Another Time, Another Place

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Unless he was the decoy and someone was waiting at the top of the stairs to push her down,’ I said.

  ‘In which case why pull a dagger and go to investigate?’

  ‘To report to his man that she was dead. Job done and go.’

  ‘But the dagger . . .’ he said, unconvinced.

  ‘Or it was a genuine accident. Which would be my best guess.’

  Sands frowned. ‘So who was upstairs? Mrs Oddingsells and whatshername? Why didn’t they come down to investigate?’

  ‘They may not have heard anything.’

  He shook his head. ‘We all heard the impact.’

  ‘I bet you another fiver they were both asleep,’ said Evans. ‘Two middle-aged women on a hot, sunny afternoon – of course they were asleep.’

  ‘We can speculate back in the pod,’ said Hyssop. ‘You should be concentrating on our withdrawal.’

  I felt the familiar stab of resentment at Hyssop telling us what to do – even though Markham, had he been here, would have been the first to say, ‘Oi! Less talking – more walking,’ and I’d have been fine with that. I really had to get a grip. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t Markham.

  Without Hyssop’s intervention it is very possible we would have stood there in the hot sun, arguing together for the rest of the afternoon and who knows how that would have ended, but at that moment we heard the sound of horses approaching. Horses, plural. And a grinding, wooden, creaking noise as well. The approaching cloud of dust was certainly large enough to denote horses pulling a coach.

  We couldn’t afford to take any chances. Back through the hedge it was. Mrs Enderby has a phrase – ‘Good God, Max, you look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards’ – well, today I really had. Twice, so far.

  There was a ditch on the other side of the hedge. Fortunately, it had already been cleared in preparation for the autumn rains. All this land had once belonged to the abbey and good land-management habits still prevailed. The ditch made an excellent hiding place and vantage point.

  I straightened my headdress, pulled a long bramble off my sleeve and found a gap in the hedge to peer through. Another set of hoofbeats was approaching. From the opposite direction this time. We’d obviously hit rush hour.

  A familiar big brown horse appeared.

  ‘Shit,’ breathed Sands. ‘It’s Richard Verney. Did he see us? Has he come after us?’

  But Verney clearly wasn’t pursuing anyone. He’d approached at a trot and then pulled over to our side of the road. He was only about four feet away from us. If I peered through the hedge, I could see the dried mud caked on his horse’s legs and four dusty hooves. It was very fortunate we’d tumbled into a ditch and were well below Sir Richard’s eyeline.

  His horse snorted once and then stood quietly. The coach halted almost directly opposite. I say coach but Guilliam Boonen had not yet brought over his design for spring suspension, which would suddenly make coaches more popular. The combination of primitive carriages and rocky roads meant most people either walked or travelled on horseback. This was some kind of closed litter on wheels. The journey must have been beyond bruising.

  Sir Richard doffed his hat. He hadn’t removed his hat for Amy Robsart.

  Shit. No – it couldn’t be. Surely not.

  The leather curtains were pulled tightly across the window. It must have been stifling inside the coach. Who would suffer such discomfort on a hot day like this?

  Someone for whom secrecy was paramount – that was who.

  A part of the curtain was pulled aside. For a moment I couldn’t see a thing – the interior of the coach was very dark. I stood on tiptoe – as if that would make any difference – and then a woman leaned out and my theory collapsed into nothing. She was in her late fifties, with a plump face and an old-fashioned gable headdress very similar to my own.

  Sir Richard bowed and sidled his horse close to the litter.

  They exchanged words. I strained to hear but nothing was distinguishable.

  And then the other curtain stirred. A woman’s small hand appeared, resting on the edge of the coach window. The dark sleeve disappeared into the darkness of the coach but there, on the fourth finger – a ring.

  Beside me, I heard Sands draw a sharp breath.

  Other than her coronation ring, there is one ring particularly associated with Elizabeth I. It’s known as the Chequers Ring. It’s a beautiful thing. A gold ring, encrusted with diamonds, rubies and mother-of-pearl, incorporating a locket supposedly containing a picture of her mother, Anne Boleyn. Elizabeth never took it off. Legend says it had to be cut from her dead body in 1603 and carried to James VI in Scotland as proof that Elizabeth of England was actually dead.

  Supposedly the ring dated from around 1575 but I was certain I recognised it here and now. It was a well-known Elizabethan treasure and occasionally it was put on public display, including, by massive irony as it now dawned on me, at Compton Verney in 2008. I was looking at Elizabeth’s ring and, by extension, presumably Elizabeth herself. Which meant the other ­passenger was probably Kat Ashley. My head was whirling. Queen ­Elizabeth was here. In fact, everyone was here. Amy Robsart, Sir Richard Verney, Elizabeth – it only needed Robert Dudley to come cantering up the road and we’d have the full set.

  Why was she here? On this of all afternoons. Why were any of them here? What the hell was going on?

  I wrenched my attention back to the coach. Sands was still recording like a hero.

  I expected that at the very least Verney would dismount and bow but he did nothing of the kind. Leaning low over his horse’s neck he spoke long and urgently.

  The hand withdrew sharply. A second later the leather curtain was pulled across with a snap. Sir Richard spoke a curt word to the coachman who lashed his horses. They plunged from a standing start to a canter. The litter lurched badly which must have thrown the occupants from one end to the other. With a thunder of hooves and rattle of wheels, both litter and horses disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Sir Richard wheeled his horse around, and sent it galloping after them. In seconds the road was empty. Just the dust slowly settling in the late-afternoon sunshine to show that anyone had ever been here.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Sands, lowering his recorder.

  ‘Agreed,’ I said, ‘but we really can’t hang around here. I strongly suspect this is one of the most dangerous places in England at this moment.’ I turned to Hyssop. Time for her to earn her pay. ‘Get us back to the pod, please. Quick as you can.’

  We followed the road, staying behind the hedge for as long as we could before finally leaving its cover to head back towards the squat church tower in the distance. In all that time the only person we saw was a countrywoman in a wide-brimmed hat and apron, trudging along the hot road with her basket. I wondered if she was on her way back from the fair. And she might not be the only one.

  Where Richard Verney had taken himself off to was a mystery. As far away as he could go was my theory. A veritable shitstorm was heading everyone’s way.

  We approached the church and Cumnor Place with massive caution but there was only silence. Obviously the body hadn’t been discovered yet. I pictured poor Amy, lying at the bottom of the stairs as the dust swirled silently around her. Her sightless eyes staring at nothing. Just dust and silence. Which, I suppose, is what being dead is all about.

  Hyssop led the way along the rough track that ran between the house and the churchyard. There were trees lining the path and we glided silently from one patch of shade to another. Still the sun blazed down. Sands was at Hyssop’s shoulder and Evans and I were right behind. We stuck closely together and we didn’t run. Nothing attracts more attention than running. Especially on a day like this and in clothes like these. I could feel a strange tingling between my shoulder blades. Just waiting for the challenge that would end in our arrest. And almost certain death.

&nbs
p; We skirted the churchyard wall. A small brown snake basked on a flat rock. The sun was sinking in the sky. Amy’s household would surely be returning home at any moment. Half of me wanted to hang around in the churchyard, to try to record their reactions. More than half of me, actually. The smaller, more sensible part was shrieking at me to get back to the pod before we did any damage to this critical point in History. Before the body was discovered and we were blamed. No one was ever brought to justice over Amy’s death. We couldn’t afford to be caught here.

  But . . .

  I stopped. Everyone else stopped dead and looked at me.

  ‘What?’ said Sands.

  ‘We can’t leave it like this. I’m going back to have a bit of a poke around.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said two voices.

  Hyssop compressed her lips. ‘I can’t allow that. Returning to the house for whatever reason is contra-indicated at this moment.’

  I wondered afterwards, if it had been Markham talking, would I have heeded him?

  I wouldn’t have had to. He’d have rolled his eyes, instructed Evans to keep an eye on our rear and probably have beaten me back to Cumnor Place. So I ignored her, telling myself I didn’t have time to argue.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, pulling at my arm. ‘I’m overruling you. I have the authority.’

  I was conscious of time passing and taking our options with it. It was now or never. There are no second chances in this job.

  ‘I’m overruling your overruling,’ I said. ‘Wait in the pod if you’re not coming.’

  Sands lined up with me. Evans stood on neutral ground between me and Hyssop.

  ‘We can’t all go,’ I said, wanting to give him an out.

  ‘If someone has to go then it will be Evans and me,’ said Hyssop, which wasn’t what I’d meant at all.

  ‘You’re not leaving me behind,’ said Sands, massively indignant.

  ‘I’m leaving both of you behind,’ Hyssop said.

  I’d had enough. Time was ticking. Unless I wanted to give her a quick zap with my stun gun – and don’t think I wasn’t tempted – the easiest way to deal with Hyssop was to ignore her, so I left them arguing and quietly set off through the gate towards Cumnor Place again.

  The quadrangle was still silent. Still hot. Still dusty. A few small puddles, drying in the sun, showed where Sir Richard’s horse had drunk from the stone water trough. The doors were all still open.

  I slipped into the hall and made straight for the stairs. Amy was still there, staring sightlessly into the next world. Somewhere, a fly buzzed.

  I whispered, ‘Sorry,’ and stepped over her as carefully as I could and started up the stairs. It wasn’t easy. I had great handfuls of dress in one hand and trailed the other along the outside wall for balance. I took it slowly, placing my feet with great care. The light wasn’t good and I definitely didn’t want the same thing happening to me.

  I’d been right about the intermediate landing – not so much a landing as a wide stair, where I suspected the Dudley household would stand a candle at night, but yes, there was room for a person to conceal himself there – pressed back against the wall and hidden in the shadows – and then there was the second flight of steps. Every step was narrow and sloped downwards. Absolutely lethal. Now that I’d had a chance to see the stairs themselves I was no longer surprised she came such a cropper. I was only surprised there wasn’t a whole heap of bodies at the bottom.

  I made my very cautious way to the top and eased my head slowly above the level of the landing. A long corridor lay before me. Whether this was the famous Long Gallery I had no idea. Nor should I hang around to find out. There were three or four doors, on both sides, all firmly closed.

  Someone nudged me from behind, nearly giving me a heart attack. I very nearly did an Amy Robsart and tumbled all the way back down the stairs. Bloody Hyssop had followed me. I scowled at her and made WTF gestures. She scowled back and nodded to the far end of the gallery where a patch of sunlight streamed through an open doorway on to the wooden floor. Whether she was warning me or instructing me to leave immediately wasn’t clear. I decided to interpret it as encouragement to explore further.

  I was here. Hyssop was with me. Sands and Evans were presumably covering the stairs, because why would they have done the sensible thing and returned to the pod? Everything was still quiet. I could do this. There was time. I set off down the landing, my soft shoes soundless on the wooden floor, and peered cautiously through the open door.

  Now this was interesting.

  Tudor rooms tend to be small but this one was larger than most. The overwhelming impression was of wood. Softly glowing panelling covered the walls. Wide wooden floorboards reflected the sunshine. The ceiling was supported by thick wooden beams.

  It was the layout that intrigued me. A large chair had been carefully set to one side of the empty fireplace. An exquisitely carved footstool had been placed in front of it. Facing the chair on the other side of the hearth was a smaller, lower, altogether plainer chair.

  Furniture tells a story. This told me that someone important was expected. This chair had been brought in especially. This wasn’t its normal position. The simpler chair lived here – I could see the indentations it had made on the floor. And, most convin­cingly, a piece of embroidery was lying on the seat of the lesser chair, the needle still pushed through it. Amy’s embroidery. The piece she had been working on when Sir Richard called up the stairs. I could see it so clearly. She’d heard his call – she’d cast aside her work, hurried to the top of the stairs and . . .

  And what? Fallen headlong was the answer. But how?

  A flagon of wine had been set aside but not poured. The goblet was intricate and looked to be made of silver. Definitely not pewter, anyway, confirming my suspicion an important person had been expected. I think we’ve all worked out who.

  As if in confirmation, a covered dish stood nearby. I lifted the lid to see some sort of tiny, sticky, honey biscuit things. Elizabeth had a very sweet tooth. Famed for it, in fact.

  I looked around. This was a very pleasant lady’s room that must be part of Amy’s apartments. This was why she’d sent everyone to the fair. She’d prepared for a visitor and no witnesses were desired. There was something to be said. Something to be discussed. Something very, very secret.

  But what? Why would Elizabeth trouble herself with Amy Robsart? It’s a bit of a myth that the queen had no women friends at all. There were Kat Ashley and Blanche Parry, to whom Elizabeth showed affectionate loyalty, and who served her all their lives. Then there was Anne Russell, and Catherine Carey, whose death left Elizabeth distraught. But Elizabeth’s was a glittering court and all the other women would have been copies of Elizabeth herself – bright, hard, brilliant women, intelligent, educated, able to hold their own in conversations at all levels. None of them would have been small, mousy little women whose entire world was encompassed within their home. What could the queen and Amy Robsart possibly have to say to each other? They didn’t even occupy the same world.

  This certainly kicked my theory into touch, because if ­Elizabeth had planned to have Amy killed, she wouldn’t risk being seen within a hundred miles of this place. And if Richard Verney was here as go-between, it also seemed unlikely Dudley had schemed to have his wife killed. Was it possible that, after centuries of fruitless speculation, we were in a position to say Amy Robsart’s death had been accidental after all?

  How panicked must Richard Verney have been? The wife of the queen’s favourite lying dead at the foot of the stairs and Elizabeth herself within half a mile of the building. No wonder the driver had whipped up his horses.

  The first thing she’d do would be to ditch that stupid litter. As soon as she was safely out of the area, speed would become more important than secrecy. Her people would find her a couple of swift horses. I wouldn’t mind betting she was halfway back to Windsor by now
, to reappear sometime comfortably far away, cool as a cucumber, all ready to show proper shock and horror at this dreadful news.

  Hyssop twitched my sleeve and nodded out through the door. We hadn’t made a sound. We hadn’t heard a sound either, but we couldn’t stay here much longer. I whipped out my recorder and panned around the room, making sure to include the chair, the wine, the goblet, everything. Hyssop moved to the door and listened.

  When I’d finished, I stuffed the recorder away and we set off back along the landing towards the stairs. Hyssop motioned me to go first and it’s a jolly good thing she did. I seized a great handful of skirt and in the same movement, started down the stairs, grabbing at the central newel for support.

  My hand slipped. Suddenly, I was completely off-balance. Already moving forwards at a fair rate, I had no chance to save myself. I just had time to think ‘shit, this is going to hurt’, when Hyssop grabbed my wide skirts and pulled me back again. I collapsed against the wall, heart going like a hammer, and got my breath back.

  I looked down at my hand. Sticky and shiny. I looked at the central newel post. The light was dim but part of it looked darker.

  Hyssop produced a tiny glowstick. How about that? I wondered what else she had concealed about her person. Reaching over my shoulder she shone the light on to the newel post. I reached out and sniffed. Beeswax. And turpentine. The newel was greased with furniture polish. Was it accidental? Had someone simply not rubbed hard enough to remove the polish? Or was this something more sinister passing itself off as carelessness? Dammit – just as I’d talked myself into thinking Amy’s death was accidental . . . No wonder I’d smelled polish in the house.

  I stood like an idiot, trying to take in all the implications at once. Hyssop was attempting to move me on but first things first. This was why we were here, after all. I had no handkerchief and my headdress was virtually welded to my head. I nudged Hyssop and silently indicated I wanted her headdress. She raised her eyebrows and I scowled threateningly back. Sighing, she pulled it off. I handed her back the cap and used her green velvet veil to remove every trace of polish from the newel. No one knew how Amy had died. History is silent on the subject. No evidence of foul play was ever found. But if I left this scene untouched then it would be. Dudley would get the blame. There would be an almighty scandal that would probably bring down the throne. That couldn’t ever be allowed to happen. So, I cleaned up after a possible murder. And then I handed Hyssop back her greasy veil. She gave me a look but said nothing.