Traitor

by David Hingley

  ‘Irony?’

  ‘An … unwelcome similarity.’

  He grunted. ‘And if we report her to the constables, she’ll hit back all the harder. Not that most of them would do much. You can take a wager as to how many of them she’s already bought.’

  ‘I have to outwit her, Nicholas, or she will have a hold on me forever. If I do not do as she says, and she snatches you again … or Daniel … I cannot bear to think of it.’

  He sucked at his bandage. ‘Damn it, Mercia, ’tis like … taking on the Duke of York. She has power and men, lots of them. You think it was her knocked me over the head on my way to my sister’s and locked me in that room? Overnight, without a pisspot?’

  ‘But she gave the orders. And if she is a Duke in her own world, then she must have enemies.’

  ‘Yes. Us.’

  ‘Other people, I mean. Let’s find them out. Ask them to help.’

  ‘How? You want to post a notice on the city gates? Wanted – helpful townsfolk to fight notorious smuggler.’

  She sighed. ‘I suppose you are right. What of that friend of yours who introduced us to her last year? Martin – was that his name?’

  ‘I doubt there’s much he can do. Unless you want to flout the law, or even …’ He looked sharply up. ‘But I doubt you would want to do that.’

  Through the window, the darkness seemed absolute. ‘No, Nicholas. I would not.’

  The murder of Lady Allcot had been a shock, but not, it seemed, for everyone. Her husband, Sir Geoffrey, was still parading about the palace, carrying on his business much as before, and although his doublet and breeches were black, the armband on his sleeve the optimal thickness, his superior expression was uncompromised, his shabby gait strangely light. But was his crude behaviour a mark of unfeeling, or a desperate cover for his grief?

  Standing outside his rooms, she paused to consider the propriety of her visit, but Lady Castlemaine’s demand for results was ringing in her head, and she held out her fist to knock. But then the door opened anyway, and just in time, she stayed herself from striking a manservant’s curious face.

  ‘Oh,’ she recovered. ‘I understand from Sir William Calde that your master is in his chambers. I should like to speak with him, if he is willing, about his terrible loss.’

  The servant looked at her. ‘I was just leaving on some business for Sir Geoffrey, but I suppose I can ask. Can I say who you are, my lady?’

  ‘Mrs Mercia Blakewood. A friend of Sir William … and of the King.’

  Friend of the King was stretching it, she knew, but it did not hurt to overstate her importance. Yet the servant seemed quite unimpressed.

  ‘If you wait inside,’ he said, ‘I shall enquire.’

  She nodded in dismissive condescension: while she disliked treating servants with indifference, this man seemed to demand it, and here in Whitehall she had found such attitudes were expected. As he vanished into the adjoining room she sat on a narrow bench, perching beside a side table adorned with a beautiful plate: blue and white Delftware, from Holland. The idealised scene depicted a man standing tall before a windmill, two labourers sowing seeds at his feet. The figures were blue, but the features on the workers’ faces left little doubt of their African provenance.

  ‘Mrs Blakewood.’

  She looked up from the plate to find Sir Geoffrey on the threshold of his private chamber, a sharp compass in his hand of the sort navigators used to determine distances and bearings on a chart.

  She rose to her feet. ‘Sir Geoffrey. Please forgive the unexpected visit, but I wished to speak with you about … what has transpired.’ She glanced at the servant, who was staring from behind his master. ‘Alone, if we may.’

  Sir Geoffrey pondered a moment, but then he nodded, and keeping his gaze fixed on hers he held his free hand over his shoulder, pointing to the door with a flick of his wrist. The servant turned side on to press past his ample frame, and with a bow, he departed in silence for the corridor.

  ‘Well, Mrs Blakewood,’ said Sir Geoffrey. ‘Would you come through?’

  She followed him into his private room, where sure enough a large map was laid out on a table, its frayed edges held down by a series of glass paperweights. She examined the crisp chart: a wavy, thickset line dotted with place names towards the left, but which faded into nothing towards the right.

  ‘The Guinea coast,’ she observed. ‘I saw such a map as this on His Majesty’s yacht once.’

  The namedropping was outrageous. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Helen told me how you enjoy elevated company.’

  She looked up. ‘Helen?’

  ‘Lady Cartwright. You have met her, so she says.’ He stabbed his compass into the table beside the chart. ‘And you are right. This is the Guinea coast.’

  Something in his curtness gave her pause. ‘I hope you do not mind that I have come, Sir Geoffrey. But I wanted to say how appalled I am at your wife’s terrible—’

  ‘You were there, were you not?’ he interrupted. ‘When she was … taken?’

  She bowed her head. ‘I was nearby.’

  ‘Then death does seem to follow you, Mrs Blakewood, as I hear.’

  ‘I am not sure that—’

  ‘You need not apologise. Death is a necessity of life. Some die sooner than others, that is all.’ He held out his hand to indicate a chair. ‘What may I do for you?’

  Thrown by his seeming indifference, she took the offered seat as he squeezed into his own. ‘It is as I said. I desired to convey to you the measure of my sadness. I did not know your wife, but as you intimate, I was present at her end. I felt a measure of urgency to express my sorrow.’

  He looked at her much as she had perused the Delftware plate. ‘Thank you, I suppose, but you need not be sorrowful on my account. Grace and I scarcely got on. We may have been husband and wife, but we saw each other little, and spoke even less.’

  ‘Nonetheless, she was your wife. To lose her in such a way must be—’

  ‘Do not misunderstand me, Mrs Blakewood. I shall mourn, in my way. As you must mourn in yours, although you did not know her.’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Why were you at Hampton, really? I am told by her maid that you had travelled there to find her.’

  ‘Her maid?’

  ‘Anna, is she called? Perhaps Alice? The poor child was most distraught.’ He rested his hands on his corpulent stomach. ‘She said you had asked where my wife could be found, not long before she was killed.’

  ‘I—’ She cleared her throat. ‘I had heard how she was upset at the attack on my aunt. I wanted some country air myself, and … Sir William had suggested I travel upriver. I thought I would call on your wife while I was there, to ask how she was faring.’

  ‘Hmm. Then that was generous of you. My wife is well known for her melancholic airs. I leave – left – her to them.’

  ‘Sir Geoffrey, I wanted to say that she died most quickly. She would not have been in pain, or even aware. When the men … attacked … there was no time to realise what was about to happen.’

  ‘Then she was as unmindful in death as she was in life.’ He sighed. ‘No, that is not fair. She did have wits in life. Just of a different sort to what one would expect of a wife.’

  She frowned. ‘What sort is that?’

  ‘No doubt Sir William will have told you how my wife liked to air her opinions on matters that hardly concerned her. He faced her incessant questioning often enough.’

  ‘You will forgive me I hope, Sir Geoffrey, but should we not speak more kindly of the dead?’

  ‘She was my wife, Mrs Blakewood. I shall speak of her as I choose.’

  The lack of empathy broke through her shell. ‘As you chose to speak to her in life, perhaps?’

  ‘My, Helen was right.’ He peered from over his sagging cheeks. ‘You are a tempestuous mare. You remind me of her in some way.’

  ‘I doubt she would welcome the comparison.’

  ‘Neither do I. Perhaps we should become better acquainted, after a
ll.’

  ‘Sir Geoffrey, I hardly think … What of Sir William?’

  He laughed. ‘If men at Court refused to share their mistresses, there would be much greater discord between us than there is over matters of state. And as we mention Helen, she tells me you have allied with Lavinia Whent. She, too, has opinions she should keep to herself.’

  ‘Miss Whent?’ She blinked at the rapid change of subject. ‘I have spoken with her once or twice, nothing more.’

  ‘Why do you object to Helen owning that black of hers? Do not tell me you are one of those wearisome miscreants who cry foul at such dealings.’

  ‘She scarcely owns him, Sir Geoffrey.’

  ‘No, I do. Or as good as. I gave him to her mother last year to appease her temper, but she tired of him, and so I gave him to Helen.’

  ‘And afterwards? What will you do with him then?’

  ‘I had not considered it. Would that the war ended swiftly and allowed us to resume our business.’

  She glanced slyly at the unfurled chart. ‘That is what this war is about, is it not – the Guinea coast, at least in part? I understand you have made much wealth there. The Royal Adventurers, I believe your enterprise is called.’

  He snorted. ‘I would leave such matters to Sir William and the council, Mrs Blakewood. Keep your woman’s mind to affairs that more befit your sex.’

  ‘Forgive me, but if we win the war—’

  ‘When we win it.’

  ‘When we win the war, will not that increase your company’s standing? All those Dutch outposts on your map will be yours.’

  ‘They will be our patron’s, the Duke’s, but yes, perhaps, and in the meantime we lose out. I should rather we …’ He cut himself off and smiled. ‘Let me give you some useful advice. Do not antagonise Helen. She may be young, but she is determined – and most beautiful.’

  She studied his gleaming face. ‘You are much taken with her, it seems.’

  ‘What man would not be? She is every bit as alluring as her Trojan namesake.’

  ‘Helen of Troy,’ she mused. Or perhaps a Trojan horse, she wondered? A dazzling gift, planted by the enemy to deceive the credulous? She inched forwards in her seat. ‘I wonder. Is Lady Cartwright much disturbed by the war, as I am?’

  ‘She frets, as all women are wont to do. But I have told her what I told you. Not to worry herself over concerns that need not trouble her. Still, I fancy she likes to be mistress to a man who has the ear of the King and the Duke.’

  ‘I understand.’ She faked a complicit smile. ‘To hear a little of what Sir William does is exciting. I wager Lady Cartwright feels the same?’

  ‘I knew it! You women cannot resist men of power.’ He ran his tongue around his lips, staring in a way she did not much like. ‘Mrs Blakewood, I tell you, when Helen and I are together … it arouses her, she says, to hear me talk of my duty. And yet I scarce remember what we talk of at such times. There is Helen, and little else.’

  He breathed slowly, in and out, his head lolling to one side. Mercia had the uncomfortable feeling he was imagining some other activity entirely. The thought made her vaguely nauseous.

  ‘Sir Geoffrey.’ She rose. ‘I should leave you to your work. Allow me to say again how sorry I am for the loss of your wife.’

  ‘What? Oh yes, my wife.’ Taking his time, he got to his feet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Blakewood, for your visit.’ He winked. ‘I shall tell Helen you came. It will do her good to think she has a rival, eh?’

  Back in her chambers, she pulled the patch of stars from her cheek, irked at Sir Geoffrey’s chauvinistic bearing. There were so many such opinions in the palace, she thought, so many expectations of a particular person’s place, or a particular group’s. How was she going to find Virgo in the face of such rigidity? How, moreover, when most courtiers did not even acknowledge her right to ask the simplest of questions?

  His nonchalance towards his wife’s death both disgusted and intrigued her, just as Lady Cartwright’s amorous interest in his responsibilities intrigued her, for she never would have thought such curiosity likely from the petulance of their brief encounters. Or was Helen Cartwright, like Mercia, playing a covert role, weaving different appearances to different audiences as befitted the particular scene?

  Or, she thought, is it I who am judging without cause? Is it I who am expecting overmuch?

  A firm knock behind heralded an appearance at the door. Sure to hold herself straight, she looked around to see Sir William come in, his familiar ostrich-feathered hat dangling from his fingers. For some reason, it made her wonder why he never once chose to emulate his peers by donning an elaborate wig.

  The whimsical thought made her relax, but then she noticed his laboured breathing, remarked the redness in his face. His steady look told her this was no polite visit to enquire after the success of her interview.

  ‘Mercia,’ he simply said. ‘Lady Allcot’s Frenchman is back at Court.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Julien Bellecour?’ Her heart raced. ‘Since when has he returned?’

  ‘Is your maid here?’

  ‘No. I am alone.’

  ‘Good.’ Sir William closed the door. ‘I do not know. There was a meeting of the French delegation with a group of our own men, and Bellecour was in attendance. I had asked to be told if he should make a reappearance.’

  ‘Then let him be arrested and asked what he was doing with Lady Allcot.’

  ‘He is not the King’s subject, Mercia. You know this. We cannot even question him, let alone throw him in the Tower. And when the King wants French help in our war with the Dutch – you can see how this is delicate.’

  ‘Has anyone asked the French for permission to talk?’

  ‘We are … deciding on our best approach.’

  She scoffed. ‘He was the last person with Lady Allcot before she was murdered. He fled from Nicholas and possibly knocked me to the ground. Then he vanished. Is it not simply a matter of setting that out before the French and demanding they accede to our sensible request?’ She sighed. ‘Of course not. Hell’s teeth! Why did he have to be foreign?’

  He looked at her in a sort of sympathy. ‘Perhaps you should forget about Bellecour. Concentrate on Virgo instead.’

  ‘But what if Lady Allcot was Virgo, working with Bellecour to export her secrets? His immunity gives him the perfect cover, no? To say nothing of his own access to the Court.’

  ‘Or perhaps, Mercia, he is utterly innocent. Lady Allcot too, and this is but a distraction. You should know, her belongings have been thoroughly searched since her death, on the highest orders. Nothing has been found to suggest her involvement, and if she were Virgo, you would think there should be.’

  ‘Quite possibly. But we will discover nothing without asking.’

  ‘He could lie.’

  A chink of doubt entered her mind as she recalled the King’s warning about Sir William’s trading interests. But then she watched as he passed his hat from one hand to the other and set the notion aside as frivolous.

  ‘Then what can be done?’ she said. ‘Set a watch on him?’

  ‘A request will likely be submitted to the French emissary. Not to arrest Bellecour, but to put it to him what he was doing at Hampton Court.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘I saw what he was doing.’

  ‘Besides his liaison with Lady Allcot.’

  ‘How long could all that take?’

  ‘Some time, I fear.’

  ‘Then I shall have to find a way to speak with him myself. Subtly, outside of official purview.’

  ‘Mercia, listen.’ Sir William took a step closer. ‘And I mean this. If you do anything that offends the French – anything – you will be in a great deal of trouble with the King.’

  ‘I cannot merely do nothing, Sir William.’ She shook her head in exasperation. ‘Lady Castlemaine has put me in a difficult position with her demands for swift answers. And yet talking with these women can be like … trying to encourage a plant that refuses to flo
wer. They mistrust me, or know me too little, to truly open up. But Bellecour offers another possibility, a route into Lady Allcot’s death. If I do not pursue him, I am not fulfilling the task I have been set to do.’

  ‘Damn your thoroughness.’ He sighed, then scratched at his neck. ‘Make sure you are very careful. Do not tell me what, for I shall be bound to stop you, but whatever you intend, you must not be caught.’

  He fell silent, but his eyes darted about, settling on anywhere but her.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘What is …?’

  ‘You seem to have something else you wish to say.’

  ‘Oh.’ He gave her a nervous smile. ‘’Tis merely that, when I was speaking with Sir Stephen Herrick just now, there was a young man who asked after you. He says he helped you at Hampton Court, after the … trouble there. He gave his name as Malvern.’

  ‘Giles Malvern?’ Mercia rubbed at the wrist he had tended after she had fallen: still sore, but now free of its bandage. ‘He is at Whitehall?’

  Sir William pulled a face; a peculiar look on the nobleman, she thought. ‘With the war, there are navy men coming and going all the time. Malvern is but one of many.’

  ‘And was that all he wanted, to ask you how I was?’

  He jiggled his head. ‘He … may have asked to speak with you directly. But only if you had time.’

  ‘Yes, I should like to thank him for his help. Is he still in the palace?’ She looked at him. ‘Sir William?’

  ‘Forgive me. As far as I know.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Near the … Banqueting House, I think.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But he will most likely have left by now.’

  ‘Sir William.’ She took his arm, and he glanced down at her hand, surprised. ‘I have met him once. He is hardly a rival. And we both know my presence here with you is merely a deception.’

  ‘That may be, but … I had hoped, perhaps, that we were getting along well.’

  ‘And I am glad of it. But nothing has changed. Save that maybe, I hope, I have gained a friend?’