The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  After much questioning I wrung the truth from him. He had seen Annabella and Vilton talking together in the arbour. So great was my anger that I went to Mary’s chamber and exercised upon my dumb bell a full half hour to quench my pent up fury. I felt much better after my efforts; calmer and in a frame of mind to think and plot rather than to act in haste. I have to be sly – as forbidden lovers are sly. Annabella must suspect nothing.

  I fear that Cooke is too soft hearted. I knew he bears me much love but sometimes he looks at me with fear.

  Annabella avoids my advances. Another proof of her perfidy. She walks often in the garden with the little dog she keeps by her now, a gift from Vilton. He told her it was a spaniel of the kind favoured by the King and the silly woman believes the fanciful tale. I watched her from the window today, admiring the sheen of her hair and the slenderness of her body, her white neck and bosom on show to all as is the latest fashion, and her hair twined with bunches of ribbons. I think that there is none in the County more beautiful than Annabella. But her beauty is a lure, a baited trap. And when I saw Vilton meet with her by the gate and kiss her hand reverently, a worshipper at Beauty’s shrine, I knew that trap had been sprung. I watched as they walked in the knot garden beneath the window of my library, deep in conversation, and I knew from their manner that there was an attraction between them.

  I recall how I used to walk there with Mary in the days of our courtship. And before Mary there was another I courted in the same way: that stubborn girl, Kitty, who, being the upright daughter of a puritan father, wrung such promises from me before surrendering her virtue. I look back sometimes with shame, for I went away and I never saw her again.

  Perhaps I should have returned to seek Kitty out. But by then my father and Mary’s father had made arrangements and I went with the flow of the tide, for her father and mine had been together at the court of King James, the father of our dear martyred King, beheaded and betrayed. What choice did I have if I did not wish to bring disgrace on my family name by entering into an alliance below my station?

  But I must not think of the past. It is over. Gazing from the library window at my wife and her paramour has made me maudlin. I have to act, just as I did when Mary proved false. I cannot let idle sentiment cloud my resolve. I shall make plans.

  And Cooke will be my trusty lieutenant.

  It will be Vilton’s desire for amusement that brings him to me. I have sent word to him that he is invited to try out my new dumb bell. As a gentleman of fashion from the king’s court, he will surely find the novelty of the contraption irresistible. And the prospect of my wife’s presence doubly so.

  I have taken Cooke into my confidence and I have his assurance that he will help me, although he seems wary when I speak of violence.

  I have a dilemma. Should I make Annabella pay for her wrongdoings as Mary did? Or should I punish her by making her witness her lover’s demise and letting her live with the knowledge thereafter? Mary’s case was different. Her lover had already left the district when I discovered the truth of her betrayal so she alone had to pay the price.

  Maybe I will let Annabella live. She will exist knowing how her husband deals with those who betray him. And from that time on, she will be mine alone. Body and soul. That is an idea I like well.

  Cooke was reluctant to aid me in my plan at first. But then his loyalty to me, his master, persuaded him that my execution – for that is how I think of it – of James Vilton is justified. He has stolen from me: stolen my wife’s virtue. Every day men are hanged for stealing. And so would Vilton be. He will be strangled by the neck until he is dead.

  He is to arrive tonight to dine with me but before we partake of our supper, I shall prepare a decanter of port wine for him. I shall urge him to take a drink to dull his senses and then I shall show to him my dumb bell, inviting him to take some exercise. Then, with Cooke’s help, I will strike. I feel no dread at the prospect as I did before I dispatched Mary from this life, holding the bolster on her face as she struggled and fought for breath, testing my resolve with every desperate jerk of her limbs.

  For one who has already ended a life, murder is an easy matter.

  Cooke came to me in my chamber an hour ago to say he was afraid. I admire him for his tender heart and I told him I would not compel him to take part in the deed. But he assures me that he will do as I ask because of the love he bears me. It may be wrong to persuade another man to imperil his immortal soul and I will forgive him if he absents himself. Perhaps one who looks so like an angel should not become the angel of death.

  I wait now for Vilton’s arrival, my ears alert for the sound of his horse’s hooves in the courtyard. He is a little late – no doubt he is accustomed to the manners of the court – and I grow restless. I have sent Cooke to check the dumb bell is in good order and I have prepared the drink – marking the drugged decanter so I, myself, can drink from the other.

  There is little I can do now but pace to and fro across the floor of the great hall, thinking of what is to come. Vilton will, no doubt, consider our hall here, with its tapestries and great oak screen, drab and unfashionable as it has altered little from my father’s day. The thought of his contempt keeps my resolve fresh as new picked fruit.

  Annabella keeps to her room on my instructions but I have instructed Cooke that she is to be brought to me to witness the deed. How I look forward to watching her face as she sees her lover jerking at the end of the rope like some common felon.

  As soon as Vilton arrived he insisted on being taken to the dumb bell chamber at once to see the novel new device. I felt the anger rise within me like bile. Such impudence. Such rudeness. To see to one’s own entertainment before greeting one’s host is hardly the conduct of a gentleman and my hatred of the man has increased tenfold. How I look forward to the moment when he realizes that my curious instrument of exercise has become the instrument of his death.

  I marched towards Mary’s chamber with my fists clenched, telling myself that I would soon have my revenge on the scoundrel who would make so free with my house. And my wife.

  The door to the chamber was shut but I heard a noise within. The faint, rumbling sound of the dumb bell cylinder spinning round, stopping when the rope reached its full extent, then recommencing. Vilton was already engaged in his act of trespass.

  I turned to Cooke and saw the fear and apprehension on his face. His expression reproached me. My young servant has become my conscience. I whispered to him to fetch my wife, instructing him that on no account must she be told my purpose. With a nervous glance he hurried off, leaving me alone there outside the chamber listening to the rumbling and swishing of my contraption as the rope rose and fell in Vilton’s treacherous hands.

  It was a full five minutes before Cooke returned, walking a little behind Annabella; five minutes that seemed like an hour to a man whose resolve is faltering. But I had killed once without repentance. What is another death to me? But I want it over quickly.

  I took Annabella roughly by the hand and Cooke stepped back, as though he wished to have nothing to do with what he knew would follow. I turned and gave him a rueful smile, as though to signal that I understood and he hurried away down the passage. Perhaps it is better that he has no involvement. This matter is between myself and Vilton. And my sly little vixen of a wife. How I shall enjoy her body tonight when she knows who was master.

  I pushed the door open, holding Annabella firmly by my side. Vilton turned his cropped head in my direction and smiled, showing a set of even teeth and expressing no surprise at my wife’s presence. He had discarded his wig and his yellow, beribboned coat which lay on the ground like some common player’s motley. He let the rope rise slowly and gently until it stilled itself, allowing Vilton to leave his post. He bowed to me and my wife and I smiled back before asking him how he liked my new plaything. He took a step towards me, clearly suspecting nothing of my intentions.

  I confess that I was unprepared for what happened next. As I was about to invite Vilton to t
ake a drink with me before partaking of more exercise so that I could carry out my original plan, Annabella broke free of my grasp and shouted to her lover, “Leave here, quickly. He means you ill. Get out.”

  Vilton stood frozen for a second with what seemed like disbelief, so confident was he of my ignorance. But he was swift to understand and, before I could act, he had wrested Annabella’s hand from my grip and rushed from the room with her, leaving his coat and wig on the ground. The pair were making their escape and, being older and slower than the scoundrel, I lacked the speed and strength to do anything to stop them.

  I called to Cooke but, when he did not come, I assumed his tender scruples had caused him to go to some other part of the house, far from the dark deed I planned. I called again but again there was no response. I considered pursuit of my betrayers but realized that it was useless. I could not overpower them and, besides, if my intentions were to come to the attention of Sir William, who is a magistrate and a man of influence in the district, I dare not think of the consequences. If I leave them be then I can deny all, saying they had made up the story to cover their guilt.

  It is over. For now. I looked from the window and saw my wife hurrying across the knot garden with her maid, Ursula beside her, her cloak billowing in the breeze, and Vilton some way ahead. In my frustration, I was tempted to fall to my knees and weep with helpless fury. But as I stand here alone I tell myself that I must be subtle and patient. One day I will be revenged but in the meantime I must plan.

  I stood for what seemed like an age, staring at the rope of my dumb bell. My plan had relied on Vilton not suspecting my intentions but now I had lost the advantage of surprise. With a heavy heart I kicked at the coat and wig so hard that they skidded across the boards; then I left that room, shivering at the chill in the afternoon air. I returned to my library where I took a glass or two of port wine from the decanter I had reserved for myself, after which I must have fallen into a fitful sleep in my armchair.

  I do not know how long I was asleep but now my head spins as though I have drunk too much strong liquor. I awoke to find Cooke leaning over me, his face all concern.

  “You need not trouble your conscience about my wife and her lover,” I said to him. My mouth struggled to form the words but I did not know what ailed me. I thought perhaps that I had drunk too much port wine, drowning my conscience and my anger in drink.

  “I know, Master,” Cooke replied, his voice soft as a whisper. “They’ve gone. Ursula told me that they were bound for London. Will you pursue her?”

  I said nothing. And now I feel wretched. An aging cuckold whose young wife has bettered him with an arrogant young scoundrel. If this comes to light I will be the focus of mockery in every manor house and tavern in the county. I fear that my infamy might spread as far as London. I have heard of plays in the new theatres that blot London like open sores, which mock and ridicule cuckolded husbands of country wives. I put my aching head into my hands but find I cannot weep.

  I feel a gentle arm creep around my shoulders. Cooke is helping me up, bearing my weight as if I was a light girl. He must know that I need my bed. Sleep will still the demons that haunt me, if only for a while. I will sleep and wake refreshed. And when I wake, I will consider how to secure the return of my wife. For I shall get her back, whether she wills it or no.

  My head spins as Cooke supports me upstairs and I lean on him, glad of his strength. But to my surprise we pass the door of my chamber and I find myself outside Mary’s chamber at the end of the passage. I try to ask Cooke why he is taking me there but I find I cannot utter the words. He must have misunderstood and thought I desired some exercise on the dumb bell. But I can hardly stand.

  He pushes the door open and helps me inside and as I stagger across the threshold I am half conscious of another presence in that room. Perhaps Mary’s restless spirit has indeed returned to that place. The room swims before my eyes, then slowly, gradually, shapes begin to form. The dumb bell rope hangs there, looped at the end like a hangman’s noose and four chairs are lined up where the head of Mary’s bed once stood. To my surprise my wife Annabella is sitting there next to her lover, Vilton, once more adorned with his player’s coat and luxuriant wig, while Ursula, the maidservant is seated at her mistress’s side. They have returned. Or perhaps it is my imagination that has brought them to this place. Perhaps I see visions.

  Cooke lets go of my arm and I fall, grovelling, to the floor, hurting my knees on the hard oak boards. I raise myself on my elbows and look around, the shapes forming and dissolving into dark clouds as I blink, trying to focus my aching eyes. They are still there. Ursula, Annabella and Vilton, all staring down at me with dark contempt. And now Cooke has joined them, taking the fourth chair.

  My mind tells me that I am trapped in some strange dream. A hallucination. I reach out to Cooke for help but he ignores me.

  Vilton has stood up and towers over me. Words flow from his mouth and I try to concentrate on what he is saying. I despise him no longer. All my energies are focussed on regaining my senses.

  “It is hardly surprising, sir, that you did not know me for I saw you but once and I was then a child.”

  I try to open my mouth to speak but my lips feel like dead things and will not move.

  “It was at your wedding to my Aunt Mary. Do you not remember, sir?”

  I tried to shake my head. I feel saliva dribble from my lips. I do not wish Annabella to see me in such a pitiable state.

  Vilton continues. “When Sir William met with me at court and told to me the manner of my Aunt Mary’s death, I desired to come here and talk with her maidservant. What Ursula told me concerned me greatly and I felt it my duty to warn your new wife of your true nature. She did not believe me at first, of course. But she did believe Ursula who had been too afraid to speak out until I guaranteed her my protection.”

  Ursula is standing now. My vision is clearing and I can see that the timid creature’s hands are shaking with fear. Annabella puts a reassuring hand on her arm.

  “I found my mistress dead and the bolster was over her face. You told me to say nothing on pain of death, sir.” Ursula’s voice shakes. “You killed my mistress. And her innocent of any wrong-doing. She was kind to your son’s tutor, that is all. There was nothing between them. She was the sweetest lady who lived.”

  She begins to cry and I stare at the silly, plain girl with disbelief. She is lying. Still covering up for that evil, adulterous woman. I hear myself groan.

  Annabella stands now. “I have not betrayed you, sir. Master Vilton was merely concerned for my safety and . . .”

  But Cooke interrupts her. I reach out to him for aid but he looks upon me with hard eyes. “It is you, sir, who are the betrayer.”

  I try to utter a denial but I still cannot speak. I reach out to Cooke again, hoping that my loyal manservant will help me to my feet for I feel so strange. Perhaps there was something in the port wine I sampled so liberally. Perhaps one of these traitors swapped the decanters, turning my own scheme upon myself.

  Cooke ignores my silent pleas and waves a sheet of paper at my face. “I made enquiries at the church of St Bartholomew in Stoke Varley some forty miles from here. My mother was from that parish.”

  I stare at him. This sudden change in his demeanour makes me afraid.

  “There is an entry in the parish register saying that you married Kitty Cookman in 1648. Kitty Cookman lived in poverty and she passed from this life last winter.”

  He pauses and I feel my body slump to the ground, my arms no longer having the strength to hold me.

  “Kitty Cookman was my mother. And you, to my shame, are my father. My mother was the daughter of an honest yeoman farmer, a puritan who fought for Parliament and died for Master Cromwell’s cause at Marston Moor. My sweet, gentle mother prized her virtue, so you married her secretly because it was the only way you could get her into your bed. Then when you had had your amusement, you abandoned her to bear and raise me alone. I, sir, am your eldest son and
your true heir born in lawful wedlock.” He hesitates, staring into my eyes and I am suddenly afraid. “And upon your death I shall inherit all this estate.”

  He looks around and smiles; a triumphant, confident smile such as I have never seen upon his lips before. At that moment he resembles me as I once was. My son.

  “And in a short while,” Cooke continues, his face close to mine. “I shall claim my inheritance. And a new wife to go with it.”

  I see him take Annabella’s hand tenderly and kiss it. I feel the roughness of the hemp on my flesh as he slips the looped rope of the dumb bell around my neck.

  My head is clearing and at last I manage to speak. “You would not murder me?”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “Murder? This is not murder, Father. This is trial by jury. This is justice.”

  Cooke has given a signal, a chopping action with his right hand. The four are standing up, their faces solemn.

  Vilton is speaking, pronouncing the sentence, as I try to form the word “no” with my numbed tongue. I struggle against strong hands and I hear myself let out a terrified grunt of fear, like a beast in the slaughterhouse. Then I see Mary smiling at me from the shadows.

  And with the words “The Lord have mercy on your soul”, Vilton pulls upon the rope and I am flung upwards with a jerk into the darkness.

  THE CURIOUS CONTENTS OF A COFFIN

  SUSANNA GREGORY

  When I started this anthology I didn’t expect to get even one story involving an exhumation, let alone two. However that is all that this story and Martin Edwards’s have in common. The following continues the theme of individuals trying to get their lives back together after the turmoil of the Civil War and the Cromwellian period.

  Susanna Gregory (b. 1958) is a biologist who spends most winters sunning herself in the Antarctic. Otherwise she is the author of several historical mystery series, most notably the Matthew Bartholomew books, set in fourteenth-century Cambridge, which began with A Plague on Both Your Houses (1996) and the Crusader series featuring Sir Geoffrey Mappestone which began with Murder in the Holy City (1998), written under the alias Simon Beaufort.