by Holly West
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“Like you, I observed Sir Edmund’s recent odd behavior but simply thought it was the result of his affliction.” Wynel suddenly snapped his fingers in the air, startling me. “I know where I’ve seen you! You attended the inquest, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I was there,” I said, warmth rising to my cheeks.
“Forgive my rude behavior, but I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.” He smiled. “You’re not the sort of woman who goes unnoticed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It must have been difficult for you, seeing him there and hearing what happened.”
“I can’t rid myself of the memory. I’m haunted by it.” This, at least, was not far from the truth. “Can you understand now why I wanted to talk to you?”
“I do.” His expression became thoughtful. “He was a good man, Lady Wilde—a hero. I wonder—did Sir Edmund ever tell you about the time he spent in London during the plague?”
I did not want to change the subject just yet, but I let Wynel continue.
“Sir Edmund served the crown loyally for many years as justice of the peace, but his fealty was never as tested as it was during the summer of the plague.” Wynel spoke with a flourish, as though he were entertaining a group of children. “There was a merchant in his jurisdiction who’d bravely remained in London to serve those poor souls who could not leave the city, and one day a thief entered the premises and relieved the poor fellow of the contents of his cash box. Sir Edmund witnessed this and he immediately gave chase through the streets to catch the culprit.”
I smiled. The image of tall, gaunt Sir Edmund running at full speed after a thief, his long black coat blowing after him in the wind, amused me.
“The offender ducked into a pest house, thinking Sir Edmund would never follow him there,” Wynel continued. “But he was mistaken. Undaunted, Sir Edmund followed him in, caught him, and brought the miscreant to justice. The king himself awarded Sir Edmund with an engraved silver cup to honor his courageous behavior.”
“Sir Edmund was far too modest to talk about it to me, I’m sure,” I said. “Thank you for telling me the story.”
Wynel’s expression turned grim. “I hesitate to tell you anything else, Lady Wilde, not only out of loyalty to Sir Edmund but out of fear for your safety as well as my own.”
“I assure you, Mr. Wynel, anything you say will be held in the strictest confidence. It is only for my own peace of mind that I seek this information. Please, tell me what you know.”
“It’s true Sir Edmund was unhappy before he died, but it was not entirely due to his melancholy. He’d involved himself in a potentially dangerous matter. I’m not familiar with the specifics, but several days before he died, he confided to me that he’d angered some very powerful men and feared he’d be punished for it.”
“Did he say who?”
“He mentioned the Lord High Treasurer.”
“The Earl of Danby?” I said, taken aback.
“Yes. Sir Edmund told me he’d come upon some problematic information involving the king and was at a loss at how to proceed. When at last he reported it to Lord Danby, he was furious and threatened to imprison Sir Edmund.”
I sighed inwardly. Did Danby ever tire of threatening the gaol?
“Sir Edmund made a comment that was strange at the time,” Wynel continued, “and in light of all that has transpired, I’m rather troubled by it. He said, ‘There is trouble brewing and I fear I shall be the first casualty.’ I asked him what he meant and he only said ‘Do not worry about me. If they come fairly, I shall not part with my life tamely.’”
These words chilled me, and Wynel noticed my troubled expression. “I’ve distressed you,” he said, reaching out to take my hand. “I shouldn’t have told you any of this.”
“Who was he afraid of? Lord Danby?” I asked.
“Certainly he took Lord Danby’s threats about imprisonment seriously, but murder?” Wynel shook his head. “No, it wasn’t Lord Danby he feared.”
It seemed a thousand years had passed since I’d informed Danby about the plot, and though he’d angered me that day, I couldn’t believe he’d resort to murder either. “Do you believe the papists are responsible?” I asked.
“Truthfully, Lady Wilde, I don’t know.”
“It’s what some would have us think.”
Wynel looked at his pocket watch. “I must go,” he said abruptly. “I’m late for a meeting.”
“Mr. Wynel, what do you think happened to Sir Edmund?”
Wynel’s eyes looked impossibly sad. He leaned forward and touched my arm. “You’d do well to stop troubling yourself about Sir Edmund’s death, Lady Wilde,” he said. “I’m certain the authorities will determine who’s responsible. We must both have faith in that.”
His words touched me, and I felt a brief stab of guilt that I’d misled him. But guilt—and faith—were not luxuries I could afford.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I needn’t have worried about Nicolas Cambridge, for not long after I’d returned from seeing Thomas Wynel, the young surgeon appeared on my doorstep.
“I’m pleased to see you again, Mr. Cambridge,” I said, inviting him into the drawing room.
“I confess, your message confused me,” Cambridge said. His intelligent brown eyes were red and tired looking, his clothes rumpled and dirty. “I do not recall making your acquaintance before.”
I smiled. “I attended the juror’s inquest into Sir Edmund Godfrey’s death, where I heard you speak.” Alice brought a tray holding a decanter of wine and some bread and cheese. “Will you pour for us, Alice?” I asked. She gave Cambridge a shy glance and bent to pour the wine.
I pushed the plate of food closer to him so he could reach it. He tore off a large piece of bread and shoved half of it into his mouth, chewing quickly as though he hadn’t eaten for days.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” I asked. Before he could answer, I addressed Alice. “Bring Mr. Cambridge some fruit and some of the chicken left over from last night.”
“Yes ma’am,” she said.
“It’s not necessary—” Cambridge said, his mouth full.
“Nonsense, you’re my guest. But while we’re waiting, I’d like to ask you a few questions. You’re apprentice to Dr. Frazier, the king’s physician, is that correct?”
He finished chewing and swallowed. “Formerly, yes.”
“Formerly?”
“Dr. Frazier dismissed me from my post after I reported my observations about the inquest. Apparently, my attendance displeased him.”
“Had he ordered you not to go?”
“Dr. Frazier insisted it was a case for the local authorities and that the king’s physician had no business there. But I wanted to see for myself what happened to Sir Edmund Godfrey. Can you blame me? The man was missing nearly a week before his body was discovered and the whole city waited to hear his fate. When I reported back to Dr. Frazier, he dismissed me.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I expressed concern the body was not opened up for examination, just as I did at the inquest.”
“Why such concern?” I asked. “Would it not be obvious in what manner a man died, even from just an external examination? It was clear he’d been stabbed and strangled, even to me.”
“Sometimes, yes. But in this case, there were several potentially fatal wounds.” He sat forward in his chair, plainly excited to speak on the subject. “At first glance, it appeared the magistrate died from the wound inflicted by the sword, right?”
“Yes.”
“So that, of course, seems the obvious manner of death. But a closer examination of the body showed he’d also been strangled, which would cause death by asphyxiation.”
“Asphyxiation?”
“Suffocation. It means that something, like a cord, had been pulled tight around his neck, blocking the air flow into his lungs so he couldn’t breathe.” He picked up a chunk of cheese. “His neck was also b
roken. Any of these could be the cause of death, so which are we to choose? Opening the body would help determine that.” He popped the cheese into his mouth.
“The jury’s verdict was that he’d died by strangulation,” I said. At that moment, Alice returned and laid the additional food in front of Cambridge. He picked up a chicken leg and bit into it. I allowed him to eat uninterrupted and he proceeded to empty the plate.
“Thank you for the food,” he said. “It’s been a day or two since I’ve had a proper meal.”
“Because of your dismissal?”
He nodded. “The apprenticeship didn’t pay much and it was my only source of income. I’ve not yet been successful in finding another post.”
I poured him more wine. “I’m sorry for your troubles.”
“No matter,” he said, taking a drink from his cup. “At any rate, if the jury’s verdict was death by strangulation, they may be right. The evidence suggests the sword wound was inflicted after he died. But my problem was not with the evidence and testimony presented at the inquest—the surgeon, Dr. Skillard, seemed a competent enough man. My argument was that the only way truth could be found was for the body to be opened. When the family refused, Dr. Skillard and the coroner should have insisted upon it.”
“Do you think they were trying to hide something?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Mr. Cambridge, based on what you saw, is it at all possible Sir Edmund killed himself?”
He regarded me with surprise. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“I’ve heard it suggested he committed suicide.”
He thought about it, nodding slowly. “Yes, I suppose it would be possible.” He sat forward in his chair again, growing increasingly animated as he spoke. “Sir Edmund could have first attempted to strangle himself, which would account for the ligature marks on his neck.”
“Wouldn’t that have killed him instantly?”
“It would take a great deal of strength for a man to strangle himself to death. At some point he would be rendered unconscious and his grip would loosen. When consciousness returned, he would have to attempt a different method.”
“So when strangulation proved unsuccessful, he hung himself, which caused the broken neck,” I said.
“Exactly,” he said, clapping his hands.
“But what about the sword wound?”
“Even Dr. Skillard maintains it was delivered after Sir Edmund was already dead. As incredible as it might be, someone else would’ve had to inflict it.”
“Are you suggesting someone found the body and staged the murder?” I said, following his words to their logical conclusion.
“I’m not suggesting anything, my lady. I’m only saying it’s an explanation for the wounds Sir Edmund sustained, if indeed he killed himself.”
The Godfrey family had, from the beginning, insisted the papists murdered Sir Edmund. Was it possible Michael Godfrey had found the body himself after Sir Edmund committed suicide and then set it up to appear as a murder? Why would he do such a gruesome thing?
“The estate!” I said.
“Pardon?” Cambridge said.
“If Sir Edmund killed himself, his estate would be automatically forfeited to the king. If his brother, or someone else with a stake in the matter, discovered the suicide, perhaps a murder was staged to prevent the money from going to the crown.” I laughed, recognizing how ridiculous the theory sounded. “It’s difficult to believe anyone would do such a thing.”
“On the contrary, I think the idea is rather brilliant. If Sir Edmund was already dead, what did it matter if he was run through with a sword?”
“It’s a sin to desecrate the human body,” I said.
“I am a man of science, Lady Wilde,” Cambridge said, finishing the contents of his cup. “Sin is not my specialty.”
* * *
Cambridge hadn’t been gone ten minutes when the summons from Charles arrived. At first, I was surprised, even pleased, though my pride still hurt from watching him parade around with Nell the night before. But when I entered his rooms and saw his angry scowl, I wanted to turn around and go back home.
“Sit, Isabel,” he said after Chiffinch had left us. His voice held none of the tenderness it had at our previous encounter, and I braced myself for a scolding.
I sat down and stared up at him with wide, solemn eyes. “Is something amiss, Your Majesty?”
“Titus Oates’s rooms were broken into last night,” he said, pacing in front of the fireplace. “Do you know anything about it?”
I worked to keep my expression neutral. “Of course not! Why would you ask such a thing?” Gloves covered the telltale wounds on my hands, but I was still walking with a detectible limp. I hoped that Charles hadn’t noticed.
He stopped his pacing and regarded me with skepticism. “Nothing appears to have been taken or damaged, but it was evident the culprit escaped through the window, into the Privy Garden.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
He walked over to the large wardrobe, opened its doors, and pulled out the shoes I’d left behind. “These were found in the garden.”
“So you think the intruder was a woman?” I asked. “What of it? I’m hardly the only female in London.”
He set them on the table next to the sofa. “The other night, when we were together—why did you ask where Oates’s apartments were?”
“I was simply curious.”
He began to pace again. One of his spaniels wound itself around his legs, biting at his stockings playfully. He bent down and picked it up. “Where did you go last night?” he asked.
“You know I was at Nell’s, or don’t you remember seeing me there?” I said indignantly.
He deposited the dog on the couch and put his hands on his hips. “You left early. Where did you go?”
“I had a terrible headache so I went home.”
Charles lifted an eyebrow and spoke quietly. “One of the guards reported seeing you at the palace gate, Isabel.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?”
The guard had nodded at me as I passed through the gate last night. But the rain had made visibility difficult, and it could easily be argued that he’d been mistaken, that it was some other woman he’d seen. I looked Charles squarely in the eye. “Yes.”
He stood silently for a moment before sitting on the couch. He invited the spaniel onto his lap. “Very well, I will to take you at your word. But I must warn you to be careful, Isabel. The House of Lords has taken a great interest in Titus Oates. Buckingham’s now demanding that Oates be moved to more secure apartments and placed under continuous guard. And they’ve formed a special committee to investigate Sir Edmund Godfrey’s death.”
“Do you still believe Sir Edmund killed himself?” I asked.
“Of course I do. The Lords’ committee is just a formality.”
“The jury examined the evidence and called it murder.”
“Juries have been known to be wrong on occasion.”
“Will you overturn their verdict?”
“Sir Edmund Godfrey’s estate isn’t worth the trouble.”
It was typical of Charles to view such a matter only with regard to how it affected him. “It’s not just a matter of the estate, Charles. If the verdict is wrong, an innocent man could end up being accused of murder.”
“I’m well aware of the issues at stake, Isabel,” he said angrily.
“What exactly are the issues then?”
“As you know, certain parties do not wish to see my brother inherit the throne. They believe, or at least want the populace to believe, that the Catholics are poised to take over England if York becomes king. Sir Edmund Godfrey’s death comes at a most opportune time to advance this agenda by blaming his murder on the papists.”
“Is Buckingham behind this?” I asked, though I knew the answer to the question well enough already.
“And the rest of the opposition, of course. Their numbers are gr
owing, you know. But yes, Buckingham is leading the charge.”
“If he’s starting trouble, why not throw him back in the Tower and be done with it?” I almost smiled at the thought, for nothing would’ve pleased me more.
“Let them have their murder verdict,” Charles said. “If I react too strongly against it, I risk losing the trust of my Protestant supporters. I must tread carefully so as not to jeopardize my brother’s future.”
From its start, Charles’s reign had been a balancing act between tolerating a Parliament desperate for power and asserting his own belief in an absolute monarchy. The divine right of kings was a conviction his father had died for, but his execution and Charles’s subsequent years in exile had taught him the importance of careful politicking.
“I may be an ugly fellow,” he’d once said to me as we lay upon the luxurious bed in his private chamber, “but unattractive as my head may be, I’ve grown fond of it and have a mind to keep it.”
For all his lying, wrangling and compromising, he was an accomplished politician who knew when to strike, and perhaps more important, when to retreat. I left my seat and joined him on the couch, putting my hand on his arm and resting my head against his shoulder. It was no easy task, being king.
When I left Charles, his goodbye kiss was hesitant and I was uncertain whether he still believed I was involved in the burglary of Oates’s room. But he didn’t question me further and for this, I was grateful.
Chapter Twenty-Four
An inviting fire blazed in the hearth when I arrived at Captain Bedloe’s room that night. A table stood in front of it, already set with platters of food and a flagon of wine. He took my cloak and hung it on a hook next to the door.
“I took the liberty of ordering supper, my lady. I do hope you like oysters. Won’t you sit down?” He poured us each a cup of wine and passed me one.
I took a sip and said, “Lovely.”
“May I assume your headache has improved?”
“I feel much better tonight, thank you.”