I said, ‘You are saying you think Master Wyse left his horse tethered in the woods and set off to follow Mistress Cobbold, on foot and keeping among the trees?’
‘Summat like that.’ Poole twisted his hands together more unhappily than ever. ‘Didn’t think much about it then,’ he burst out. ‘Only now, with hearing things, like …’
Anthony said, ‘You say that Master Wyse turned into the trees before the gardeners came with their ladder. So they never saw him. That explains why they never mentioned him when they were questioned. The woods are dense. Well, you know them. Big oaks, spreading branches, thick in leaf in July. The gardeners who were up the ladder could see the cottage and the garden and a good length of the path, but not down among the trees. They didn’t see him leave the cottage and they couldn’t have seen him once he was in the wood. They wouldn’t be able to see a horse if one was tethered there, or anyone slipping off on foot and keeping under the trees.’
‘I got up and went on home just after the gardener fellows started with their saw,’ said Poole. ‘Didn’t see no more.’
‘Did none of them see you?’ I asked.
‘Don’t think so. I were sittin’ in the shade, very quiet, like. None on ’em looked my way, even.’
‘Why didn’t Sir Edward think any of this was important?’ I wanted to know.
‘He said Wyse had already told his tale and explained that he stopped for a short talk with Jarvis, and went into the cottage, and yes, Mistress Cobbold did arrive not long after that,’ said Anthony. ‘But he said she only greeted the two of them and then he left her to talk with Jarvis. That’s Wyse’s version. He didn’t mention riding off into the woods but Heron said it was a warm day, and he might have wanted to ride in the shade. Or he had some other errand taking him out of the way – Priors Ford village lies in that direction. And Sir Edward said how could anyone be sure where the rider went after he’d gone into the wood? And if a man were glimpsed there, walking, why should it be Wyse? Could have been a farmhand taking a shortcut to somewhere. No, no. All this is making too much of too little.’ Anthony was by now doing what amounted to a mimicry of Sir Edward’s somewhat portentous voice.
‘Sir Edward still thinks the guilty man is myself,’ said Brockley.
He and I looked at each other. I was sure that we both now harboured the same suspicion but neither of us had yet spoken the name. It was time to do so. I said, ‘For various reasons, I am beginning to think that the guilty man is Wyse. That occurred to me before you arrived, Master Cobbold. I believe Brockley here would agree.’
‘Yes,’ said Brockley. ‘I would. I always have said that he looked like an assassin.’
‘Though why he should want to harm Jane Cobbold, I can’t think,’ I said, ‘but all the same – Brockley, could last night’s intruder have been Wyse?’
‘Intruder? What’s this?’ demanded Anthony.
We explained. Anthony was horrified. ‘Has this been reported to Sir Edward, or one of the local magistrates or constables? To anyone?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘We were all very shaken after our disturbed night and Brockley had some points he wished to mention to me before we reported what had happened. But reported it must be, of course, and quickly. I think I’ll go to Sir Edward direct.’
‘The man could have been Wyse,’ Brockley said. ‘Hero knows him well. She wouldn’t have given tongue if she scented him. Though admittedly, the man’s face was masked and by moonlight … well …’
I had sat down on a settle and now found myself sagging tiredly into the corner. ‘All the same, it makes precious little sense. Wyse decoded that cipher letter and it was about business for an illicit loom in Dover. What on earth has that to do with anything? With Wyse himself, or Jane Cobbold? Or Jarvis, come to that, and yet the letter was on him when he was found. It’s all absurd.’
‘If Wyse did the decoding, is it certain that the letter really said what he claimed?’ Anthony asked suddenly.
‘All this talk of ciphers – you mean letters that look like jumble and nonsense and aren’t?’ Poole asked, bewildered.
‘Yes, precisely,’ Anthony told him.
‘And you think this Master Wyse made up what the letter said and it really said summat else?’ Poole, for all his rustic demeanour, was no fool.
‘Yes, just that,’ Anthony said.
‘I wonder,’ I said. ‘Wyse handed the key to the cipher over to Walsingham once he’d found it, and I would expect Walsingham to have it checked against the letter by someone else, just to make sure it was accurate. He’s thorough.’
Brockley was running his fingers through his hair and I would have liked to do the same, except that when I was getting up, Dale had as usual crimped my hair and fixed my headdress securely and I couldn’t.
‘Nothing makes sense,’ I said. ‘Why should Wyse want to attack Mistress Cobbold? Did she overhear something when she first arrived – when she was still outside in the garden? I suppose that’s possible. But where does the unlicensed worsted loom come in? It’s like a pattern that isn’t complete – there’s a missing piece in the middle!’
Anthony and Poole left shortly after that. When they had gone, Brockley said: ‘I was going to tell you, out in the garden, but before I got to it, our visitors arrived all of a sudden and distracted us. I have had a word with Hawthorn. He says his cousin at Cobbold Hall has never hinted at any kind of dispute between Master Cobbold and his wife, and certainly, if either of them had been having a love affair, you can place a wager on the servants knowing. They always do. If there’d been any trouble between the Cobbolds, of any kind, Hawthorn’s cousin would have told him. Seems that Hawthorn’s cousin isn’t the most discreet man in the world.’
‘So that theory looks unlikely,’ I said. ‘We won’t find the missing piece there. Brockley, we have to tell Sir Edward what happened last night and we should do it at once.’ My disturbed night had left me very tired but I knew I must not give way to it. ‘Now,’ I said.
It was an hour’s ride from Hawkswood to Edward Heron’s house. I went in formal fashion with an escort. Sybil, the Brockleys and Joseph all accompanied me. The sky had clouded over by dawn but the day was dry and pleasantly cool for August. We made good time and found Sir Edward at home. Joseph took care of the horses, while a butler ushered the rest of us into a lofty if not very welcoming parlour.
The house dated from the last century and had tall but narrow windows like glorified arrow slits, very unlike the generous mullions of Hawkswood. As a result, the rooms were shadowy, and made darker still by the oak panelling and furniture, and the heavy tapestries, which were all in sombre colours and depicted gloomy scenes, such as the Last Judgement (that one included a lurid view of damned souls in hell), the assassination of Julius Caesar, and the like.
Within a few minutes the household chaplain, Parkes, came to us. I had met him before, and had good reason to dislike him. He had dark, rounded eyebrows the same shape as Norman arches, and an unsmiling face, with long, vertical lines between his eyes and from nostrils to chin. He was, as usual, gowned in black and had ink-stained fingers. He asked our business and then said that we could entrust it to him. He would take careful notes and make a report to Sir Edward.
‘We need to see him ourselves,’ I said. ‘The matter could be of grave importance.’
There was a chilly pause, during which Parkes tried, with a steely silence, to intimidate us into doing as we were bid, and we stood our ground in mute determination. I had been right to bring companions. Four to one is a good arrangement when you need to overcome resistance.
Finally, we were admitted to Sir Edward Heron’s study.
To meet with disappointment.
I had found myself in front of Sir Edward – and Parkes – to face questioning when I was suspected of witchcraft. That was when I learned that Sir Edward, though he was a man of integrity, was also capable of getting fixed ideas into his head. I had had the horrible experience of hearing evidence that should have bee
n in my favour, twisted to point a finger at me instead, while Sir Edward remained blind to what was happening.
‘But,’ he said when Brockley and I, talking by turns, had given our account of the night’s events, ‘you say you couldn’t identify the intruder? Who is to say who it might have been, and why assume that it has anything to do with the matter of Mistress Cobbold? It is more likely to have been a common housebreaker, entering the wrong window by mistake. That is, of course, if there ever was a housebreaker at all.’
We stared at him, astounded. Dale, in a voice high with indignation, said: ‘But I saw him! I saw him coming in at the window! I’ve never been so frightened!’
Sir Edward smiled at her. ‘A loyal wife is a precious gem, and I don’t doubt that you are such a gem, Mrs Brockley.’ He turned the smile towards me. ‘And you are an honest woman, Mrs Stannard; of that I have no doubt. But what did you see? You were wakened by alarming noises in the next room, and you ran to discover what was wrong. You saw your tirewoman, Mrs Brockley, sitting up in bed. She was screaming. Mr Brockley was lunging towards the window with a sword in his hand. But did you see the intruder?’
‘I think I glimpsed the tips of his fingers, just as he started back down his ladder. We found the ladder still there in the morning. It was one of ours. It’s usually kept in an outhouse shed. Anyone could get at it and plenty of people know it’s there. People who visit the house from time to time would mostly know. Work is forever being done in the grounds.’
‘Never mind the ladder. You think you glimpsed fingertips. That’s all. And only by moonlight, and there was Mr Brockley here, waving a sword and rushing towards the window; all in a poor light and flying shadows. I put it to you, Mrs Stannard, that you may not have seen fingertips at all, only shadows, and after all,’ said Sir Edward, shaking his head over my gullible female nature, ‘Mr Brockley is under heavy suspicion of being the killer of Mrs Cobbold. What if he and his no-doubt devoted wife arranged this pretty scene for your benefit? She screamed. He banged about. Then, when you came to the door, he made his leap across the room, sword in hand. All to help you feel quite sure that Mr Brockley is being hounded, perhaps to suggest that someone unknown wanted to make it seem that he had slain himself in fear or remorse. What about that?’
‘It’s nonsense!’ Sybil was as outraged as Dale. ‘Mistress Stannard is not so easily gulled!’
‘Also,’ I said, ‘Brockley did not know I was sleeping in the next room. My little son has been ill and I have been spending my nights in the nursery with him. He’s better now, and I came back to my own room late last night. Brockley didn’t know that. He was surprised to see me when I ran in, hearing the disturbance.’
‘I expect he did know,’ said Sir Edward, smiling indulgently. ‘There are few secrets among household servants.’
Groaning inwardly, I began to talk about Jarvis and the cipher letter. Surely, I said, Jarvis’s death and the discovery of the letter suggested that something was amiss somewhere that might have something to do with Jane Cobbold but not with her gossiping habits or Brockley’s attitude to them. Sir Edward only smiled indulgently once more.
‘I cannot believe for a moment that there is any connection between Mrs Cobbold and whatever it was that Jack Jarvis was mixed up in. That, I feel sure, was quite separate. He was up to something, evidently, but unfortunately fell victim to footpads as many others have done when travelling alone. No, I must dismiss that. I also fear that I have serious doubts about this story of an intruder, though I am sure that you ladies are here in good faith – except perhaps for Mrs Brockley, and she can be excused on grounds of wifely devotion. I will, of course, think the matter over, and I thank you for bringing it to my attention. Now, I am busy this morning and have no more spare time. Parkes, however, will call my wife and she will see that you have refreshments before you leave. Good day to you. How fortunate that you have cool weather for travelling.’
We declined the refreshments and took our leave, politely, although we were inwardly seething. Dale burst out in fury on the way home. ‘He’s determined to make it be Roger! He twists things! I don’t think he’s even tried to consider anyone else. It’s not right. It’s not right!’
‘No, it isn’t,’ I agreed. ‘But what we can do about it, heaven alone knows.’ I thought hard, though, as we rode on. Wyse was in the forefront of my mind. Nothing that I had learned so far seemed to make the slightest sense, but Wyse was there, always there. He had been at Jarvis’s cottage when Jane Cobbold arrived, and she had very likely overheard some of their conversation before they knew she was within earshot. It brought the three of them close together just before Jane’s death.
I puzzled and wondered. Wyse had deciphered the mysterious letter found on Jarvis’s body, and the result didn’t fit in anywhere. He could have been the intruder who threatened Brockley, though there was no certainty. Wyse had offered marriage to me. Was that as straightforward as it seemed or was it a ploy to gain command of my household – and of me – so as to control anything we might say? Wyse! Wyse!
I said aloud: ‘I think I want to know a great deal more about Roland Wyse. I must decide how best to go about it.’
Brockley said, ‘Wouldn’t Lord Burghley or Mr Walsingham be able to tell us something? They must know his background.’
‘I do intend to write to Lord Burghley,’ I said. ‘I had better do that today. I must think what questions to ask. Well.’ I patted Jewel, and encouraged her into a trot. ‘Let’s get home in good time for dinner. Hawthorn wants to go marketing in Woking this afternoon and I daresay he’ll keep to his plans, in spite of last night’s disturbance.’
Hawthorn often did his own marketing, vying with Brockley for the chance to visit Woking or Guildford. He would hitch Rusty or Bronze to a small cart and set off, returning with bags of flour or rice or salt, or foreign goods that never reached the shops in Hawkswood village, such as oranges or grapes or certain spices.
He did indeed intend to go to Woking that afternoon. ‘I’m low on a good many things,’ he said, coming into the hall to present me with a list to inspect, along with an estimate of the cost. ‘Life has to go on, even if we have been invaded in the night. It would still have to, even if we had a foreign army quartered on us.’
‘I hope we’ll never have that,’ I said with feeling. ‘That woman Mary Stuart would like to snatch the crown from Queen Elizabeth and she’d bring a Spanish army here to help her do it, without a second thought, but I hope her scheming has been stopped now.’
The last conspiracy I had helped to uncover would undoubtedly have led to a Spanish invasion, had it been allowed to ripen. I shuddered at the thought.
Ben and Joan Flood adhered to the Old Religion, and occasionally slipped away to somewhere – I never asked where – to hear an illegal Mass. Quite probably, they believed that Mary Stuart ought to be queen of England. I had never asked them about that, either. Just now, they were out in the kitchen and therefore out of hearing. But if they had heard me, I knew they would have ignored my comments. They and others like them seemed unable to imagine what a Spanish invasion would mean. In any case, I had other things on my mind just now. I added an item or two to Hawthorn’s list, amended the quantity of flour he wanted to buy, and sent him off. I wanted to rest, and sit with Harry, and think.
My efforts to think bore little fruit that afternoon. I was too tired after my broken night and the wearisome and useless ride to call on Heron. I took a short rest and visited Harry, who was mending fast, and then sat in the hall, trying to draft a letter to Cecil. Somehow I couldn’t get it right. I was still there, frowning over a second unsatisfactory draft, when Hawthorn came back at frantic speed, clattering into the courtyard at a canter, the wheels of the cart bouncing on the cobbles.
Drawn by the sound of headlong hooves, I went to the window that overlooked the courtyard and stared in astonishment as Hawthorn’s cart came through the gate arch at full pelt. Hawthorn was standing up at the front like a Roman charioteer, brand
ishing his whip, while Bronze, his bay coat streaked with sweat, had foam round his mouth, ears laid flat back and eyes ringed with white. I rushed outside.
‘Madam! Mistress Stannard!’ Hawthorn almost fell off the cart in front of me. Simon and Arthur had run to see to the sweating Bronze, and were soothing him and giving Hawthorn indignant looks, which he ignored.
‘I got everything!’ Hawthorn gasped. I had never seen my big and occasionally aggressive chief cook look so panic-stricken. ‘Then I tipped a groom to watch the cart while I went to the inn for a drink and my cousin from Cobbold Hall was there so we drank together and my cousin said … he said …’
‘Said what? Hawthorn, tell me!’
‘Master Cobbold went today to dine with Sir Edward Heron! He came back and … He talks to my cousin a lot, now his wife’s gone. A man has to talk to someone …’
‘I daresay!’
‘He – Master Cobbold – must have got to Sir Edward’s house just after you left. Sir Edward told him of your visit and said in his opinion, the story about the man who got in last night and attacked Brockley here was a tarradiddle and meant to lift suspicion off Brockley – and he’s made up his mind, he’s going to have Brockley arrested again and he’ll see to it within the next two days!’
‘What?’ My stomach began to turn somersaults.
Brockley had appeared from somewhere and was at my side. ‘What’s happening? Hawthorn?’
‘Master Cobbold argued with Sir Edward, it seems,’ said Hawthorn. ‘But Sir Edward was determined, and Master Cobbold’s that upset, that’s why he talked so free to his butler. He’s a law-abiding man; he doesn’t feel he ought to interfere with the law and send to warn you, but he can hardly bear to think of what’s going to happen! Well, my cousin doesn’t like Sir Edward and his conscience isn’t so tender but he wasn’t sure he ought to come and warn you directly, either. But he had the chance of telling me so he did, and left it to me to decide. And I’ve got no doubt! I got back here as fast as Bronze could go and I’ve half-killed him, poor animal, but …’
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