“But she was your daughter!” said Will Shakespeare. “How could you not acknowledge her when you saw her lying dead? And then you lied to her husband!”
“If you were me, and your father had been put in prison for hiding a priest, perhaps you’d understand,” said Furness angrily. “I didn’t dare say Eleanor was my girl. And now, please, can we take these trays in?”
I took a deep breath. If I were wrong about this, I would look very foolish and would probably make an enemy for life, but there’s one thing about getting older; enemies for life won’t be enemies for all that long. Meg and George had delayed the crucial moment and more than that; they had added to my credibility now that it was here. Only, it was here and I could not avoid it.
“Before we go any further,” I said. “That jug on your tray there, Mr Furness – that’s the one with the sweet wine the Spaniards like, isn’t it? Would you mind drinking a goblet of it yourself? We can fetch some more for them.”
Thomas Furness turned to me, glowering down at me from his considerable height. I would not, at that moment, have wished to be alone with him in a secluded alleyway. “What the devil for?”
“To prove that it’s harmless,” I said. “Is it?”
“Of course it’s harmless! What are you suggesting? Of all the impertinent . . .!”
The door of the conference chamber opened and Sir Robert appeared. “What is this disturbance? And what has happened to our refreshments?”
“Sir Robert,” I said, in formal tones, “will you ask the guards, please, to arrest Mr Thomas Furness. I think he put a dagger into the back of his daughter Margaret as she ran from his presence to warn me that he was planning an outrage against this conference. And though I’m not sure, I think that on the stairs just now, when he stumbled and put a hand over the jug of Spanish wine to steady it, he dropped something into it.”
There was an astounded silence. Then I said: “The news my daughter and her husband have just brought was opportune, but I would not have let anyone drink the wine from that jug in any case. When Mr Furness tripped, the very first time he was on refreshment duty, it struck me as contrived. I have watched him carefully, waiting for his next turn at this task. I think the first stumble was a rehearsal. He’s an actor, after all. Today, on the stairs, he tripped again and something caught the light under his palm. The stairs curve and I had a sidelong view of him.”
“I never heard such nonsense,” said Furness coldly. “Of course the wine is innocent. I shall prove it!”
Balancing the tray in one hand, he lifted the jug destined for the Spanish delegates, filled a goblet and passed it beneath his nose. “An excellent vintage, from the bouquet,” he remarked. In ironical fashion, he raised the goblet to me and fearlessly tossed the contents down his throat.
My heart grew heavy. I know what you see, I had said to Will Shakespeare. Just an ageing dame in dove-coloured damask, with an unfashionable ruff. I was past my work. I had made a monstrous mistake. I had made myself look foolish, just as I feared and it hurt more than I expected. I should have stayed at home and minded my stillroom.
Then Furness smiled, and I stepped backwards, shaken anew, with mingled hope and horror. A more unpleasant smile, I had never seen.
“I tried to leave Spain free to come to the aid of the old religion, if the day ever dawns when the true faith needs her,” he said, returning the drained goblet to the tray. “It seems I have failed.”
“What?” said George.
The rest of us waited, staring. “My father was openly Catholic,” Furness said bitterly. “He paid fines. For six terrible months he was imprisoned. He died of a lung congestion he caught in that damp cell.”
His voice grew angry. “As for me,” he said, “All my life, all my life, I have pretended. I hoped when King James, whose mother was a true Catholic, came to reign over us, that changes would come, that one day our faith would once more illumine all England. But what is he doing now? Denying himself, and all of us, a way to call up strength to support us when the moment comes. We relied on Spain!”
“A foreign army on English soil? Most of your countrymen would have resisted savagely, even if you didn’t,” said George Hillman. “Have you thought of the bloodshed? The burned crops and houses, the pain, the deaths, the tears of the bereaved?”
“These things are in God’s hands. If they are necessary to restore the faith, then so be it.” Suddenly, Furness’s face had whitened, revealing a passion so intense that it almost stopped one’s breath. “I meant to destroy this conference if I could and I thought my daughter would be proud of me when I told her so. I thought she had always been pretending, too. But she hadn’t! She said she would betray me! I said I’d kill her before I’d let her abandon me, or our religion. I showed her the dagger but still she wouldn’t heed me. She ran for the door. So I silenced her. It was her life or the hope of our faith. Can’t you understand? And with my dagger in her back, still she got away!” It came out through clenched teeth. “My daughter failed me and our faith and her soul is now in hell and so it should be. Arrest me, by all means. I doubt if I shall come to trial. The wine is poisoned, of course.”
“We’ve had a narrow escape,” said Sir Robert.
Will Shakespeare, sitting in a corner of Mistress Stannard’s parlour, nodded soberly, although some of his mind was elsewhere. It was one of those times – he had experienced them before – when crude reality had intruded on the secret world inside his head and the results were surprising. He was shocked; he took Furness’s actions as seriously as any man, but they had stirred his imagination. He wanted to be alone, to think.
Meanwhile, at least, there was no need for over-long faces. It was another sunlit day and beyond the parlour windows, the glint of the Thames was now the glint of mirth.
“Mistress Stannard and the Hillmans did the work,” Edward Alleyn said. “The Players were the audience this time. At a terrifying drama.”
“Very true. We were all badly shaken.” Richard Burbage was also present at this final gathering before Mistress Ursula Stannard and her family left for their homes. “We had no idea what we were harbouring in our midst.”
Sybil said: “I shudder to think what might have happened. We might be at war with Spain now! But how did he hope to poison the jug without being noticed? Wouldn’t the wine have tasted strange?”
“It was a sweet wine, sweet enough to hide the taste.” Sir Robert put a hand into his doublet and brought out a rock crystal phial, a tiny glittery thing, ideal as a perfume bottle for a lady’s girdle-pouch. “He had the venom in this. He must have palmed it. Thomas Furness was a big man with huge hands. Delightful, isn’t it? He liked pretty objects.” Cecil’s tone was cynical. “Venetian glass and dainty rock crystal phials and charming little daggers with blades like razors. That dagger was new. We’ve found the silversmith who made the hilt, now. That’s why no one recognized it.”
“He had only to trip, bring his hand up and clamp it over the jug as if to steady it, and drop the poison in then,” Mistress Stannard said. “He could have drawn the stopper out and had a finger over the neck.”
“But what was in it?” asked Meg.
“Deadly nightshade, the physicians say,” said Sir Robert, “He didn’t need much. The doctors we called to him said that a single berry of nightshade could kill. Oh yes, we sent for physicians. We wanted him alive to be tried and executed.”
His voice was chilling, Shakespeare thought. One could almost pity Furness, if he had lived to face execution.
“Though it may be better as it is,” Cecil remarked. “This way, we need never let the Spaniards know what happened. I’m happy enough to leave it there. So is the king.”
“But to think,” persisted Sybil, “if any of the Spaniards – even the ambassador himself! – had been poisoned! At a peace conference . . .!”
“Oh, it could have been worse than that,” said Sir Robert. “Nightshade berries not only kill; they sometimes inspire wild delusions first. It would h
ave been even more appalling if the first symptoms took the form they did with Furness. Suppose the Spanish ambassador had leapt from his seat, torn all his clothes off and then taken to smashing up the furniture, or even attacked the Players or the other gentlemen at the table! Before spewing all over the room.”
“Is that what Furness . . .?” asked Burbage, struggling visibly with a mixture of awe, horror and a species of ghastly amusement, while George Hillman actually turned pale.
“Yes. He stripped naked and smashed a small bench against his cell wall before the guards rushed in and then he went for them too. They seized him and then he started to throw up. They said they had never seen nausea like it. The physicians could do nothing for him.”
There was silence, while they all contemplated the idea of such a debacle at the conference that was meant to seal the first main achievement of King James’ reign. No one felt inclined to speculate aloud on the possible consequences.
At length, Shakespeare said: “And he murdered his daughter?”
“Yes. The daughter he claimed he loved. He did some talking on the way to the Tower. He boasted to her about his plans because he thought she cared for the old religion as he did and would admire him. He was wrong. By then, he had already let out to her that Mistress Stannard was next door. And she had heard of Ursula Stannard.”
“He must have cursed himself for that,” George Hillman remarked.
“He did. When she tried to run from the room; he snatched at her cloak and must have thrust the dagger into her beneath it. No doubt she felt something but probably didn’t realize she was really hurt. She tore herself loose and fled next door. He was furious.”
“He must have been quite out of his mind,” said Burbage in a hushed voice.
“Drunk on his religion,” said Sir Robert heavily. “It happens.”
“Her death was my fault, in a way,” said Mistress Stannard. “If she’d never heard of me, she might have lived. Poor girl.”
“I know. But if it hadn’t been for her, and you, it would have been poor England,” said Sir Robert seriously.
Shakespeare made his way on foot back to his own lodgings in the City, plodding through the hot streets in which the odours of horse-dung and dust mingled with the appetizing smells, drifting from windows, of suppers being cooked. He dodged the carts and horsemen without noticing them. He was alone at last, and free to think.
Furness’s attempted crime had been ugly but the creative stimulation which such encounters with real-life drama so often produced was working strongly now. He had in the last few days met some astonishing people. That woman, Ursula Stannard. Telling him so calmly that she had once carried a dagger in case she needed it to defend herself in the course of her career as an agent – a most unlikely career for a woman. It would be interesting to write about a woman who was handy with a dagger.
How could he fit her into a play? He could see her . . . snatching a dagger, perhaps, from a man too infirm of purpose to use it himself. And what about Furness, murdering his own daughter, the daughter he was said to love! That was horrible. It was the proper business of a father of daughters to care for them and protect them; to stand by them always and never to abandon them. The girl had apparently protected her father. At least, she hadn’t said his name to Mistress Stannard, or told anyone that she was his daughter. It was probably a deliberate omission for his sake. The wretch hadn’t deserved her.
It reminded him of that old folk tale which the Players – the Queen’s Players, they were then – had worked up into a drama just after he first joined them. He had acted in it himself. It was about a king who turned on a once-beloved daughter. He understood it better now. He could improve on that original version.
In the pit of his stomach, he felt the curious thud which was the first symptom of a burgeoning idea. What was the name of the king in that story, now? Ah, yes. King Lear . . .
THE DUKE OF YORK
P. F. CHISHOLM
P. F. Chisholm is the alias of historical novelist Patricia Finney (b. 1958). Under both names she has written historical mysteries set in the Elizabethan period. Under her own name she is probably best known for her Becket and Ames secret agent series that began with Firedrake’s Eye (1992) and includes the events behind the Spanish Armada in Gloriana’s Torch (2003). More recently she has started a new series featuring Lady Grace Cavendish at Elizabeth’s court, starting with Assassin (2004). She has also written contemporary children’s books such as I, Jack (2000).
As Chisholm she has written four novels featuring Sir Robert Carey, starting with A Famine of Horses (1995). He was a real historical character (–), the grandson of Anne Boleyn’s sister, Mary (and therefore, some argue, also the grandson of Henry VIII – his father had a marked resemblance to the king), and served the Queen loyally, becoming Lord Warden of the Marches. Although he briefly fell out of favour with James I, his loyalty was unquestioned and he was soon reappointed to the royal household, in events that unfold in the following story.
Elizabeth Lady Carey heard the impatient sound of hooves clattering to a halt in the small courtyard below her chamber in Whitehall, and immediately moved to look out of the window. She knew it was her husband because Sir Robert Carey was the only man at the unmartial court of King James who still rode headlong. You would think he was following a hot trod on the now theoretically abolished Border.
Robert was swinging down from his horse, wearing a face of thunder and Elizabeth sighed. She hadn’t expected him to like selling Norham castle, no matter how essential the sale was. But had he in fact got the price agreed for it? It didn’t look as if he had.
Before she could call to him, there was a squeal of happiness down below.
“Father, father! Gertrude had four puppies and they’re yellow and black and brown and the smallest ate sugar and it was sick and my Lady Aunt said . . .” Little Philly, in an old kirtle too short for her, was sprinting from the small still-room where she had been gorging on sweetmeats under the excuse of learning huswifery from her Aunt. With only a second’s pause for a sketchy curtsey, her eight years of healthy growth thumped into her father’s midriff and his face instantly cleared to delight. He swung her up, grinning and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek.
“Now there’s a sight to soothe my eyes,” he said with mock severity, “My daughter completely plastered in sugar . . .”
Little Philadelphia left the subject of puppies, took her father’s hat from his head and put it on her own, curling the long feather around her finger.
“But, sir, I must learn to catch a husband by his stomach,” she said reasonably, “as I am not like to be a beauty.”
Her father scowled theatrically.
“Where’s the ruffian who dares say so?” he demanded. “I’ll fight him for you.”
“Well, it was Robert,” she said, naming her 11-year-old brother while she began to play with the pearl earring in her father’s ear. Behind them a groom was seeing to the horse and leading it to the horseboxes in the corner of the courtyard.
“Ah. I see. And you believed him? Don’t you know it’s the duty of all elder brothers to keep their sisters down?” Her father caught her hand to save his earlobe. “Go and ask your aunt for the tale of all the terrible things I used to do to her and be grateful I’m not your older brother.”
Philly sniggered as he put her down. “I heard about the senna-pods in your tutor’s wine,” she said.
“Hmf. Ask Philadelphia who was it stole them from the still-room for me. Now where is your mother?”
Philly rolled her eyes and pointed upwards to where Elizabeth was watching from the window.
As always, even now after twelve years of marriage, Elizabeth felt a shock under her breastbone as his vivid blue eyes met hers and she answered his smile with her own as she curtseyed to him.
“By God, my lady, I am right glad to see you!” he said, very heartfelt as he bowed with a great court flourish in return, retrieving his hat from his daughter’s head as he
did so. “Off you go, Philly, and try not to eat yourself sick.”
Philly ran back to the stillroom, a rip in her petticoat, her straight brown hair falling out from under her white cap and the long nose she had unfortunately got from her mother still smudged with pounded sugar.
Carey’s feet were already on the stairs and Elizabeth moved to open the door just as her husband erupted through it and wrapped her in his arms.
A few minutes later, pinning her cap straight again, Elizabeth sat her husband down and called a page to bring water for him to wash the dust of travel off him. She put his swordbelt and buff-coat on the stand herself and after discovering that he hadn’t bothered with breakfast because he was in a hurry, sent the lad scurrying off again for bread and beer.
“Now,” she said, sitting herself down opposite Carey and wearing her most severe expression, “what has happened? Was it Norham?” She couldn’t help grimacing nervously. “Did my lord of Dunbar actually pay what he said he would for it?”
“Of course he did, with Cecil brokering the deal,” said her husband, piling new butter on manchet bread and swallowing down mild beer at a remarkable rate. “He’s not mad. And I got another £800 off him in cash for the contents of the kitchens and the other insight. Here.”
He stood up, unbuttoned his doublet and produced a money-belt which he handed to her. He fished a wad of paper out of his sleeve and gave her that: it was three banker’s drafts for £2,000 each in the name of Dunbar, payable to Sir Robert Carey at Gresham’s Exchange over the next six months.
Hiding her instant horror that her husband should have galloped the length of a kingdom swarming with sturdy beggars and other riffraff with so much money on him, Elizabeth laughed with relief and kissed his cheek. Carey looked mildly concerned.
The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits Page 4