‘It doesn’t harm a child to have discipline in their upbringing, Filomena,’ said Mother, pointing at Hugh, just as the boy was trying to bite my hand in order to effect an escape from my grip. ‘Alice Cross would soon sort out this little monster.’
I intervened before the argument escalated. ‘We are not leaving Simon at Castle Eden, Mother. That’s the end of it. If we live to see the spring, then the child will return to Somershill with us.’
Mother poked her nose in the air at this. ‘Well, at least it’s a child for your wife, Oswald,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It doesn’t seem that she will ever have another one of her own.’
‘Be quiet,’ seethed Filomena. ‘This is not your business.’
Mother stood up from her chair and then breezed over to the window. ‘I don’t expect Filomena has said anything yet, Oswald. But she suffered her monthly bleeding while you were away from the castle. It seems she wasn’t carrying a child after all.’
‘Filomena’s right,’ I said. ‘That isn’t your business.’
‘I just thought you should know,’ said Mother. ‘A wife should not hide such matters from her husband.’
I looked at Filomena and saw that her cheeks had lost their colour, so I dropped Hugh to the floor and then knelt down beside her, trying to whisper so that Mother could not hear us. ‘I’m sorry, Filomena,’ I said.
‘Please don’t be,’ she answered. ‘I was happy it happened. We are locked in this castle, in fear of plague. This is no time to be carrying a child.’
I touched her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, nonetheless,’ I whispered.
She grasped my hand for a moment and then pushed it lightly away. ‘Hugh needs to have a sleep,’ she said curtly. ‘He’s tired.’
As Filomena led Hugh through the door to the other chamber, he grasped at her skirts, begging to be lifted into her arms as baby Simon had been. When they were out of earshot, I turned to Mother. ‘Why do you do it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, flicking an imaginary mote of dust from her cheek.
‘Why do you delight in being so cruel?’
I had expected her to repudiate this accusation, but instead she mustered a laugh. ‘Why do you think I do it, Oswald?’ she said, before she turned to look me in the eye. ‘If I don’t speak my mind in plain terms, then I am constantly ignored. I might as well be one of Hugh’s wooden puppets. Sat in the corner and forgotten.’
‘There are other ways of getting attention, Mother. You could try being kinder?’
‘Why on earth should I do that, Oswald?’ She continued before I could answer. ‘Because that’s what you expect of an old woman? Is that it?’ She let out a loud laugh. ‘What nonsense. I was not kind as a young woman. So, why on earth should I start being kind now?’
The argument might have escalated, but we were interrupted by a furtive knock at the door. I answered to find that our visitor was Old Simon, asking to look at Godfrey’s letter. As the old monk shuffled into the room, I caught Edwin’s profile in the passageway outside, waiting in the shadows for his uncle’s verdict on the authenticity of this document. I made sure to shut the door on him, for this man would not gain admittance to our chambers.
Once I had also asked my mother to leave the room, I then retrieved the letter from my scrip and passed it over to the old man’s gnarled and shaking hands. He studied the broken seal but did not unfold the parchment. ‘You say that you found this letter in the home of Godfrey’s wife?’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Yes. And Godfrey gave me an identical letter on the night that he was murdered.’ I nodded towards the door, knowing that Edwin was still waiting on the other side. ‘You should know that Godfrey was planning to leave the next day, so that he could bring his wife and son back into the safety of this castle. He gave me that letter for safekeeping, in case he died on this mission. He was afraid that his brother would not recognise his son’s claim to Eden in the event of his death.’ I paused. ‘With every justification, I believe. Given that Edwin paid Hans to steal that letter from me, so that he could destroy it.’
The old monk smacked his lips at this, before he shuffled over to the window and unfolded the letter so that he could read it in the daylight. He scrutinised it for a while, muttering some words to himself, until he passed it back to me with a sigh. ‘It does seem genuine,’ he said, in a regretful tone. ‘I recognise Godfrey’s handwriting.’
‘It is genuine,’ I said, correcting him. ‘And I expect you to confirm this to your nephew.’ I cleared my throat. ‘And then I expect you to acknowledge Godfrey’s son as the new Lord Eden.’
‘Yes, very well,’ he said with a doleful bow of his head. ‘But may I see the boy first?’
I led him into the adjoining room where Mother, Filomena and Sandro were gathered about the wooden box where Simon slept. Hugh was stroking Simon’s hair with one of his small and pudgy fingers, in an attempt to look interested in his new rival. I asked them all to stand aside for a moment, so that Old Simon could look down upon the boy’s face.
The monk crossed himself, said a few words of prayer and then leant his head over the sleeping child. The baby had red hair, just like his father’s, but now that I also took the time to study his tiny features, I could see that there was also a look of his uncle Edwin, and his great-uncle Old Simon. There was even a look of Alice Cross about the child’s face.
When Old Simon made no comment, I said, ‘He is his father’s likeness, don’t you agree?’
The old monk sighed again. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It seems that he is.’ He then marked the sign of the cross upon the baby’s forehead and hobbled out of this side room, heading back towards the door to the stairwell. He bowed his head in more prayer and then opened the door to find Edwin waiting anxiously for his verdict.
‘Well?’ said Edwin.
Old Simon gently put his hand upon Edwin’s shoulder. ‘The letter is genuine. The child is the rightful heir.’
Edwin pushed his uncle’s hand away and then let out a growl that resounded about the stairwell. ‘De Lacy is tricking you,’ he screamed. ‘Even if the letter is genuine. We have no proof that this child is Godfrey’s son.’
‘I have seen the boy myself,’ said Old Simon. ‘He bears the likeness of your brother.’
‘This is nonsense!’ Edwin shouted, before he let out another great howl, tearing down the stairs, as he voiced a string of curses.
Old Simon turned back to me, almost apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Somershill,’ he said. ‘This is difficult for my nephew. But Edwin will come to accept the boy. You must understand. It’s a shock for him.’ He suddenly placed a hand against his chest. ‘It is a shock for all of us.’
‘I cannot leave Simon here,’ I said. ‘The child will return with us to Somershill in the spring.’
The old man frowned. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ he said. ‘Edwin would not harm the child.’
I wanted to laugh at his naivety. ‘Let me keep him at Somershill,’ I said. ‘At least, until Edwin has become used to the idea.’
Another wearied look passed over his face. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that is the wisest path in the circumstances.’ He turned his eyes to mine. They were the strangest shade of blue in this light. No longer opaque and watery, suddenly they seemed bright and focused. ‘I see that there is some good in you at last, Lord Somershill. My prayers have been answered.’
The monk had barely left our apartment, when the first of our many other visitors arrived. It was almost as if they had formed a queue in the stairwell. It was Pieter de Groot, his eyes reddened and his face swollen with tears. I could offer him little consolation about Hans’s death, though I soon realised that he hadn’t come here looking for sympathy. Instead, he wanted to question me – keen to know if I had actually spoken to his nephew before he died. When I asked de Groot why this was so important to him, he maintained that he only wanted to know if Hans had admitted to the crimes with his own lips. When I revealed that I had
not spoken to Hans myself, de Groot seemed strangely relieved. The sobbing ended, and he trotted out of the room with something akin to a smile upon his face.
Alice Cross was our next visitor. She arrived with the cook – a woman who was rarely seen outside of the kitchen. The pair pretended to be interested in what treats we would like to eat for supper, though how she was planning to meet any requests, I could not say. The best foods had been destroyed in the fire that also killed The Fool – and we were faced with eating dried peas and cabbage for the rest of the winter.
This pair couldn’t keep the pretence up for long, as their gaping faces and lingering stares soon gave away their true purpose. In reality, they wanted to check that we were truly clear of plague, in case I had somehow hidden a bubo beneath my collar. What Alice Cross didn’t realise, as she scrutinised me, was that I was returning the favour. Was this woman Edwin and Godfrey’s illegitimate sister, as my mother had asserted? Now that this seed was sown, I couldn’t help but see the Eden family in her face.
Once I had dismissed Alice Cross and the cook from our apartment, it was only moments before our next visitor arrived. This time it was Robert of Lyndham, who embraced me warmly for the second time that day, before revealing the true reason for his visit – wanting to know more details about Hans and the manner of his death. Like de Groot, Lyndham wanted to know if the Dutchman had confessed to the murders before he died. It felt uncomfortable to be lying about this again, but equally I was not yet ready to reveal the truth about Hans to Lyndham, nor anybody else in this castle for that matter. Instead, I told Lyndham that Hans had begged Abigail so desperately for forgiveness on his deathbed, that I was more than satisfied of his guilt. He was the killer we had been seeking, and now, thankfully, he was dead. My story mollified Lyndham for now, and he would learn the true story soon enough.
Our last visitors were Lady Isobel and her stepdaughter Lady Emma. Ostensibly Lady Isobel wanted to thank me for hunting down her husband’s killer, but I think she was also keen to examine me for any signs of plague. During our short conversation we were constantly interrupted by the antics of Lady Emma, who kept peeping around her stepmother’s skirts to spy upon Sandro. Each time their eyes met, the girl then coyly put her hands over her face, before squealing in a high-pitched giggle. It was pleasing to see Emma happy for once, but Lady Isobel seemed irritated rather than heartened by her mood. When she couldn’t tolerate Emma’s game any longer, she scowled at Sandro, grasped her stepdaughter by the hand and then dragged the girl from the room. As they descended the stairs, we heard Lady Isobel berate her stepdaughter for associating with servants, claiming that it belittled the standing of their family.
Now that we were finally alone, I turned to Sandro. ‘Is that everybody?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘They have all come to see us. Each one of them.’
‘Come on, then,’ I said. ‘It’s time.’
Sandro’s face brightened. ‘Time for what, Master Oswald?’
‘To catch a killer.’
Chapter Thirty-one
Alice Cross was never a difficult person to find within the confines of this castle. That afternoon, she was sweeping the cobblestones of the inner ward, taking advantage of the last rays of daylight, before dusk fell. The moon was already lurking above us, hanging awkwardly in the sky like a guest who’s turned up too early for supper.
‘Ah, Mistress Cross,’ I said warmly, as I strode across the courtyard to greet her. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
She drew her broom close to her chest, alarmed at my geniality. ‘Oh yes, my Lord?’ she said suspiciously.
I nodded at Sandro, gesturing for him to leave us alone for a moment, before I stepped a little closer to the woman. ‘I was hoping that you could help me with something.’ I said, before turning to look over my shoulder.
She flushed. ‘Oh yes?’ she said, now bristling with suspicion.
‘It’s a delicate matter,’ I whispered. ‘To do with Godfrey’s wife and something that she told me on her deathbed.’ Alice Cross’s cheeks reddened, but she did not answer this. ‘Apparently there is a hidden compartment in Godfrey’s library,’ I continued. ‘It’s where he was hiding some very important work.’
This time she was shocked into making a response. ‘I’ve never heard of anything like that before,’ she said. ‘I can’t help you.’
I paused. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said, making sure to add a sigh of disappointment. ‘You see, I was hoping that you might be able to help me find this compartment. But never mind,’ I said, ‘I just thought I’d ask.’
Our eyes locked for a few moments before she looked away. ‘I’m sorry, my Lord,’ she said with uncharacteristic courtesy. ‘I don’t know anything about such matters. I was rarely allowed into Lord Eden’s library.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll just have to go and look ourselves. Sandro and I should be able to work out where it is, from the description I was given.’ I bowed my head to her. ‘Perhaps you’d like to help us search?’
Her eyes flashed with panic. ‘No, no, my Lord. I’m sorry, I can’t do that. I promised the cook that I’d light the bread oven.’ She then curtseyed to me, before scuttling away in the opposite direction across the inner ward – her dress bunched up in a bulge at her bottom, so that she looked like an escaping hedgehog.
Sandro turned to me with a smile. ‘Has it worked, Master Oswald?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think it has.’
The key to Godfrey’s library was still in my possession, so this room had not been opened since I locked it, many days previously. I pushed at the heavy door to release the usual billow of cold and stale air into the passageway, before stepping inside a room that now smelt as damp as a cellar. I pulled back the shutters to let some light creep in, and then headed for the hearth, running my hands along the two stone corbels that supported the hood of this monumental fireplace. These stones fitted together so smoothly that it was hard to believe one of them could be depressed to reveal a secret cranny. But then again, I remembered that this compartment had been built to Godfrey’s exacting standards. He was nothing, if not the champion of ingenuity.
Despite this, however, I was unable to move either of the corbels, prompting me to question Abigail’s directions. After all, I doubted that she had ever been to this library herself, so she could only rely upon Godfrey’s description as to the location of this hiding hole.
I cursed loudly until Sandro made a suggestion. ‘Would you like me to try, Master Oswald?’ he asked.
‘The stones won’t move,’ I said, allowing a note of irritation to creep into my voice. ‘I think Abigail was wrong about this.’
Sandro smiled. ‘Please. Let me try.’ He cleared his throat. ‘If you remember, Master Oswald, I was very good at opening doors and locks in Venice.’
I stood back and bowed my head to my valet, acknowledging this truth – for Sandro had honed a full set of such larcenous skills in his first career as a thief. ‘Very well then,’ I said. ‘But hurry up. They’re coming.’ I had already heard somebody lift the latch on the door at the bottom of the stairwell.
Sandro placed his fingers around each of the corbels and then lightly felt along the individual stones, until he concentrated on the corbel to the left of the hearth. ‘It’s this one,’ he said, splaying his hands across the stone and cautiously pushing, as if he were pressing butter into a mould. ‘I can feel some movement in it.’
At first nothing happened, but then the stone gave way, rotating slowly on a protruding tenon in the block below. When the corbel had revolved outwards, Sandro was able to reach inside the dark void that lay behind this masonry, and pull out a manuscript that was bound in leather.
‘Is this what you were looking for?’ he asked, passing the book to me.
‘Yes,’ I said, as the manuscript fell open. The words were written in the reddish-brown of gall ink, and the pages w
ere unadorned with any decoration. The writing looked almost childish at first glance, until I recognised the words from the gospel of Matthew. I had never seen these verses written in English before, and I must admit that the effect was powerful.
The field is the world; but the good seed are the sons of God’s kingdom, and the weeds are evil children. The enemy that sows the weeds is the Devil. The harvest is the ending of the world, and the reapers are angels. The weeds will be gathered and burnt. So shall it be at the ending of the world.
Sandro peered over my shoulder, clearly unimpressed with this small booklet. Perhaps he had expected to retrieve a grand piece of jewellery, or a large purse of coins.
‘It’s a translation of the New Testament. It was Godfrey’s life’s work.’
Sandro squinted at me, unable to muster any excitement at this revelation.
I was about to explain the importance of this small book to my valet, when our visitor finally arrived. The door swung open and he entered, obscured at first by the gloom of the passageway – but when he stepped forward, his loitering, lupine form dissolved into a familiar, benevolent shape. It was the monk, Old Simon.
He creased his face into a smile. ‘Is that you, Lord Somershill?’ he said. ‘I heard noises in here.’
‘Yes, Father. I’m here with my valet, Sandro.’
‘I was passing by, and saw that the door was open.’
‘You were passing by?’ I said. ‘Where were you going exactly?’
He paused, immediately aware of his mistake. ‘Yes. I should say, I came here to look in on this room when Mistress Cross told me that you had opened the door again,’ he said quickly. ‘This library has been locked up for a number of days. And as I told you before, I am concerned about the damage that this damp is causing to the precious books.’ He stepped towards me with his hand outstretched. ‘Now, what’s that you have there? Is it from this library?’
‘This?’ I said, lifting the manuscript out of his reach. ‘I’ve just found it. It was something that Godfrey was working on. It seems that he had hidden it behind one of the corbels in the fireplace.’
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