‘Or at least panic on the part of her Dutch masters. But how could these men have known you were pursuing her so soon? Then again, she could have been killed for another reason entirely. Say … a jealous husband, if he knew what she was up to?’
‘That seems too much.’ An approaching movement caught her eye. ‘But enough of this now.’
The man who had come to her aid in the grounds was walking in their direction. Now that she had the chance, she could see he was well dressed, a courtier of sorts, but he was not wearing the finest silk shirts of the highest nobility. Instead he was more soberly attired, a woollen jacket hooked into simple breeches. In his hand he held a bandage, and on his lightly freckled face, a pitying concern.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘This may help.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘I am sorry to trouble you, Mr …’
‘Malvern. Giles Malvern. And it is no trouble, not after what you have witnessed.’ He weaved the bandage in dextrous loops, tying it gently into itself. ‘This will keep the sprain from catching.’
She looked at her wrist. ‘You have some skill, Mr Malvern.’
‘I should have. I am a barber surgeon in the King’s fleet, or I was.’ Smiling, he got to his feet. ‘When I see someone hurt I am drawn to help.’
‘My manservant was a sailor at one time,’ she said. ‘On the Hero, Nicholas, was it not?’
‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘As farrier to the horse.’
‘Edward Markstone’s old ship,’ said Malvern. ‘Then you have left the fleet, I take it?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘I found employment with Mrs Blakewood.’
‘Well, my man. Make sure you take care of your mistress. This must have been a terrible fright.’
‘I am quite well, Mr Malvern,’ she said.
‘Still, I would rest for a few days. Stay in your bed, take a walk in the park. Nothing more wearing.’
She indulged him with a short bow.
‘And you, my man,’ he repeated, looking again at Nicholas. ‘This Dutch war will be fought at sea. Strong tars like you are always needed.’ His face faltered. ‘But I am sorry, my lady. I should not be encouraging your servants to abandon you. Please forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive. I wish we could have met in less dreadful circumstances, Mr Malvern.’
He bowed. ‘I hope you can forget this … incident, in time. Keep the bandage tight for a couple of days, and if the pain is easing, then remove it.’ His freckles seemed to dance as he smiled. ‘And remember. You should rest.’
The bandage helped, in truth, but the shock of the murders may have had more to do with distracting her mind from the pain. As for rest, that was impossible. While everyone else was still stood on the drive, waiting to get a glimpse as the bodies were brought out, Mercia spoke again with Lady Allcot’s maid, but the devastated girl could barely speak. Nor did anything come of her search of her rooms, and with nothing else they could do at Hampton Court, they left the awful scene behind, in place if not in thought. The boatmen who had brought them upriver broke off their excited conversation to glance at her bandaged wrist, but they said nothing as she stooped inside the cabin of the barge, drawing the blind half-shut.
Dusk was enveloping London as they arrived into Whitehall, but the trials of the day were not yet over. Returning to her chambers, Phibae handed her a freshly sealed summons to attend Lady Castlemaine that same evening. It seemed news had travelled fast, but then the day’s events had ensured that it would.
Wanting to calm herself beforehand, she took a quick stroll with Sir William in the Privy Garden, but not only to soothe her fractured spirit. The nobleman had just returned from an interview with the French delegation at Court, enquiring after their missing compatriot from the description Mercia had been able to impart.
‘His name is Julien Bellecour,’ he said, as they circumvented the magnificent sundial. ‘But the French will say nothing about his affair with Lady Allcot, save they see nothing wrong in it. And they would be right.’
‘What of Sir Geoffrey?’ she asked.
‘He refuses to talk of it. When he was told of his wife’s indiscretion, he turned red in the face and walked straight from the room, the pompous rogue, as though that were more offensive than her murder.’ He sniffed. ‘Still, if she had been more discreet, then—’
‘Then what, Sir William? The woman has been killed.’
He peered from under his ostrich-feathered hat. ‘Are you sure you are well? Witnessing such an act must have been—’
‘I will be,’ she snapped, but then she sighed. ‘I am sorry, Sir William. I know you are asking from kindness.’
He set a hand on her shoulder. ‘Do you think she was Virgo? You will be asked.’
She thought a moment. ‘I think ’tis possible. Her maid confessed how Lady Allcot had been seeing this Bellecour for at least some weeks, but he is French, not Dutch. Still, he did not flee without a reason. If he is involved, the most likely explanation is he is as much in their employ as she was.’
Sir William sucked in his cheeks. ‘Mercia, if you are proposing Bellecour could be complicit in spying for Holland, His Majesty will not take kindly to hearing so. He needs French support for the war.’
‘’Tis just a notion. There is no evidence.’
‘Even if there were, the King would need persuading to broach the subject with the French, for fear of appearing untrusting.’ He scoffed. ‘’Tis a secret and charmed life, that of a diplomat. I have had to deal with many such sneaking characters in my time.’
‘Suitable protection to liaise with spies at a foreign Court, then,’ she mused. ‘In the meantime, I will continue to consider the other women suspect. And hope I can convince Lady Castlemaine that her faith in me was well placed.’
On opening the summons, she had swapped the dress that had been scuffed in the tussle for an inoffensive ensemble of blue and white, although the neckline plunged enough to show off her ample necklace. As ever, Phibae had set her topknot tight, her ringlets tumbling anew over the silver wires, but she had declined a face patch as too frivolous for the mood. As for the bandage, she made sure it was hidden beneath a pair of black gloves.
She approached the room where the summons had bid her come, but in place of a lady-in-waiting, a pair of liveried guardsmen stepped to the side to allow her in. Uncertain, she entered the well-lit room and dropped to an immediate curtsey. But when she raised her face, her stomach gave out from beneath her. Expecting Lady Castlemaine alone, she was confronted by a much more awkward prospect.
‘Your Majesty,’ she managed, resuming her curtsey, eyes trained on the hems of her dress.
‘Mrs Blakewood. Returned in triumph from America. Please, rise.’
It was the King himself. There was something warm in his acknowledgment, but her heart was still pounding. She knew better than to look up yet.
‘My brother and I would like to thank you for your efforts,’ he continued. ‘And to atone for what has been a day of considerable distress, I should like to share with you this.’
She rose to stand, making sure to hold herself erect. Keeping her gaze averted from the King’s, she saw matters were yet worse than she had thought. Beside him stood his brother, the Duke of York, behind whom a third figure, supported by the aid of a cane, looked down with undisguised contempt. Ignoring her uncle’s scorn, she dared a glance at Lady Castlemaine, staring out on the river, looking for all the world bored. But then her eyes followed the line of the King’s outstretched arm to a portrait above the fireplace, an intricate work of art, and her heart beat faster still.
‘The painting!’ For an instant she forgot about Lady Allcot. ‘Your Majesty has received it!’
‘Three months ago.’ The pleasure in his voice was evident. ‘It was sent from New York while you were visiting the Governor of Connecticut, I believe.’ He walked into her line of view. ‘Hard to believe this child is me, no?’
At last she looked on the King, his rich black wig
falling over his shoulders much lower than her own hair covered hers, before she looked anew on the painting on the wall, a family portrait she knew intimately: the same the King had so desired, the same she had crossed the ocean to retrieve.
‘It is magnificent, Your Majesty,’ she said, unable to keep the wonder from her voice. ‘Especially so here at Whitehall, where it should always have hung.’
‘And I have you to thank for it,’ said Charles. ‘My father’s family portrait, thought burnt and now restored.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘I have stood here, Mrs Blakewood, every day since it was returned to me. I am filled with a mixture of contentment and sorrow: joy this picture is mine again; melancholy to see myself as a happy boy with my family, before all the troubles began and most of them were taken unto God. But now I, like this painting, am back in the palace, where I belong.’ And then his tone changed; he held out his tanned hand towards a leather-backed chair. ‘But now sit. My brother and I wish to discuss the obscene events of today. And you, Sir Francis. You will join us also.’
Taking his own seat, he beckoned with bent finger for Sir Francis to come forward. Unseen by the King, her uncle’s face twitched; he hobbled towards them, lowering himself with the aid of his cane into the narrow chair at the Duke of York’s side, who was looking on her presence with equal enthusiasm. Lady Castlemaine had not ceased staring through the window, but Mercia knew she was listening to every word.
‘Barbara there,’ the King began, ‘has told you of the delicacy of the situation we face. We are gratified you agreed to help so soon after your arrival home.’ He glanced at Sir Francis, an unwelcome reminder that her own fate hung in the balance. ‘But I am not accustomed to hearing of public murders in my palaces. What can you tell me of the death of our Lady Allcot?’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ she began. ‘May I say, ’tis an unexpected honour to be in Your Majesty’s presence, as well as that of the painting you have desired these many years to find.’
Sir Francis scoffed lightly under his breath. The King turned his head, the smallest amount, enough for Sir Francis to resume his deferential posture, but the Duke’s lips were curling well enough.
‘Speak then, Mrs Blakewood,’ he said. ‘We have little time for such obsequiousness.’
‘Your Highness.’ She bowed to the Duke. ‘Then I believe what happened today is likely connected to the endeavour His Majesty has asked me to pursue.’
‘Likely?’ said the King. ‘It should be extraordinary if it is not. A woman who is suspect of treason and who is then shot down.’
She nodded. ‘Your Majesty knows that the woman you have set me to unmask is close to a member of the war council. That means one of five women, as far as I can see, one of whom was Lady Allcot, may the Lord protect her soul. I had been hopeful of speaking with her today, before her untimely death prevented it.’
‘Look up, Mercia, please,’ said the King. Startled at his use of her Christian name, she blinked, but complied. ‘Tell us what you suppose. I shall ask Sir Francis to share his knowledge likewise. You will know that he and his wife have been considering this matter also.’
Sir Francis’s cheeks convulsed. ‘I had thought, Your Majesty, that—’
Again the slight turn of the head; Sir Francis bowed, leaving Mercia to continue.
‘Lady Allcot’s murder is heinous, Your Majesty. But you will have been informed, I believe, that she had travelled to Hampton Court to meet a man.’
His face set. ‘I have been so informed.’
‘While we cannot know the connection this may have with the killing, I think it possible there might be such.’
‘I hope not.’ The King glanced at his brother. ‘Nor do I want my enemies twisting this outrage. Enemies at home, I mean. I do not want to see false stories spread.’
‘Charles,’ said Lady Castlemaine, still looking through the window. ‘I scarcely believe people will think you had a hand in her death.’
‘I would not be so hasty. Even if they do not think it, they may be led to believe that others in my retinue are not so scrupulous. You know full well how matters stand. Yet we believe in the rule of law here, unlike the usurper Cromwell.’ He leant forward, his large hands gripping the finely carved hawks’ heads that finished the arms of his chair. ‘Mrs Blakewood, your enquiries have taken a sinister turn. I need you to tell me if Lady Allcot was the spy, and if not, then who is. Moreover, I need you to tell me why she was killed.’
‘Mrs Blakewood will do so,’ said Lady Castlemaine. ‘Will you not?’
Mercia swallowed. ‘Yes, my lady.’
‘See, Charles.’ She smiled. ‘You shall have your answer, and by the end of next week. Unlike Clarendon’s man there, whose wife was dissuaded by a simple threat.’
The King gave his mistress an unreadable look. Mercia glanced at her uncle, but his face was equally impassive.
‘My Lady,’ she said. ‘I am not sure if I can—’
‘By next week,’ she repeated, and Mercia fell silent.
The King looked at her. ‘Thank you, Barbara, for that confidence. But it is now past four of the clock. You have summoned Mrs Blakewood and she has come. I believe you are expected with the Queen?’
Lady Castlemaine’s head jerked back. ‘Indeed, but—’
‘Then I shall see you later.’
Mercia looked on as Lady Castlemaine cleared her throat, swept out her dress with an exaggerated flick of her wrists, and stood. When she had left, no farewell of her own, the King continued as though she had never been present.
‘But this matter of Lady Allcot’s lover,’ he said. ‘You must forget it. You are to confine your investigations to the women of the Court.’
‘If I may offer an opinion, Your Majesty,’ she said, recovering her wits after Lady Castlemaine’s sudden dismissal. ‘The Frenchman may have information about the death of Lady Allcot, even if he knows naught about Virgo. Would not that be incentive to seek him out?’
‘Perhaps on that point you are right. But listen well. We have discussed how this matter is delicate. I do not want your involvement to compromise any work that may already be in train.’
She raised the slightest eyebrow. ‘Other work?’
‘Conducted by men in my employ, shall we say, more accustomed to such affairs.’ He gave her a meaningful nod. ‘But let us return to the problem at hand. Your uncle has made no headway in determining the source of our breach, and as Barbara so subtly reminded us, you know what happened to your aunt.’
She dared not look at Sir Francis. ‘At this juncture, I would not want to accuse any of the women of being—’
‘So you have made little headway likewise,’ he sighed.
‘It is merely that, Your Majesty, more time is needed to know—’
‘More time during which our fleet and our interests are in danger.’ The Duke had been toying with his doublet; now he walked to rest against the mantelpiece. ‘We shall have to abandon the council if we cannot stay this leak. I knew this idea was folly.’ He scoffed. ‘Setting any woman on the task was dubious, but a woman whose father was an enemy of the Court, even more so.’
‘We are maintaining the council so that we can uncover this spy,’ said the King. ‘And we agreed with Barbara that a woman would have more liberty than a man. In a state of war, it is doubtful that Virgo is the only spy in the city, and I do not want information she may have on that point frightened out of reach by an overhanded approach.’ He tapped on the arm of his chair. ‘Mrs Blakewood, you are well aware of what is at stake here.’ He fixed her with a look, and she knew he was not referring to the war with the Dutch. ‘You have been at Court near a week thus far. You had the ingenuity to find that painting above my head. You must have learnt something.’
Wanting to show confidence, she made sure to hold his gaze. Despite the King’s plea for information, she could tell it was reassurance he required now, not enlightenment.
‘Your Majesty, we know Virgo’s intelligence comes from the council. W
e know Virgo is close to a man of that council. Whether he is passing her that information inadvertently or no, in the end it makes little difference, for just as she will soon be held to account, so too must he be. Whichever Virgo is, I will find her out, and you shall have your spy, and the security of your council restored.’
‘Bold words, Mrs Blakewood,’ said the King. ‘I find it hard to believe any of those men could be untrue, but I have learnt in my life how fragile a commodity is trust.’ He reclined in his seat, crossing his tightly stockinged legs. ‘I think, Sir Francis, now would be the time to repeat for us all what you told me and my brother just before.’
Sir Francis seemed caught off guard by the sudden request. ‘Your Majesty … you will recall … that the man I spoke of …’
The King scratched at his wig. ‘Which man was that?’
‘Sir William, Your Majesty,’ he conceded.
‘What?’ Mercia could not help herself. ‘Sir William Calde?’
‘The same.’ The King nodded sagely. ‘You were concerned at his trade interests, if I remember rightly, Sir Francis.’
‘He … yes. He has dealings that lead to the Dutch West India Company. And of course, he sits on Your Majesty’s war council.’
Mercia stared. ‘If you insinuate that Sir William could be connected with this affair, you should recall he was only appointed to the war council last week.’
‘That is not strictly true,’ he droned. ‘The war council has existed for over a year and Sir William was never discharged from it.’ Unseen by the King, he narrowed his eyes. ‘You realise you are not privy to most of what goes on at Court. Sir William has associates he has never before revealed. Perhaps you know him less well than you think.’
‘I merely advise caution,’ said the King. ‘Be mindful of what you divulge, and to whom you divulge it.’ His eyes drifted to Lady Castlemaine’s vacated seat. ‘A sad state of affairs, but as I am oft told, ’tis unwise to assume a thing.’
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