The Prince was sitting up next to the carved bars and was putting his fist through the gaps. The bubbling noise was coming from him, and in fact he was giggling. Mrs Gates was looking horrified while the two cradle-rockers who had just come in, tutted to each other. And there stood Philly holding something awkwardly in her arms so the Prince could see it.
Elizabeth wondered for a split second if Philly had a doll in her arms and then if it was a very odd looking baby. Finally she worked it out.
Philly was holding out a small plump puppy, dressed for company with a baby’s linen cap tied over one ear. The little Prince was trying to pat its brown head while the puppy squirmed and tried to lick Philly’s face.
“Oh, now, you take that dirty beast away,” snapped Mrs Gates, “The Prince cannot . . .”
“But the Princess Royal sent him, she said he should have a puppy to cheer him up,” insisted Philly.
Elizabeth came up behind her. “Well, Mrs Gates, at least it’s made him laugh,” she pointed out, as one of the cradle-rockers folded her arms and opined that the dog would certainly bite.
Philly dumped the puppy in the cot with the prince. It plumped down on its fat bottom, looking surprised, and then rolled over as the Prince patted its fat turn, still gurgling. The puppy started to scrape its paws at the baby’s cap it was wearing.
Mrs Gates was scowling. The puppy managed to get the cap off and began to eat it. Philly scolded and tried to take the cap away and ended up in a game of rag with the pup, who growled with soprano ferocity until Mrs Gates swept over and picked it up by its scruff, held it at arm’s length with a disgusted expression.
The Prince’s tentative giggles turned instantly to a fretful wailing. He held up his skinny arms.
“N-no, no! Wanta puppy!” he cried.
The puppy, frightened by the noise, widdled on Mrs Gates who didn’t even notice.
“Your Grace!” she whispered, transfixed.
“He spoke,” said one cradle rocker to the other.
“He never,” said her friend.
“What . . . what did you say, your Grace?” asked Mrs Gates, still holding the puppy absent-mindedly. Philly reached up, took it from her and put it in its basket, trying to tuck the mangled remains of the baby cap in her sleeve.
“He said,” she explained to Mrs Gates, “no, no, wanta puppy. It means he likes it,” she added complacently.
Mrs Gates was blinking down at her.
“But he never spoke before,” she breathed. “Not a word.”
It was impossible to keep something like that quiet. Knowing how things went in Courts, Elizabeth left as soon as she decently could, scurried Philly into the chamber they were sharing with Sir Robert’s sister, Philadelphia Lady Scrope and three servants. The overcrowding was typical of progresses and Elizabeth was just grateful they had beds to lie in and that Carey’s sister was willing to share with her young namesake, so that she and Carey could have the double bed to themselves. Their bodyservants were making do with straw pallets on the floor.
Elizabeth assumed that young Philly must have been climbing trees that morning, judging by the black streaks on her petticoat and kirtle. She stripped off the grubby clothes at speed, wiped her smudged face with rosewater, put her in a smock that was now too short, combed her hair and then piled on a clean petticoat, false front, stays, bodice, kirtle and clean embroidered cap just in time before the page came to fetch them to see the Queen.
Both of them knelt to Queen Anne in the parlour that was acting as her Presence Chamber. The Queen had red-rimmed eyes, which surprised Elizabeth.
“He truly said ‘I want a puppy,’?” she asked with great intensity.
“Your highness, he did,” said Mrs Gates, also kneeling, “I was so shocked.”
The Queen smiled at Philly. “You are Philadelphia Carey, yes?”
Philly stood up, curtseyed, said, “Yes, your highness,” and plumped down on her knees again, turning bright pink.
“Why did you bring the puppy to see the Duke of York?”
Philly looked puzzled. “I knew he’d like his grace the Prince, your majesty, he’s a very friendly puppy and I’m going to call him Gustavus . . .” Elizabeth had to cough while the Queen’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, and I was talking to her grace the Princess Royal and she said she wished the Prince had a puppy and so I took him with me, you see.”
“The doctors disapprove very much and the Chief Nurse is concerned that your dog might bite his grace.”
Philly blinked and shook her head vigorously, “Oh no, your majesty, he’s only got little teeth and he only chews things like caps and I’ll watch him very carefully.”
The Queen looked puzzled. “When?”
“When you let me bring him back to his grace, because the Prince cried so much I’m sure your majesty will want him to play with Gustavus.”
“Ah,” said the Queen, “Well, yes, child, I think I will permit you to again bring the puppy . . .”
Philly’s face lit up. “I knew you would!” she explained, “I knew you wouldn’t let Gustavus be sad.”
The puppy certainly seemed to cheer the Prince up a little, though he didn’t say any more and he seemed to get no better in his stomach and was often ill after he ate. At least he seemed to enjoy Philly’s daily visits with Gustavus. The puppy was allowed in the Prince’s cot until the day there was a puddle in the corner. The next day, the Prince was set down on a Turkey rug to play and Philly brought a ball as well as the pup. She talked constantly to the Prince, ignoring the fact that he didn’t talk back, about the puppy, about what she had been doing, about the court and her father and mother and the horses and dogs in the stables and her Aunt Philadelphia and what she thought about all of it. To Philly, to breathe was to talk and the young Prince seemed astonished by it.
The whole Court moved on to the next stopping place where the Prince’s royal father could hunt boar. So far, apart from one Royal visit, the King had not shown much interest in his youngest son, although the Queen visited daily. She thought her son was growing to know her better. And yet the child still lost weight, still seemed very listless and sleepy and still didn’t speak or walk.
Then one afternoon Elizabeth found Philly weeping inconsolably in the corner of the chamber.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, bending down to her.
Philly turned a woebegone tear-grimed face to her mother. “Mrs Gates told me never to bring Gustavus to the Prince again because he was naughty and broke his lead when no one was there and ate all the cakes and the pies and everything in the bedchamber and then he puked in the rushes and she shouted at me and look . . .!”
Philly pointed dramatically. The pup was lying on his side, panting, his eyes half shut and a little pile of bloody puke next to his head. Elizabeth frowned and looked closer. She didn’t like what she saw.
“Philly, I want you to go and fetch a page immediately,” she said. Her husband was still out hunting with the King and all the rest of the Court. Philly jumped up and trotted downstairs. By the time the young Scot came thundering up the stairs ahead of Philly, Elizabeth had already written a message which she gave him and he clattered off to fetch a horse from the stables.
“Did you send for Father?” Philly asked anxiously.
“Yes, I did.”
“Will he know how to save Gustavus?”
“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, not explaining the real reason why she had sent for her husband.
She and Philly did what they could. For distraction she talked of people she had nursed and how a lady must know as much as possible of practical medicine so she could keep her household healthy.
The clattering of hooves and Robert’s feet on the stairs at last were very welcome. He came into their chamber looking both puzzled and concerned, especially when he saw the puppy.
“My lady,” he said, “Why . . .?”
She had used their codeword for urgency in the message.
“Philadelphia, tell your father what you to
ld me.”
Philly did with only slight embroidery about the vomiting. At once Carey’s puzzlement cleared away to be replaced by sharp blue focus. He bent over the puppy and his long fingers passed expertly around the little animal, while his face grew grim.
“Everything in the Prince’s chamber?” he asked.
“Yes,” sniffled Philly, “He didn’t mean to be greedy, he can’t help it, he’s descended from your dog Jack . . .”
Her father held her shoulders and looked very seriously at her. “Philly, you’re a wise little maid and quite old now at eight years?”
She nodded, still sniffling.
“Then I will be honest with you, my heart, and you must repay me by being brave. I’m afraid the little pup is dying.”
Philly covered her eyes with her hands, “Could he not have a doctor to him?”
“No, the doctors only trouble men. And I fear no dog-leech nor horse-coper could help him, he has taken such a – such a mighty fever in his gut. So all you can do for him is hold him so he knows he is not alone. Can you do that?”
Philly snortled, wiped her nose firmly on her sleeve and took the pup in her lap and cradled him, whispering softly. Her parents moved away and also whispered.
“Is it what I thought?” Elizabeth asked.
“Oh yes,” said Carey, passing his hand over his face, “I’ve seen poisoning before. In the Prince’s chamber. Christ.”
Elizabeth was appalled and furious. She could not imagine how anyone could bring himself to try and poison a little mite like the Prince, nor any reason why either, since he was only second in line to the throne. Unless . . .
“Sir,” she said urgently, “we must warn the other Royal households as well as the Queen.”
“We must also keep it very quiet,” said Carey, “Not a word to anyone else. It’s the only way to catch the bastards.”
Elizabeth sent a page to fetch Philly’s Aunt Philadelphia, to keep Philly company. As soon as she could she went to attend the Queen while Carey went to talk to Mrs Gates. She explained what had happened privately while the Queen was choosing her clean shift for the next day. Anne of Denmark was no fool and her eyes narrowed.
“Does anyone else know?” she asked.
“Myself, my husband and my daughter.”
“I will send new tasters to Princess Elizabeth, and the Prince of Wales. His grace should be here soon. What is Sir Robert doing?”
“Your highness, his service as Warden on the Borders has given him great experience at investigation . . .”
“Yes, certainly, so his Majesty has told me often. I shall give him a privy Warrant.”
Meanwhile Carey was blinking at the destruction a determined half-grown lymer pup in search of food could cause. Mrs Gates was standing, arms folded, face red with fury while the Chamberers cleaned and scrubbed away.
“Can you tell me what the pup ate?”
“Hmf. Two caps and his grace’s dinner and the sweetmeats upon the sideboard and he knocked over all the physic while he did it and then he ate a pillow as you can see, sir . . .”
Carey could indeed see. The Prince’s Bedchamber looked as if it had snowed, there was a sticky smear around the scattered medicine bottles, there were crumbs and scattered plates from the Prince’s meal, the sweetmeat bowls from Venice were upended and one was smashed in the rushmats, there was a pile of sick and another pile of dogturd and a wet patch on one of the tapestries, the lower border of which had obviously been chewed.
“That monster is never coming here again.”
“Where is the Prince?”
“He is in the garden, sir, despite the lateness of the hour, with Mary, one of his rockers. I only hope he takes no tertian fever.”
Carey suspected that he had been shouting, “Wanta puppy!”
“How is his health?”
Mrs Gates sighed. “Not well. He has that little stomach to his meat, he wanes daily and is so pale. Nor his legs are no better, sir, the King is talking of putting him in iron boots which Dr Cunningham recommends.”
Carey nodded and wandered about the Chamber, touching the rushmats and sniffing at the vomitus.
“Who are the Prince’s attendants?”
Mrs Gates looked puzzled. “Why do you want to know, sir?”
Anticipating hysterics if he mentioned his suspicions, Carey said, “There are rumours of ill-affected Papists in these parts.”
“The King is too soft with them,” snorted Mrs Gates, “String ’em up, I say, with all their foreign notions.”
“Quite so. The Prince’s attendants?”
It took a while but finally he had a clear list of those who could come to the Prince’s chamber – four chamberers to clean, two cradle-rockers, Mrs Gates the senior nurse and Susannah Kerr the junior nurse, his daughter Philly of course.
“And where is the Prince’s food made?”
“It depends,” said Mrs Gates, “In Whitehall he has his own kitchen, but on progress we use cookshops or the main kitchens. His food is ever of the best, sir, it’s just he won’t eat it.”
“Who does eat it?”
“Well, we don’t let it go to waste, of course, sir, I mean it would be a shame . . .”
“So you share what the Prince doesn’t eat?” Mrs Gates nodded, looking nervous. “And what about the sweetmeats?”
“From the Royal Confectioner herself, wonderful suckets and kissing comfits she makes. The Prince eats them sometimes and so do I, though they pain my teeth, since I’m his grace’s Taster.”
There was clearly nothing wrong with the Senior Nurse. Carey questioned the chamberers as they worked at rolling up the ruined mats. As was often the case at court, they both came of families whose parents and grandparents had served the monarchy of England for decades. Neither could remember any intruders or anything strange happening and the other two chamberers had already gone ahead to the next stopping place for the Progress to ready the Prince’s chambers there.
After a short conference with Elizabeth, Carey mounted up thoughtfully and rode the short distance into the village. It was easy to find the cookhouse for despite the lateness of the hour there was a queue of courtiers’ servants waiting and the woman at the window looked flushed, floury and exhausted while she did a roaring trade and charged ridiculous prices for her remaining pies.
Very unwilling she was to be interviewed by Carey, but she left the serving hatch to be womaned by her youngest daughter and stepped into her bakehouse where the large oven was being filled full of faggots ready to be fired up again.
“I hear that the Duke of York’s Senior Nurse considers your pies so fine she has been giving them to the Prince,” said Carey with a smile.
Mistress Kate flushed bright red.
“Is that a fact, sir? My pies going to feed his grace? Well, I never!”
“Did you not know?” Carey asked, watching a promising theory crumble to dust.
“No, sir, not till you told me, though thinking about it, I’ve seen Mary the cradle rocker here often enough, every day since the court came. She buys a great deal, a dozen pies each time.”
“And they are not specially made for the Prince nor marked in any way?”
“No sir. Do you think I should do that, perhaps?”
Carey shook his head and left her musing about asking to have the Duke of York’s coat of arms to be painted on her sign. He found the Deputy Clerk of the Confectionery at dinner at the wildly overcrowded inn.
The Deputy Clerk was intelligent enough to be worried by Carey’s questions. “Yes sir, all the sweetmeats are packed up in baskets for the Prince’s chamber, but not marked specially. I carry them personally, sir, and they are never out of my sight until I hand them to Mrs Gates.”
Carey kept to himself his suspicions about how the Deputy Clerk could afford to stay at the inn. The staff of the Confectionery always travelled on progresses to make the subtleties and jellies for the many banquets, and normally did a roaring trade in leftovers.
“The
re has been no problem with the sweetmeats, sir?” asked the Deputy Clerk.
“Not at all,” lied Carey and took his leave. He had seemingly covered the obvious suspects, though he also spoke to the Deputy Butler about the supplies of ale for the Prince’s household and found everything there as secure against tampering as possible, as he expected.
There were only two possibilities left and Carey had a shrewd suspicion which one it might be. He went immediately to see the Queen.
Elizabeth had seen her husband arrest Border reivers and thought she had seen every possible reaction – but Mrs Gates’s outrage and fury was a surprise to her.
“That you should dare to think I would poison . . . poison his grace, the little child that I have brought up since his birth . . . How dare you, sir!”
“Mistress,” said Carey coldly, “I am as shocked as you. However, the puppy was poisoned by something he ate in his grace’s chamber and I have been able to find no other person who could have had the possibility of doing it.”
Mrs Gates whitened further. “I will stake my solemn oath upon it,” she hissed, “Nor me nor none of the chamberers, nor the cradle-rockers, nor Mistress Kerr would so much as dream of it. How can you believe we could do such a thing, sir? How can you?”
Carey nodded impassively. “You would do well to think upon it, Mistress, but for the moment, you must be confined to other quarters.”
Normally the Nurses slept in the Prince’s suite of rooms but a small storeroom had been found for Mrs Gates and, on the Queen’s insistence, a bed put in it. Mrs Gates walked there firmly and with head held high, not deigning to even look at Elizabeth, who felt horribly guilty about the whole thing.
When Carey returned from escorting her, he shook his head and said she had made no confession yet, only insisting that God would justify her. Elizabeth was not at all surprised. She turned to comforting Philly, who had held an heretical funeral for the puppy while her parents were busy. The dog-boy and one of the pages had helped by digging the grave in the centre of a main flowerbed. Philly was so grubby and sad that Elizabeth ordered a hot bath to be drawn in the corner of the chamber and when the child was in a clean smock, gave her milk laced with sugar and brandy and sang her to sleep.
The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits Page 6