The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Emeline waved the small page under her sister’s nose. “Why ridiculous? Edmund Harris is Papa’s silly secretary, isn’t he? Well of course he helped Papa with the negotiations for my dowry when I was still expected to marry Peter, so he met Peter then. He also used to accompany Papa when he went away anywhere. So if Papa went to Gloucester to see that dreadful woman, then Edmund Harris would have known all about that too. Who else could have known about both? But I admit I’m not sure how that makes him an obvious killer.”

  “Not obvious – no.” The baroness shook her head. “But he’s an odd creature with very large eyes, and has often made me uncomfortable. Nor can I think of anyone else who could possibly have known where and when your wretched Papa visited Gloucester.”

  Sysabel frowned. “Who cares about a secretary?”

  “Murderers have large eyes?”

  “I simply find this young man too clever for his own good, and too involved in matters that should not concern him,” said her mother. “He was always asking questions, and I mentioned his overzealous curiosity to James a few times. Although James approved him, I must say I never did. The creature has accompanied me on this trip, volunteering his services even though I had no need for a secretary and told him so, though brought him in order to keep an eye on him.” She turned suddenly to the far corner and the studiously patient Petronella. “I wondered,” she smiled, “whether a very clever young miss might be prepared to take an interest in this young man, and make friends with him.”

  Petronella stepped forwards and blushed. “If your ladyships says so, then I shall do it of course. But to make friends with a murderer?”

  “I don’t expect he’s anything of the sort,” said Emeline. “And Avice, you seem quite prepared to make friends with Papa’s secretaries. I have an idea you know Edmund Harris quite well. Perhaps you should get to know him better?”

  Avice also blushed. “If you’re going to be horrid, Emma –”

  Emeline interrupted. “So, now! Does anyone else have a suspicion, even a vague guess, and a name to add to our rather short list?”

  “I have a name to add,” mumbled Avice, turning away. “But I can’t say it aloud.”

  “Saying it silently,” her mother pointed out, “is unlikely to help. Or do you expect us to guess?”

  “Names, names,” murmured Aunt Elizabeth. “Such tedious things.”

  “I have a name,” said Sysabel, very quietly as if ashamed to admit it. “You see, Uncle Symond, the earl, has a younger brother. Nicholas seems to enjoy his company although Uncle Jerrid’s just silly and vulgar and resented the fact that Peter would inherit the title while he’d inherit nothing. Being a wastrel, rather like Nicholas himself,” here she smiled apologetically, and continued, “he probably sided with Nicholas against Peter.”

  The Lady Elizabeth, who had appeared to be dozing, now opened one eye and looked sharply at her niece. But it was the baroness who objected. “Why in heaven’s name,” she said, “would such a man wish to kill my husband?”

  Sysabel shook her head. “I cannot really answer that, my lady. But I have a small theory, if I might suggest it? I do not wish to speak out of place, but I expect it will be no surprise to Emma to hear that Nicholas was always most envious of Peter’s skills and position. No doubt Nicholas spoke of this to his Uncle Jerrid, saying he wished Peter would somehow disappear. Thinking to help his favourite nephew, who knows what might have happened? Then you see, on his way to Wrotham after his time sick in London, Nicholas may well have seen and followed the baron. He would have been curious, perhaps, to see him in the back streets of Gloucester, and then discovered him entertaining his mistress. Well, being loyal to Emma he might have felt – and he does have quite a temper as I am well aware myself –”

  “Are you suggesting your Uncle Jerrid as the killer,” said Emeline suddenly going very white, “or are you actually suggesting my husband?”

  Sysabel again shook her head. “I thought perhaps if Nicholas informed Uncle Jerrid, – and then, having committed murder already, killing Peter, you see, believed a second time could endanger his soul no further. Therefore, decided to do Nicholas another favour?”

  Avice scowled. “You say Nicholas could have found out on his way back – but this murderous Uncle Jerrid of yours couldn’t have known a thing about my Papa. Your uncle was back in Westminster.”

  “Uncle Jerrid comes and goes,” sighed Sysabel, “and being of little importance he has no official position at court and has very small quarters there. He could have travelled back with Nicholas. How would we know?”

  Emeline leaned back heavily against the pillows again. “Nicholas has never said very much about him, and has never taken me to meet him. He certainly never told me his Uncle Jerrid was capable of committing murder, especially for such inconsequential motives.”

  “If it happened, then Nicholas would have known. But he could hardly have admitted it.”

  “But,” Emeline pointed out, “he didn’t join us on the road. And Nicholas would never, ever condone such a thing.”

  “You must certainly remain loyal to your husband,” Sysabel murmured.

  Emeline bit her lip and turned hurriedly to Avice. “Go on then, Avice. Who is this one mysterious name on your list? Sysabel is brave enough to accuse her own uncle, not to mention implicating Nicholas. So you might as well speak out as well.”

  Avice sniffed, looked around, cuddled her knees a little tighter, stared down, took a deep breath and spoke to no one in particular. “Adrian,” she said.

  There was a short silence.

  Sysabel’s blue eyes appeared to brighten. Two little spots of colour shone like rouge in the middle of her cheeks. For a moment she seemed to swell, as though in preparation for something. Then she squeezed her eyes shut, fisted both hands, opened her mouth very wide, and began to squeal. Pitched high like a whistle, at first the sound rose and rose in a thin wail of fury. But then the squeal became a scream. Sysabel beat her fists on the counterpane, and stamped both feet on the ground. At her back the bedpost vibrated and the mattress shook. Both Emeline and Avice seated at the head of the bed, bounced in unison. Everyone stared wordlessly at Sysabel. Both maids backed silently into deeper shadows. Nurse Martha stood, anxious, awaiting orders. Aunt Elizabeth sighed, muttered something no one could hear, and closed her eyes. Finally the baroness stood, came around the foot of the bed, stood over Sysabel, and abruptly emptied her cup of light ale over the girl’s head.

  Sysabel seemed not to notice. The thin liquid seeped amongst her blonde curls and formed two twinkling trickles down her face, finally dripping from her chin to soak the neckline of her small busted gown, turning the cream fichu dark. Sysabel continued to scream. So the baroness leaned forwards and slapped her sharply across the cheek.

  The girl stopped screaming, looked up, gasped, catching her breath, reached for the fallen cup of ale and threw it directly at Avice. Not a bad aim and too close to miss entirely, the heavy pewter cup clipped Avice on the ear. Avice howled and hurled herself at Sysabel. Emeline caught her rushed offensive, both arms around her sister’s waist. Hauled backwards, Avice struggled. Sysabel stood in a hurry, backing quickly from the bed’s shadows. Behind her, apple blossom fading, Aunt Elizabeth hiccupped and began faintly to remonstrate. “These young people,” she complained to the ceiling beams, “such excitement, such energy.”

  Martha stood, quickly strode to Sysabel and took her by both shoulders, turning her away from Avice. The baroness stepped forwards again, ignored her tussling daughter and claimed Sysabel from Martha’s containment. “This is the most shocking behaviour, young lady,” the baroness told her, “and you will never ever again behave this way in my presence.” Sysabel sagged, looking down and saying nothing. “I hope that is understood,” continued the baroness. “Loyalty to your brother, a disagreement on the facts, an explanation of his certain innocence, all these are the proper response. Indeed, I might have admonished Avice for being so outspoken. But this exhibition of
temper helps no one” She looked across at Avice, who had relapsed back against the pillows. “I thought,” she said, “you two young things were firm friends.”

  Avice sniffed and once again cuddled her knees. “We were. We are. But she said nasty things about Nicholas which isn’t fair to Emma. And anyway, I used to really – like – Adrian. Now I don’t. And I think he could have killed Peter, and Papa, and all sorts of other people if he wanted to. I wouldn’t have said so in front of Sissy, but Emma told me to be brave. So I said it.”

  Aunt Elizabeth opened her eyes and stared bright blue accusation at her niece. “Standards,” she said loudly and with unexpected clarity, “are being sadly eroded as we speak.” She swept up her train, looping the pale pink damask over her lap as she turned to the baroness. “I apologise, my lady, for such unruly disregard of the proprieties.” And back again to Sysabel, “remembering, young woman, that the reputations of the Fryes and Chatwyns, being ancient and noble houses, must never be undermined. And also remembering that you can be carried back to Nottingham within an instant, should I decide you have outstayed your welcome.”

  “Oh dear,” mumbled Emeline. Sysabel had crumpled to the little stool beside the bed, and now sat regaining her breath.

  “Then I believe it is time to go downstairs for supper,” announced the baroness. “This discussion can be resumed later on, if everyone will stay calm and sensible. Sysabel, you must present your reasons for your brother’s innocence, and we will all listen carefully, I promise you. Personally, I do not suspect him at all. It is the common man and the gutter dweller who more usually turn to crime. But we, who need be conscious of our station, must remember decorum. Nor do I have the slightest desire to have his lordship overhear our arguments, and perhaps involve himself. He would not be welcome.”

  “I shall take my niece to my bedchamber,” decided Aunt Elizabeth, reluctantly staggering to her feet. “Help me up, girl,” she beckoned to Hilda. “And come with us to help Sysabel rearrange her hair and look respectable for supper.” She gazed sadly at the baroness, shaking her head. “A most unfortunate – my niece has a temper, my lady, and can be petulant. Our apologies. The child is still young, and without parents, has pleased herself too long. It troubles Adrian, and I have tried, on his behalf, to curb her tantrums. To no avail. I shall speak firmly to her before we join you in the hall.”

  The baroness waved her apologies aside. “No matter, no matter, madam. Everyone is hot, bothered and basted, since these are such difficult discussions, and the warm weather sends the blood to the head more quickly. I trust Sysabel will feel better after supper.”

  Lady Elizabeth’s nose twitched, both eyes once again adopting an unexpectedly formidable glint. “Indeed she will, my lady,” said Sysabel’s aged aunt.

  The baroness stood only a moment, the disputed paper crushed between her fingers. She looked at it briefly, nodded, and folded it small. Then she smiled and tucked it into the depths of her cleavage.

  It was impossible to discuss anything further over supper. Swelling with suspicion and intrigue, the women glanced, smiled, glowered and indicated with always one eye to the solitary figure of the earl in their midst’s.

  Much accustomed to being left frequently and entirely alone by all his relatives, his lordship was not offended at having been abandoned all afternoon to sleep in his chair. His fuzz of greying hair had fallen across his face and he had snored gently until abruptly awoken by the clinks and clatter announcing the laying of the great table. He now appeared quite unaware of the unusual undercurrents seething around him. Sysabel, with her aunt unusually close at her side, appeared particularly subdued, her light blue eyes more than normally watery. Avice was also unexpectedly well mannered, attending in silence to the short prayer and then to her platter. Sir Adrian did not join them, and conveyed no excuses, but the earl seemed pleased enough to be surrounded only by women. “Spent my life surrounded by men, you know,” he informed the baroness. “Sons, brothers. Been a bachelor for years. Nice to see a pretty face for a change.”

  “How tragic,” sighed the baroness, “to lose your wife so young. Having now lost my husband, I do sympathise, my lord.”

  “Umm,” said the earl. He signalled to the serving boy and pointed cheerfully to the platter of tripe baked in beef dripping and the half empty wine jug. “Should have been off to Spain,” he continued. “Chosen specially by the king – emissary – marriage negotiations. The boy spoiled it, you know. Scandal. The king thought it better – well, the mission was a delicate one. Isabella of Castile. His highness aiming to combine his York with the Lancastrian dynasty of course, and stop all that old animosity. Spanish princess is fourteenth in line, you know.”

  “But the Portuguese Princess Joanna is third in line,” nodded the baroness patiently. “So that is the marriage most seriously considered, I believe. And the Portuguese king is eager, and has offered his nephew Manuel for our young Elizabeth, King Edward’s eldest daughter. Indeed, we all await the happy conclusion, and a wedding date set.”

  “Humph,” said the earl and took his spoon to his platter.

  Emeline nibbled a spiced oat cake, wiped her fingers on her napkin, and attempted to be polite although clearly her thoughts were principally on quite other matters. There were no apple codlings. “Such endless conspiracies,” she said, with a brief and poignant glance at her sister. “Nicholas was talking about the line of succession recently. But the Lancastrians have surely stopped expecting to claim back power? After Tewkesbury so many years ago – then King Edward’s long peaceful reign. And now King Richard –”

  ‘Nicholas talking?” the earl said, nose reappearing abruptly from his cup. “Wretched boy doesn’t know a Lancastrian from a pigeon. Besides, the whole pack is pretty much scattered. There’s that traitor De Vere, and a few Nevilles muttering under their breath. But Nicholas should know better. Not that he ever knows better. No right to go disturbing a lady’s peaceful nights with fears of bloodshed and battle.”

  Emeline blinked. “He was only discussing – and it was more a question of marriage – but surely there are many women who are most interested in politics – and some very notable and intelligent ladies –”

  “Not a female’s natural place, my dear, not at all,” and refilled his cup.

  “So I shall attempt to confine myself to proper female interests, such as the turquoise silk now awaiting the seamstress in my bedchamber,” muttered Emeline with a secret smile. “So many – delightful prospects – awaiting in my bedchamber. Paper and ink, for instance. Lists of – let us say – possibilities. Idle pastimes perhaps, the following of – new paths, and the prospect of just exactly what we ladies intend to do about them. Would that seem proper female behaviour, my lord?”

  The baroness sighed, and the earl smiled and said, “No doubt, my dear, no doubt. Sounds most respectable. Turquoise silk? You will look very pretty, I’m sure.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Never,” said the earl earnestly, “been a man to air my shorrowsh, nor bewail my fate. Nor shirk my dutiesh, of coursh.” His eyes failed to focus, but it was his daughter-in-law he addressed. “Been around, you know m’dear, and sheen shush dangers and shadnesh. Lived through it all, shtaggered on besht as may. Wife gone. Little babiesh gone. Peter – ah, Peter. The trashedy of it all, and shush a hard burden. I mish him, you know. Shpect you do too.”

  Emeline sighed. “I cannot claim to miss him, my lord. I barely knew him.”

  The earl shook his head, though the subsequent vibration spilled the overflowing wine cup which he still grasped. “Thought you did, m’dear. Like him, I mean. Peter shaid – well, no point r’membring now. Marriage. Never eashy. But you’d’ve been happy – wife, that ish – to my Peter. But you’re a good girl, now making do with second besht.”

  Sitting a little straighter, Emeline looked around desperately for her mother’s help. “I am proud, sir,” she said, “to be wife to Nicholas.”

  “Ah. Young Nick.” The earl was slip
ping downwards within the chair, his rump sliding forwards on the polished wood, his legs stretching further out. “Bit of a washtrel, y’know. I tried. Peter tried. No avail. Maybe it wash the businessh of hish mother. Hard to watch little babiesh die of coursh. Hurt him. Never wanted to do mush after that. Jusht making a damn fool of himshelf. Nor never close to me. Not obedient lad. Didn’t like hish brother either.” The earl sighed, struggling to stay upright. “Envy, y’know. Jealoushy. Competishon. Not unushual with boysh.”

  Emeline waited, trying to ignore the temptation. Finally, exhaling deeply, she relented. “Why, I wonder,” she asked softly, “did Nicholas dislike his brother? I find it hard to believe, my lord, that jealousy motivated that dislike.”

  The earl managed to drain his cup, spilled a little down his velvets, and hiccupped. “Ah,” he said with a conspiratorial nod. “Peter older. Would’ve got the lot, y’know. Title. Cashle. Housh. Land.” He thought a moment, but could not remember any other specific benefits. “Young Nick, well, into the church pr’apsh. Peter wash the clever one. Had all the girlsh falling at hish feet.”

  Unable to think of any tactful argument, Emeline turned, looking for escape. The baroness sat at some distance, Avice close at her side. Behind her Petronella stood in timid silence. It was the secretary Edmund Harris who was their sudden interest, summoned to stand before them and clearly taking this as a compliment. “Mister Harris,” indicated the baroness with unexpected friendliness, “please sit down.” He sat very upright on the most forward edge of his seat, knees together and hands clasped.

  “It is, my lady, an honour. I am, I assure you, at your ladyship’s service in whatever you might consider. I am experienced and qualified in Latin, scribing, in numeracy, in matters of basic law and justice, and in the keeping of records. I was, I believe, much trusted by his lordship the baron, my lady, and never had cause to believe myself out of favour.”