Uneasy Lies the Crown

by Tasha Alexander

  “I don’t think that is his only motive, no, but he is certainly sending a message that no one—not even a king—is safe. Why else would he go to such trouble to stage his victims? If his motive stems only from a belief that these men should die, he would kill them and be done with it. There is something more to his crimes.”

  “Perhaps he is a vigilante, righting wrongs. He has saved Casby’s women from abuse, and stopped Mrs. Grummidge from being beaten.”

  “We do not have any solid proof that Mr. Grummidge beat his wife. I have great faith in your intuition, my dear, but even if you saw bruises—and I do not doubt you did—that does not necessarily mean her husband was the cause of them.”

  “It was not only the bruises,” I said. “It was everything about her. Her manner, the obsequious way she talked about her husband, how she didn’t blame him for staying away from her after their child died. We cannot dismiss the possibility that we are dealing with a murderer who believes he is stopping gross injustices.”

  “Why, then, is he making his victims look like dead kings?” he asked.

  “Perhaps to warn those who would take advantage of a position of power?”

  “And who in Britain is better situated to take advantage of a position of power than the king himself?”

  “The messages you have received—particularly the one the queen gave to you—it is almost as if someone else in a position of power is behind all this. Une sanz pluis. One and no more. Sapere aude. Dare to know. Two murders staged to look like the deaths of medieval kings. Is there someone in Britain who believes he has a better claim to the throne than Bertie?”

  “We’re not on the verge of a crisis of succession, if that’s what you mean,” Colin said. “There is no question that King Edward is his mother’s son.”

  “Yes, but Victoria was not William IV’s daughter, she was his niece. And he had plenty of illegitimate children who might have thought they deserved the throne more than she.”

  “Illegitimate children—even those of kings—do not expect to inherit the throne. Not in this day and age.”

  “Of course, the sensible ones don’t, but we are dealing with an individual who is an unhinged murderer. He could have any number of unreasonable expectations. What was the surname of William’s illegitimate children? FitzClarence? Their mother was an actress, I believe?”

  “I have not the slightest idea. Furthermore, it is unlikely any of them are still living—”

  “Their children could want the throne,” I interrupted.

  “I do not think it would be a good use of your time to investigate the descendants of William IV’s bastard children. Your crazed vigilante theory has more merit.”

  “Then that is what I shall pursue,” I said. I agreed it was a more likely solution to our case, but was not altogether prepared to abandon the notion of a war of succession. What better motivation for murder could a person have than a desire to usurp the throne of Britain?

  1415

  10

  The baron had no news about William, but the knowledge that the fighting had begun, in a town called Harfleur on the western coast of France, haunted Cecily. She started hearing mass twice daily, spent hours praying before her diptych, and said the rosary every night before she went to sleep, often while the others were captivated by Dario Gabrieli’s songs. She could not entirely comprehend her feelings. They seemed to her deeper than perhaps they ought to be, but she could not bear the thought of losing her husband.

  She took to going for long walks in the afternoon, desperate for solitude. Adeline mocked her for being such poor company, but the baron gave her a small Book of Hours and told her he hoped she would find comfort in the words that filled it. Cecily did just that, poring over the prayers and psalms and the gleaming illuminated images that accompanied them. Her faith had always been strong, even if dominated by the complicated emotions she felt for her mother. Now, though Beatrix Bristow loomed in her daughter’s mind, Cecily began to have a greater sense of clarity. She had been taught—and believed—that God could forgive any sin. Jesus Christ had died on the cross to make this possible, yet this alone did not relieve humans of the burden of their sins. Forgiveness went hand in hand with penance, but no penance she’d been given had ever freed her from the weight of her mother’s death.

  One bright September day, Cecily had wandered far from the baron’s castle, beyond the walls, and toward the forest. England was at its most beautiful that afternoon, the sun shining, the autumnal air crisp, and the rolling green hills a picture of pastoral perfection. Here she stood, surrounded by beauty, while William fought in Harfleur. She fell to her knees, suddenly terrified, fearing for his safety. A clap of thunder sounded above her, and the weather changed in an instant. The sun disappeared and rain pounded from the sky. Cecily scrunched her eyes closed and begged God to forgive her for her part in her mother’s death.

  Punish me in whatever way you see fit. I will accept it with grace and welcome the penance. Then, please, dear Lord, bring my husband home from France alive.

  * * *

  Death might be preferable to this.

  William surveyed the camp, the stench of death heavy in the air. Not just the stench of death, but the stench of the bloody flux, the disease that was ravaging the English army. The king and his brothers, following the advice of the royal physician, had moved their camp high on a hill, where the air was fresh, but even that could not guarantee immunity. The Bishop of Norwich, trusted advisor to the king—a man, it was said, who was the most loving and dearest of his friends—succumbed to the sickness with Henry at his side.

  Despite the hideous atmosphere of the siege, the illness and the horror, the king was never a stranger to his men. He fought beside them. He praised their bravery. He spoke to them, anonymously sometimes—at least that’s what many soldiers claimed. He would come in the night, when they were on watch, and present himself as an ordinary man. A soldier, like them. But his words, inspiring, pious, and strong, revealed something of his nature, and eventually, they guessed his identity. Not that they ever confronted him about it. If their sovereign wanted to travel amongst them unknown, they would not disrupt his plans.

  An oppressive heat beat down on the army, the air thick with humidity, trapping the vile smell of death and disease in the soldiers’ lungs. Nothing shook the king’s confidence, however. He promised them Harfleur would fall soon.

  But then, hours after the Bishop of Norwich died, the French attacked, overpowering the English near the Leure gate and forcing them to fall back. The army began to fear the siege would fail. The French were shouting from the walls, hurling insults with their arrows. William saw the king, his noble face serious. He would do whatever was necessary to rally his men. God was on their side; Henry was the rightful king of France. With divine help, he would lead them to victory.

  1901

  11

  The following day, while Colin was in his study preparing for a meeting with the king, I found myself more concerned with Carson’s Theatrical Supply than with the FitzClarences. The establishment was near Leicester Square, barely a mile and a half from the house. The weather was no longer so foul as it had been yesterday—the sun had even made a rare winter appearance—and I quite fancied a walk. I was just pulling on my gloves when the blaring of a motorcar’s horn sounded in front of the house. The noise was repeated over and over until Davis marched past me to the door and opened it, ready to express his displeasure to the driver of the vehicle. He was standing on the threshold when I heard a familiar voice from outside.

  “Now, now, Davis, you mustn’t scold me. I’m looking for Lady Emily. Is she at home?” I would recognize that bored drawl anywhere. It belonged to Jeremy Sheffield, Duke of Bainbridge, my dear friend since almost before I could walk, and the bane of Davis’s existence.

  “Allow me to check, your grace.”

  I believe there is a common expression about people in whose mouths butter would not melt. Davis might well have been the inspirati
on for it. He stepped back inside, closing the door behind him.

  “I’ll go to him, Davis,” I said, pushing past. If Jeremy had bought a motorcar, it was news to me, and I was desperate to see it. He was there in the street, dressed in a long coat and a pair of motoring goggles, leaning against the machine, a Daimler which was painted the same bright blue that appeared in the arms of the dukedom of Bainbridge. The engine was still running. “When did you get this?”

  He grinned. “Yesterday. I came into town specially to collect it. If you’re a good girl I’ll teach you to drive. In the meantime, hop in. We’ll go for a ride.”

  “I’ve work to do. Can you take me to Leicester Square?” I asked, accepting his outstretched hand and climbing onto the leather seat. I had been desperate for a motorcar for years, but Colin was utterly against the idea.

  “The murders, I assume,” he said, sitting next to me, handing me a spare set of goggles, and taking the steering wheel in hand. “I knew the instant I read the papers this morning that you’d be on the case, so to speak. Leicester Square it is.”

  Once I’d fastened the goggles around my head and secured my hat firmly, I leaned across him and blew the horn. Jeremy moved a long lever and the Daimler lurched forward. We were on our way! Between the noise from the engine and the wind lashing our faces, conversation was difficult, if not impossible, during the trip. We were not able to reach a very great speed, as the glut of carriages on the roads impeded our progress, but I was delighted nonetheless. So taken was I with his vehicle that, after we had parked, I almost delayed going into the shop in order to inspect it and pepper my friend with questions about it, but I am nothing if not dedicated to my work. Pleasure could wait.

  Another person might have wanted to know something about my mission before entering Carson’s Theatrical Supply, but Jeremy had spent years cultivating a lack of interest in virtually everything. He valued little more than ignorant bliss. I introduced myself to the clerk at the counter and then introduced my companion—having a duke on hand would make it simpler to accomplish what I hoped to—and asked to see the owner. Before the clerk could even turn to fetch the man, he had appeared of his own volition.

  “George Carson, at your service,” he said, a little bow, a broad smile on his face. “How can I help, your grace?”

  “What I’d like, Mr. Carson, is for you to personally see to it that my friend here, Lady Emily Hargreaves, gets whatever she needs.”

  “Of course, your grace. Lady Emily, are you looking for something in particular? For a masquerade, perhaps?”

  “Nothing quite so diverting, I’m afraid,” I said. “I was hoping you might be able to tell us the identity of one of your customers. Someone who has recently purchased two costumes, both medieval, both meant to be kings.”

  Mr. Carson, momentarily nonplussed, steadied himself and stepped behind the counter. “Kings, you say? Let me see…” He pulled a large ledger from a shelf and began to flip through it. “Was this for a Shakespeare production, do you know?” Not surprisingly, he directed the question to Jeremy, not me.

  “Was it, Lady Emily?” My friend flashed me a wicked grin. “You know how I can’t keep track of these things. Shakespeare, Marlowe, who could say? I never could tell the difference.”

  I debated how to respond. Did I let Mr. Carson know immediately about the connection to the murders? What if he himself was the villain behind the horrific deaths? The shop had only just opened for the day, so it was unlikely the police had been here before me. I might have the opportunity to catch him unawares. Who was I to squander such a thing?

  “It’s an awkward situation, Mr. Carson,” I explained. “I saw two gentlemen wearing costumes supplied by you and was much struck by their quality. The first was portraying Henry VI, and he looked as if he had stepped out of the picture of that king in the National Portrait Gallery. Black tunic with white trim, black tights—”

  “And a smallish black hat,” Mr. Carson finished for me. “Yes, I remember the outfit well. It was a custom order for a high-class masquerade. I don’t get many of those—most of you lot use your tailors, even for fancy dress, don’t you?”

  “My tailor, Mr. Carson, would flail me to within an inch of my life if I went to someone else,” Jeremy said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It’s as if I am his prisoner. You can’t imagine the horror.” I glared at him.

  “Could you tell me who placed the order?” I asked.

  “Oh, now, Lady Emily, my customers do like their privacy.”

  “I know all too well of the need for discretion,” Jeremy said, pulling a pound note from his jacket and placing it on the counter. “It’s a delicate situation, you see. My friend here would very much like to learn the gentleman’s name, but it would have been awkward for her to have inquired when she saw him.” He dropped his voice to a ridiculous whisper that he must have thought sounded dramatic. “Her husband can be a bit … well … I should say nothing more.”

  My eyes bulged and my hand ached to slap him, but instead I bit my bottom lip and looked at the floor, hoping Mr. Carson would take this as a sign of my reluctance.

  “I understand,” he said. He flipped through the ledger, running down the pages with his index finger. “Yes, here he is. Mr. John Smith. No address, I’m afraid.”

  “John Smith?” Jeremy sighed with inappropriate dramatic flourish. “Are you quite sure?”

  “Unfortunately, I am. No doubt it is an alias. He paid in full—in cash—when he placed the order.”

  “Did he purchase anything else?” I asked. “There was a second costume, meant to be Edward II. The crown in particular was lovely work.”

  “Yes, in fact he did order that and two other costumes as well,” Mr. Carson said, studying the page open before him. “They were for a series of masquerades.”

  I blanched. Our killer was not finished with his evil work.

  * * *

  Armed with detailed descriptions of the other costumes Mr. Carson had supplied to this so-called John Smith, I asked Jeremy to take me to Marlborough House, where Colin was meeting with the king. I had no intention of trying to see him myself. Bertie and I had a difficult relationship. Our mothers had been close, which meant that, on occasion, we were thrown together, but not in a romantic fashion; I was much too young for him, at least to my mind. I will admit to having been subjected to at least three awkward flirtations when he was Prince of Wales. Once I even slapped him, but he forgave me with the charismatic good nature for which he was known and never mentioned the incident again. Nonetheless, I was never much fond of him and didn’t like the Marlborough Set. They were too fast, too reckless, and too vapid for my taste. Yet I did feel some sense of responsibility to inform him of what I had discovered. I wrote a quick note giving him all the details and gave it to the king’s butler, who promised to deliver it posthaste. That done, I directed Jeremy to take me to a place so scandalous that he nearly lost control of the motorcar when I mentioned it.

  “I am not taking you to a brothel, Em. No. Absolutely not. Shan’t consider it. Don’t ask again.”

  “It’s not a brothel, it’s a pub.”

  “It’s essentially a brothel.”

  I saw no use in arguing technicalities and decided not to mention that this would not be my first brothel. I had visited one in Venice during another murder investigation. “It would be much safer for me to go with you than alone, and I promise you that go I will, one way or another. Would you like to tell Colin you preferred to leave me on my own?”

  “You’re an absolute menace, Em, and I don’t know why I tolerate you.” I explained to him about Mr. Casby and what I hoped to learn from the women subjected to his disgraceful treatment. He offered to go in my stead, trying to convince me that his title would make it the simplest thing ever to get the girls to talk, but I was having none of it. While I would never deny there was much a handsome duke could accomplish—even if he was not nearly so handsome as Colin—I knew I was in a better position to understand the pligh
t of these women than he. I didn’t only seek information from them; I wanted to see if there was something I could do to improve their situation.

  Our former prime minister, William Gladstone, had devoted a not insignificant amount of time and energy to giving a new life to the prostitutes in our fair capital. Few of his colleagues looked kindly on his actions and there was much nasty gossip on the subject. When I learned about his efforts, years later (I had not even been born when he started), I was touched by the thought of the great man trying to help those so much less fortunate than himself. Now I hoped I could emulate his example. Jeremy did not react well when I endeavored to explain this to him.

  “No, no, Em,” he said. “That makes it all the worse. What will Hargreaves do to me when he finds out I’m an accessory to this madness? The man never could stand me. Probably because I’m more dashing than he.”

  “You are not nearly so dashing as he. If you don’t take me, I shall leap out of the motorcar the next time we stop and hail a hansom cab. You will be freed from all responsibility.”

  “Not in Hargreaves’s mind. If he were here, he’d tie you up rather than let you go, and he’ll judge me fiercely for not having the courage to stop you.”

  “Colin knows better than anyone that I cannot be stopped when I set my mind to something.”

  And that was the end of that. Before long, Jeremy was easing the Daimler along the curb outside a nondescript pub called the Black Swan on the infamous Ratcliffe Highway.

  “It could be much worse,” I said, climbing down from the motorcar and inspecting the building’s façade. It wasn’t on the verge of falling down, and the windows looked to be in decent shape. Still, I knew that this part of London was notorious, even if conditions had improved in the past decades. A group of filthy children had already gathered around the vehicle, the tallest of the boys calling out questions. None of them looked adequately fed or had on a warm enough coat. Two of them were wearing boots with holes large enough to reveal tattered socks and one, leaning on a rough wooden crutch, was missing his right leg below the knee. Jeremy explained the workings of the motor to the curious lad and then offered him a handful of coins to stand guard over it while we went inside.