, I catch a flash of steel and try to scramble away on my hands and heels but he is almost upon me. Fear floods my body; I brace myself for impact and then, inexplicably, my attacker lurches, as if under the impact of a blow. His hand falls and his solid form appears to crumple; I roll out of the way as he slumps first to his knees and then on to his face, like a broken marionette, and I see that there is a crossbow bolt sticking out of his back. Shaken, I lie still, trying to make sense of this intervention when, almost before I have had a chance to register his presence, a cloaked figure darts from the shadows and runs away fleet-footed up Addle Hill, where he is swallowed by the fog.
A low moan bubbles up from the body beside me; he is not yet dead, but soon will be if no one helps him. A different fear sweeps through me; if I am found here it will be assumed I have killed him. I sheathe my knife, rise unsteadily to my feet and take a last look at this stranger who would certainly have dispatched me if my equally mysterious guardian angel had not been at hand. The air clings damply to my face. Who was the man who fired the crossbow, and how long has he been following me? I glance around, peering again into the fog up Addle Hill where the man disappeared; the street is silent. In the distance, I see a wavering pinprick of light from someone’s lantern approaching from the east: I brush myself down and hasten away in the opposite direction before anyone finds me here.