The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  “My,” John turned to her, smiling. “What a cynic you are becoming. Most men will shoulder their responsibilities and I don’t think he is any different. He seems a broken man by her loss. He could have killed her in a fit of passion, but not with such cold calculation.”

  “Then who? Her brother – his vigil could be remorse. Or her father, to remove the stigma from the family name, in case it ever came to light.”

  “I’ve considered all those possibilities. At first I thought it was connected to Fawkes and the recusants who could have hired an assassin. But that theory was soon eliminated. And no. I don’t think her brother or her father’s drive against her was strong enough. This was a drive that was all consuming. Revenge.”

  “Revenge? Vengeance? For what? What had she done to harm anyone except her father and the family had managed to keep the affair secret up till now. Even you didn’t know.”

  “A truth can remain a secret, yes, but for how long? Remember Pharaoh’s wife. Margaret was about to give birth. She wanted her child to be acknowledged, to be part of the family and gain its inheritance. It would need to be christened – midwives and churchmen would be involved, the circle of secrecy would widen, whispers would spread, someone would speak. Perhaps Margaret herself wanted the world to know.”

  “I still don’t see who would kill her for that.” Nell was unconvinced.

  “I’ll tell you who. A man whose life is spent gathering power, whose position in society is all to him. Someone whose pride would not stand for anyone to know that the woman who spurned him was showing herself before the world and his wife. The new baby might soften her parents’ hearts, and then everyone would know.”

  “Who is this cold wretch?”

  “The man she rejected, the man her father chose for her to marry. Lord Neville.”

  Nell gasped in horror and turned to John. “Promise me you won’t say anything. You won’t speak of your suspicions to another living soul. Promise me, John. He is too powerful and if he can wait in the shadows nursing his revenge for so long and then arrange a killing – I do not want to lose you.”

  John put his arm around her shoulder and hugged her. “I know,” he whispered, kissing her cheek. “But is it right that such a man should sit at the King’s feet, to advise him, to pour poison in his ear?”

  “I am sure he is not the only one. You must not do it,” she said again. “He will have his revenge on you too. He will buy his way out of danger – and anyway, there is probably nothing to link him to the assassin. He might have had that man killed too, or sent him to France. John, promise me.”

  He released her and leaned forward. “I’d like to but – my conscience troubles me. If we allow such corruption at the heart of government, what else might he be capable of? What, even killing a king?”

  They fell silent. Such a thing was inconceivable in this bold new age of King James.

  Then Nell said softly. “I have something to tell you. Something that may help resolve your mind.”

  “What is it? He looked at her and saw again the anxiety in her eyes. So it hadn’t been about Meg’s death. “What is it?” he asked again.

  “John, I’m expecting a baby. Our baby. It’s been two months and – I’m sure.”

  They gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then he took her hand.

  “We shall get married. And I shall say nothing. Ever.”

  “Your family – my family –”

  “We will face them together and – I do not consider this responsibility a burden, but a joy.”

  He took her in his arms and consigned Lord Neville to the deepest, darkest regions of his mind.

  MURDER UNAUTHORIZED

  AMY MYERS

  One of the main outcomes of the Hampton Court Conference (already mentioned in relation to the Gunpowder Plot) was the new translation of the Bible into English, which has since come to be known as the King James Version or the Authorised Version. A team of 54 scholars was brought together in six separate companies, each allocated separate sections of the Bible. The work of translation lasted until January 1609 when the work was reviewed and eventually published in 1611. We know the names of only 51 of the 54 translators, so who can gainsay that Septimus Fish, the narrator of the following story, was not one of the other three?

  Amy Myers (b. 1938) is probably best known for her stories featuring the Edwardian sleuthing chef Auguste Didier which began with Murder in Pug’s Parlour (1986). More recently The Wickenham Murders (2004) launched a series about father-and-daughter researchers Peter and George Marsh who investigate unsolved or unresolved past crimes.

  “See, the witch cometh!”

  The raucous cry sat strangely on the lips of the richly dressed old woman at my side. Her eyes gleamed with hatred as she pointed her finger at the fair bride who was now entering the banqueting house of Saxton Hall on the arm of her newly wedded husband. Not a man present but would surely be envying Master Thomas Bell his good fortune in marrying the beautiful Countess of Carlross – if he lived to enjoy it.

  “The witch, the witch,” the assembled guests around me were murmuring, but none dared speak out in the presence of His Majesty King James I. An authority on witches he might be, but he is also the countess’s cousin.

  He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. The words consumed me, as I gazed at the bride and her groom. Oh, the Song of Songs, the Canticles of Solomon; they have ruled my every thought for four years now, ever since I had had the honour of being chosen to be one of the fifty-four translators for the new Bible authorized by His Majesty at the great meeting of 1604.

  That I, Septimus Fish, a humble vicar of a small Cambridgeshire parish, have been so chosen I owe to my dear friend Archdeacon Clarence Hall. It is because of him that I am here at this wedding today, for he is presently chaplain to the countess.

  Did I say wedding?

  Perhaps one that foretold a funeral.

  For the last two husbands to Lucy Carlross died on their wedding day, and the most recent death, that of the Earl of Lillyfield, I had witnessed with my own eyes. Take care, Master Bell, take care! Death, as that common playwright Master Shakespeare tells us, is a necessary end, and it will come when it will come. And that, for Master Bell, might well be today.

  He is a brave man to wed a witch – even one as fair and rich as she.

  He that is of a merry heart hath a continual feast, so the proverbs of Solomon tell us, and dear Clarence has indeed such a spirit. At the end of this year of 1608 we translators must submit our scripts to the General Committee of Review, who will check and discuss our work. Clarence is one of its members, and thus many is the evening we have spent over a glass of my dandelion or his rhubarb wine, arguing happily over the perplexities of an ancient Hebrew word or the error in an earlier translation. Fortunately we, as are most of those engaged in this important work, are unmarried.

  Indeed such is my dedication to the celibate state that I was chosen as the best suited for the translation of the heady words of the Song of Songs. We fifty-four translators have been divided into six companies: two for the New Testament, three for the Old, and one for the Apocrypha. I am proud to be a member of the First Cambridge Company, entrusted with the task of examining the old texts of 1 Chronicles to The Song of Songs for the new Bible. Its purpose is to expunge all faults from the many texts that have gone before – especially the most recent full version, the Bishops’ Bible, which is given to us as our basic text and which is lamentably deficient.

  “To no one else could the work be entrusted, Septimus,” the leader of our Company discreetly explained, as he told me his wish. “I can rely on you to distil its true theme of the marriage of Christ with his Church. I fear others might be misled by the sensuousness of its poetry into assuming it concerns only King Solomon’s more earthly loves. We are all lost sheep, Septimus, but you will find the way.”

  I humbly accepted his decision, for he knows I am dedicated to my studies (and to my
parish of course when time permits). Now my work is almost finished and last evening I proudly read my final decision on Chapter 2 verse five to Clarence. I felt something was weighing on his mind, but I would not be stayed, because I was breathless with excitement. “Succour me with grape-cakes, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.”

  “Succour? And grape-cakes?” quoth Clarence, looking quite aghast. “But what of the rendering of the Geneva Bible, stay me with flagons? Why else does that translation precede it with he brought me into the wine-cellar?”

  “Not wine-cellar, banqueting house,” I cried in anguish.

  It had only been Clarence’s little joke, and there was no sign now of anxiety. “Tomorrow,” he told me with a merry smile, “it is I who shall bring you into the banqueting house. I am bid by the countess to invite you to her nuptials.”

  “Whom does she marry?” I asked faintly.

  Despite my instant delight, I was filled with foreboding. No doubt it was the effect of my dandelion wine, but I recalled so vividly the ashen-faced vomiting Earl of Lillyfield. He had died shortly after the cutting of the sugar paste cake – as, Clarence had told me then, had his predecessor in the role of husband to the countess. Her first husband, Sir John Hengest, had at least died in his bed.

  “Master Thomas Bell. He is a most learned gentleman for a farmer,” Clarence answered me with solemn face. “He is well versed in King Solomon’s Song of Songs.”

  “How so?” I asked suspiciously. It seemed I should be well prepared when I met Farmer Bell.

  “Why, he is a follower of the Geneva Bible. Every time he hath need of more wine – which is frequently – he calls out with loud voice, ‘What ho! Stay me with flagons, varlets!’”

  This greatly amused dear Clarence but I am ashamed to say that I wagged my finger in indignation at him. “The word in the Greek text,” I almost choked, “is amoyrs, referring to the tree, although wrongly translated into Latin as ointments. I follow the Hebrew, a cake of grapes, not flagons of wine.”

  “Flagons!” roared Clarence, helping himself liberally to more dandelion wine. “Upon my soul, what better tribute to the countess and her new husband than to adopt his favourite translation as a wedding gift to them.”

  Put in those terms, I was forced to consider the lengths to which I would be prepared to go.

  “And the banqueting house of Saxton Hall,” Clarence now chuckled. “What more fitting place for the translator of the Song of Solomon?”

  No one could remain upset with Clarence for long, and together we smiled at this delightful coincidence.

  “There will be splendid banquet stuffe there to tempt your palate,” Clarence continued.

  “Grape-cakes?” I enquired, now scarcely able to refrain from outright mirth myself.

  Clarence had no such qualms. “Flagons,” he declared in delight. “If you do not write Thomas Bell’s flagons in your translation, Septimus, I declare the Committee shall alter it to accord with the new Douai Old Testament. I have it on the best authority that they have translated it as flowers, which is surely more poetic than grape-cakes?”

  I struggled with outrage. The Douai Old Testament, translated by the Roman Catholic English School, is due to appear next year. Clarence was making a terrible threat indeed.

  “Flowers?” I cried, near to tears once more. “It cannot be supported.”

  “Then give the countess and Master Bell his flagons, Septimus.”

  I was torn in two. Did not my integrity as a translator demand it should be grape-cakes?

  Clarence roared with laughter at my silence. “Come, let me sweeten the pill, Septimus. With my new duties next year on the Committee, I am forced to yield my post as chaplain, and the countess has agreed you may take my place.”

  A variety of emotions shot through me at that moment. My advancement would be assured, but would my life? I would forever be under the spell of the witch. I hesitated, because the loss of my grape-cakes would be a heavy price to pay.

  I yielded to temptation. “I will accept the invitation, Clarence.”

  Now I was to be chaplain, however, I must fully understand this charge of witchcraft against the countess. “It is believed,” I said slowly, “that if the wedding cake is not cut, then the bride will remain childless –”

  “That is so,” Clarence said gravely.

  “I saw her cut the sugar paste cake with my own eyes when I attended the countess’s last nuptials, yet she remains childless through the sudden death of her husband. Does that not prove she is a witch?”

  “It does not,” Clarence said most firmly. “Her first husband, Sir John Hengest, died of a fit after three years of marriage but I have no doubt it was a fit induced by poison, and not one of her giving. It is my belief her next two husbands died that way too.”

  “Murder?” I was shocked, but, I confess, keenly interested. “But who would wish to kill three husbands, two on their wedding day?”

  “That is easily answered,” Clarence replied.

  Our rift was over. I could see then what troubled him: that there might be a repetition of these terrible deeds on the morrow.

  “Two enemies have good reason,” Clarence continued. “The first is her neighbour, the Dowager Lady Hengest, the late Sir John’s mother. If Lucy Carlross dies without issue, Sir John’s estate reverts to the Dowager. She has no love for Lady Carlross therefore. She had only to poison the piece of the cake handed to each bridegroom at their nuptials to ensure no seed should grow in the countess’s womb.”

  “And the other enemy?” I asked, much concerned.

  “The Master of Carlross, the heir apparent to the countess’s title and her own lands by birth if she dies without issue. She bears the title Carlross in her own right, as is possible in Scotland. The Master –” Clarence added “– is a most sly gentleman.”

  Take us the foxes, the little foxes that spoil our vines. I thought once more of my great work. I would keep my eyes open the next day, to see what little foxes might be on the prowl to harm another bridegroom. “Both these devils will be present tomorrow?” I asked.

  “They will. And so,” he said carefully, his eye on me, “will His Majesty King James. He has asked that he might meet you, being one of his translators.”

  My heart leapt. King James is generous towards us. We are not paid for our labours, but he has inquired most carefully into our circumstances, and provided money for the poorer among us. I was overwhelmed. I was to meet him face to face. Such good fortune. To meet my king – and after that to serve the bewitching, if not bewitched, Lady Carlross. Clarence need not fear. I shall keep a careful eye on Master Bell for her sake.

  Surely Solomon awaiting the Queen of Sheba’s arrival could not have rivalled this splendid spectacle. The great banqueting house of Saxton is set on a gentle hill some way from the hall, where today’s main wedding breakfast had taken place. The banqueting house was bedecked with velvet and silk hangings, and flags to indicate His Majesty’s presence, and he and Queen Anne sat in splendour on a dais with the bride and groom. We guests mingled in the hall, where a sumptuous array of banquet stuffe awaited us in the form of comfits, suckets of orange and citron, rock candies, rasbury cakes and marchpanes, syllabubs and creams of diverse flavours, jellies and white leaches – and many a flagon of Rhenish wine and good claret. Later there would be masques, and I could see masquers here already, princes of Barbary clad in pearl and silver, with long silken stockings, knights of olde in red satin, silver plate and lace, and ladies as shimmering nymphs.

  “The masque is of the faerie queen Titania and Oberon her king,” Clarence informed me. Again he seemed sad, perhaps aware of all he would be missing now his service as chaplain was reaching its end.

  This masque would be too secular for my enjoyment, but I could see it would be a pretty sight. Already musicians were playing on their lutes, and in the centre of the room was a large table with glasses and wine. Its centrepiece however, which drew all eyes, was the wedding sugar paste cake o
f Edinburgh Castle, a culinary masterpiece.

  “In tribute to His Majesty. It was his birthplace,” Clarence said importantly.

  It was indeed a magnificent sight, and guarded anxiously by its creator, the countess’s chef. The castle was a full ten feet in height sparkling in glorious white and coloured sugar paste, and its towers, its battlements, its portcullis of spun sugar and its gatehouse, all delicately moulded.

  The countess must have seen our admiring eyes, for she did me the honour of speaking to me in a soft enchanting voice. “What think you of this wondrous castle, Parson Fish?”

  Clarence was gaping, and I was somewhat disturbed when I saw how besotted with his mistress. He seemed a different man in her presence, and he was clearly hurt that it was me she addressed. I could understand why she was thought a witch when her eyes looked into mine, and for a moment I almost believed the gossip. After all, there had been a wax image found on the pillow at her first husband’s death, and one tucked inside the cake at his two successors’ demise. Clarence firmly believed they had been placed there by the Dowager or the Master of Carlross, for he would believe no ill of the lady he served.

  I must have murmured something in reply, for the countess laughed. “Our sugar castle holds great secrets. Just wait until it is cut, Parson Fish. You shall see wonders then.”

  Should I? I wondered if she thought of the last two times she had cut this cake and whether this new groom might suffer the same fate?

  As if conscious of my thoughts he waved an arm, shouting at a servant: “Stay me with flagons, varlet.”

  Despite this discordant note, he looked a harmless enough fellow, albeit dazed by drink and bewildered at the pomp around him. “Long may he enjoy it,” I whispered to Clarence.

  “He may do so,” he replied. “Even the Dowager and Master of Carlross would baulk at yet another murder and in the King’s presence. Talking of whom . . .” Clarence gave me a conspiratorial grin.