I said I was glad of that, and forthwith embarked on the full story of Jane’s death. On hearing that she had been found lying stabbed among the flowers in her own garden, Agnes uttered a faint shriek and put down a wine glass in order to clap her hands to her mouth.
I gave her a moment to recover and then went on, explaining that a servant of mine (I didn’t name Brockley) had been accused but that I was sure of his innocence, which was why I was making enquiries on my own account instead of leaving them to the authorities. Brockley and Dale remained carefully expressionless throughout all this. Finally, I said: ‘I rather hoped to find your son Roland still here. Since he was at Cobbold Hall that morning, it is just possible that he saw something, or someone, that might suggest an answer to the riddle. The only person who was there but has not yet been asked about it is your son. We wondered if he had said something to you about the events of that morning.’
Agnes sipped her wine and slowly shook her head. ‘I can’t say that he did. No, I’m sorry. He didn’t mention visiting this Cobbold Hall at all. He only talked of his work at court, for Francis Walsingham. It’s a very good position for him, though I fear he finds Master Walsingham a hard taskmaster. But there, I told him, you will have to work your way up, and if your employer seems demanding, I’m sure that at least he is teaching you how to do things as they should be done. I want to see Roland do well! And make a good marriage in due course. Ah!’ She sighed, reminiscently. ‘I was married off by my parents while I was very young – only fifteen. I was happy enough, I suppose, and yet I might have been happier still had they waited and let me have a chance with wealthier, more noble suitors. I could have had them!’
She pointed to one of the portraits by the hearth. Now I saw that the nearest one was of Agnes as a young girl and then, she had certainly been lovely, very bright of eye, with an inviting smile. The tip-tilted nose gave her a look of saucy sweetness.
‘I was twenty-three when that was painted,’ she said wistfully. ‘But I was even better-looking when I was seventeen. That was in 1542, when Henry Howard visited Kenninghall. He was the Earl of Surrey, you know, and the father of the Duke of Norfolk who died so dreadfully on the scaffold last year. Henry Howard never became Duke of Norfolk because his father outlived him. Henry was executed for treason too, poor man. I cried bitterly when I heard of Henry’s death. I’m sure he wasn’t guilty. He didn’t live at Kenninghall but as I said, he visited it in 1542. He was twenty-four and I was seventeen and we met.’
She paused, as though looking back into the past, and there was a silence, until I said: ‘How did that come about?’
‘Oh, there was a great ball at Kenninghall House and my husband, Robert, was a respected local lawyer, and so we were invited. Henry Howard asked me to dance with him and – well, he fell in love with me. He was a poet and he dedicated one of his poems to me. It’s called “Vow to Love Faithfully”, and the last line runs Content myself although my chance be nought. We were both married, of course, but for men these things don’t matter so much. For women … well, I would never have betrayed my dear Robert. Master Brockley, do have another cake. I always feel that men need plenty of sustenance. You have a fine-looking husband, Mistress Brockley, and I’m sure he is an excellent servant to you, Mistress Stannard.’
She gave Brockley a sparkling smile and rose to her feet to present him with the plate of cakes. He took one and she patted his arm with approval. ‘That’s right! It’s a joy for a woman to see her cooking appreciated.’
Beside me, I felt Dale stiffen and I saw Blanche give her cousin a surprisingly sharp look. Then she glanced towards the window and said: ‘Gilbert is coming along the street! I do believe he’s coming here.’
‘Gilbert Shore? Your assistant bailiff?’ Agnes Wyse turned away from Brockley to look out of the window. As she did so, presenting us with a view of her profile, I experienced a curious jolt in the pit of my stomach. Seeing her side-face in that way meant that I could see the white in the outermost corner of her left eye and the effect was disconcerting. Gone were the charm and the mystery. The outer white of that eye, and presumably the other eye was the same, was a large, fierce, blue-white triangle. I had never before taken conscious note of such a thing, but now, all of a sudden, I recognized it. In the days when I was one of Elizabeth’s ladies, I had noticed it in two of the other ladies. Both had doubtful reputations. And once, when Hugh and I were on foot in London and passing through a dubious-looking lane, a woman had stepped out of a dingy doorway and walked past us, close enough for me to see that she also had eyes like that. I had said to Hugh: ‘I wonder who that woman was. That gown wasn’t showy but it cost something and yet, look at these surroundings! Where are we, by the way? You know London well.’
‘Yes, I do. That building’s a brothel,’ said Hugh. ‘Or said to be. I’ve never put it to the test, I promise. At a guess, I would say that that was the madam.’
I was still staring at this phenomenon when Mistress Wyse said: ‘As it happens, I sent a message to Mr Shore a few days ago, asking him to call, at his convenience. I am responsible for you, Blanche, and I felt I really ought to meet him and ask what his intentions are. So far, he’s only been someone I once saw you walking with, after which I naturally asked who he was. Yes, he is coming here. Well, go and let him in. And bring another glass and more cakes.
I got up. ‘We ought to go. You will want to talk to Blanche and her young man in private, I feel sure.’
‘Yes, quite so.’ Brockley, too, was on his feet.
‘No, no, finish your wine first. I would never expect a man to leave his glass while it was still half full. I shan’t plunge straight into enquiries about his income and lineage! That would be most discourteous!’ Agnes’s merry laugh invited us to share her amusement, but most of the invitation was directed at Brockley. As we sat down again, I saw Dale flush angrily.
Blanche hurried out of the room. We heard the front door open, and Blanche’s voice greeting someone, and then feet went past the parlour door, presumably to the kitchen. Glasses clinked in the distance and there was a giggle from Blanche and what might have been the sound of a kiss. Agnes, hearing it, ceased being amused and sighed instead.
‘It’s a worry, being in charge of a young girl without a husband to help one. Blanche seems to attract such unsuitable men. First of all, it was a smallholder, one of the tenants of the big house. Samuel Goodbody, his name was. Just a plain man, always with mud on his boots, growing vegetables and fruit for a living and paying rent for his ground. Not what I want for my cousin. And now it’s this Gilbert Shore and he’s not much better. What will become of Blanche, I really don’t know. I—’
She broke off as the two of them came in, with Master Shore carrying a dish of cakes and a spare glass. I looked at him with some interest, wondering what kind of man it was who had been drawn to the plain and gawky Blanche. She seemed less plain now, however, for she was becomingly flushed and her eyes were shining. Gilbert Shore put his dish and glass down on the table where the other refreshments were, and politely let himself be presented first to Agnes and then to me and the Brockleys.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you all,’ he said, accepting an invitation to be seated. His voice was deep and slow, his Norfolk accent marked. ‘I’ve wanted to see where you live, Blanche, and to meet your cousin.’
He wasn’t at all what I had expected. I had rather supposed that Blanche’s suitor would be himself unremarkable, the sort of young fellow who isn’t much to look at and is of modest status and knows it. Gilbert Shore was none of these things. He was squarely built, tow-haired and tanned and had an air of being quietly sure of himself. He wasn’t handsome but one day he would be striking. In later life, that bony, arched nose and those prominent cheekbones would make his face craggy. It would be a strong face, but not a harsh one, for when I met his hazel eyes, I saw that they were both intelligent and kind. He had a workmanlike leather jacket on over an open-necked shirt, and stout breeches above well-polished boots.
It was a form of dress that didn’t go with Agnes’s ladylike parlour but he managed to seem completely at ease there.
‘Mistress Stannard,’ said Agnes, ‘and her companions the Brockleys, called thinking they might find my son Roland here.’ Like me, she was taking him in, scanning him from head to foot. ‘I fear,’ she said, ‘that my young cousin Blanche was badly named. Blanche means white, but she is a dark horse! I had no idea you were taking walks together until I chanced to see you. Then I asked Blanche who you were, of course. It was wrong of you to be so secretive, Blanche, though I admit you have good taste. You’ve picked a fine young fellow.’ Gilbert Shore remained expressionless and took a draught of wine in a self-possessed manner. ‘How did you meet?’ Agnes enquired.
‘Blanche and my married sister are friends,’ said Gilbert. ‘My sister is Mistress Susannah Lyon that you’ve met at the church. Both of you do dusting and cleaning there now and again.’
Badly, if Dr Yonge were anything to go by. Agnes would no doubt like to be known as the pious parishioner who dusted the benches in St Mary’s, but I couldn’t imagine her enjoying it, or being thorough.
‘Susannah invited you and Blanche to supper maybe three months ago,’ Gilbert was saying. ‘You couldn’t come, but you let Blanche accept. We met over my sister’s supper table.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember. I was expecting a neighbour to sup with me here. So that’s when it began. Blanche, refill Master Shore’s glass for him. She tells me you work at the Kenninghall Estate as an assistant bailiff, Mr Shore. What does your work involve?’
Gilbert, balancing a plate on his knees, sipping wine and nibbling a cake alternately, began on a description of an assistant bailiff’s daily duties. Agnes Wyse commented admiringly on the number of things he needed to know and the masculine skills he possessed and wondered if he could ever spare an hour to deal with a drainage problem in her garden. ‘I do have a man to look after the garden, but he has never been able to solve this.’
‘I’ll help if I can,’ said Gilbert neutrally.
‘We’ll settle a time.’ Agnes’s attention had veered from Brockley to Shore. ‘One evening, perhaps? You could sup with us. I have an excellent cook and I have been teaching Blanche how to cook, as well. If you are truly interested in her, you’ll want to know that your future wife can make tasty meals. She shall prove her skill, while we sit and talk of serious matters, worldly or godly, as the fit takes us.’
Her smile had become unmistakeably conspiratorial. They might have been alone together. The atmosphere in the room had become suddenly tense and when I looked at Blanche, I saw that she was now eyeing her cousin not just sharply, but with something remarkably like hatred. My glance flickered to Dale and Brockley and I knew that they too felt uncomfortable.
Gilbert said, ‘Thank you,’ very quietly. A silence fell.
It was time to leave. I got to my feet for the second time and the Brockleys did the same. We made our farewells. Outside, the air was chill with the approach of more rain.
‘That woman!’ said Dale. ‘She must be nearly fifty and she makes eyes at everything that wears breeches!’
‘If young Gilbert isn’t careful,’ said Brockley, ‘he’ll find himself in bed with her, wondering how he got there. She’s the kind of woman that has to show that she’s more attractive than other women are.’
‘I wonder,’ I said. ‘That young man didn’t strike me as easy prey. But you’re right about her. I saw it in her eyes. I wonder if she was really quite the virtuous wife she claims.’
‘Probably not,’ said Brockley with a snort.
‘Did you think she was attractive?’ Dale asked suddenly.
‘In a way,’ Brockley told her. ‘Only a man would recognize it, but there is a … pull. As though one were a compass needle that has to point to the north.’
‘Dale,’ I said solemnly, ‘if you wish to hit Roger, I sympathize, but there are people about and you’d do best to wait until he’s alone with you.’
We laughed as we made our way towards the inn.
TEN
The Last Hope
Not that the laughter endured for long. Our anxieties were too serious for that. ‘We leave for London tomorrow,’ I said, as we entered the White Hart. ‘We must track Wyse down. He’s the last hope. If only he hasn’t been sent off on an errand to the Scottish border! But probably not – they’ll want him to tackle that cipher. He can do it if anyone can.’
‘I’ll talk to the landlord about routes,’ Brockley said. ‘There ought to be a quicker way home than the one through Lowestoft.’
The landlord, as we found later on when we were enquiring about supper, answered to the name of Ezra Spinner, which to my mind didn’t suit him. For me, it conjured up a picture of a thin man with spidery arms and legs, while Ezra was in fact a fat, jolly soul with slightly short ones. He was well into his fifties judging by the silver colour of his wild and curly hair. His laugh was a resounding guffaw, which he demonstrated to us in most hearty fashion when we told him that we’d come from London by way of Lowestoft. There was laughter, too, from some of the others present, for several local men had called in for a pint of ale to round off a day’s work.
‘Round by Lowestoft? From Lunnon Town! It’s a wonder your horses’ legs ain’t been worn down by six inches!’ said a man who was surely a farmer, judging by the earth on his practical leather boots and under the nails of his strong, broad hands.
A man who had been sitting unobtrusively in a quiet corner remarked: ‘It must have taken you a week, for sure.’ His voice sounded familiar and we realized that it was Dr Yonge. ‘There’s a far better route than that,’ he said. ‘Ezra, haven’t you got a map?’
‘That I have,’ said the landlord. ‘Cat! Where are you? Where’s that map I keep for confused travellers! Bring it here!’
His wife appeared from a back room almost at once, carrying a scroll which she spread out on a table. She was a striking woman, though not young, for her face had mature lines even though her wavy hair was dark and she was probably proud of it for she let two long tresses escape from her cap and snake down on either side of her face, to brush against her little ruff. She was quite well-dressed, as was her husband, and the room was well maintained, its cobbled floor swept clean and its settles polished. Drinks were served in good pewter goblets and tankards. The White Hart was prosperous.
‘Turned off the road from Diss, did you?’ Cat Spinner said, pointing to Diss on the map. Her accent was strong but agreeably so, as Gilbert Shore’s had been, with the musical up and down cadences of East Anglia. We agreed that we had come from Diss. ‘Then you goes back to that turn, and goo on west a way, to Thetford. Then you turns south and goo through Newmarket and this place here, Bishops Stortford, so it’s called, not that I’ve ever been so far. That’s your road. Just straight on south from Thetford and then bearing a bit west, but all on the one road, and there you are, Lunnon Town.’
‘Many thanks,’ I said. And then asked civilly: ‘You were born here in Kenninghall?’
‘That she was,’ said her husband with one of his hearty laughs. ‘Blacksmith’s daughter, then got a place as maid to Mistress Wyse, as lives just along the road, till I took a fancy to her and wed her – and her plump stocking full of her savings!’
‘Mistress Wyse was generous enough in her way, for all her faults,’ said Cat.
‘We’ve met the lady,’ I said. ‘We called on her today, as it happens. We thought her son, Roland, was there. We had a … a business matter to discuss with him – and we hoped to catch him up. It seems now we’ll have to chase him back to London.’
‘Met our queen bee, have you?’ said the farmer, breaking in unexpectedly. We looked at him in surprise. ‘Oh, we all know her. Pretty well, some of us.’ He sounded sour.
‘Now then, Samuel Goodbody.’ Ezra shook a disapproving head. ‘I don’t like that kind of talk in my inn, and well you know it.’
I caught Dale’s eye and knew that she had recognized the name.
So had Brockley, who muttered, very softly, so that only Dale and I could hear: ‘I suppose she nipped his romance with Blanche in the bud.’
Dr Yonge, however, said very seriously: ‘Quite right. It’s a sin to destroy a woman’s character.’ Whereupon another man, who had put a wicker basket containing dead marsh birds down by his feet and was probably a wildfowler, remarked: ‘There ought to be a few laws against destroying marriages. She’s had a hand in spoiling one or two. A tiresome woman, that one. I cast no stones at her virtue; there are folk who never put a foot wrong and still cause trouble. I’m sorry for that niece of hers that lives with her.’
‘Cousin,’ said Ezra. ‘Blanche is her cousin.’
‘Cousin, then. She’ll eat all Blanche’s young men afore Blanche ever gets to taste them. She’s done that afore.’ His gaze rested candidly on Samuel Goodbody, who buried his nose in his tankard. ‘And Gilbert Shore’ll be next, mark my words,’ the wildfowler added.
‘I fancy,’ whispered Brockley, ‘that after spoiling Blanche’s love affair by ogling Master Goodbody herself, she dropped him once the mischief was done. He hasn’t forgotten, I fancy.’
‘Hush,’ I said.
‘I repeat, I don’t like this sort of talk,’ said Ezra, addressing the wildfowler. ‘Mistress Wyse has had her troubles. Robert Wyse was a stern man. The daughters had to marry where they were told and one of them’s very miserable with the man her father picked. She didn’t want to wed him but her father thrust her into the marriage. Whole village knew about it.’
‘Could be that Robert got to be stern after provocation,’ hazarded the wildfowler, swigging ale.
‘Now, thass enough,’ said Ezra. ‘And she’s good to her servants, like Cat says. Cat knows. Don’t you, Cat?’
‘Well, I was her maid till I married,’ Cat said. ‘She don’t have a personal maid these days. Yes, I’d say she was a generous mistress and still is, I daresay.’
A Traitor's Tears Page 11