A Murder by Any Name

by Suzanne M. Wolfe

  * * *

  Worried that she was too late, Cecily made her way swiftly down the stone steps leading to the chapel. Except for the occasional eruption of male laughter from one of the public rooms where the Royal Guard nightly gathered to drink and play dice when they weren’t patrolling the palace, it was quiet. A dog barked outside, followed by an angry shout and a yelp as if the dog had been kicked; then all fell silent again. Nights in the palace were given over to men—soldiers mostly, but also clerks, pale with hunger, fingers stained with ink, clutching their masters’ eleventh-hour missives, or young pages drooping against doorways, unshaven chins sunk on hollow chests, put there to guard their masters from the sudden intrusion of an irate wife while they tumbled a serving maid in the marital bed.

  If the nights were the province of men, the days were ruled by women, with Elizabeth Regina the sun that shone above them all, a source of light as well as blistering heat that seared and shriveled any who were foolish enough to incur her wrath. But despite the dominance of the female sex at Elizabeth’s court, Cecily had once overheard Sir Walter Raleigh—Cecily had a tremendous crush on the dashing explorer, especially since dancing with him at the ball—mutter to his neighbor that “Her Majesty has bigger balls than a Brahmin bull.” Ignorant as to the meaning of Brahmin, Cecily knew by painful experience that bollocks featured often in her royal mistress’s speech.

  The torches in the wall sconces flickered as an icy draft gusted from the arrow slits in the stairwell, causing shadows to writhe on the walls like tormented souls. Cecily shivered and pulled her fur-lined cloak more tightly around her, praying she didn’t trip on the hem and break her neck. Her feet felt numb, the thin kidskin slippers feeble protection against the icy slabs. At last she reached the bottom and, peeping into the corridor to make sure no one was about, ran silently toward the chapel, clutching the note tightly in her fist like a talisman.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Black Sheep Tavern, Bankside

  The Honorable Nicholas Holt, younger brother of Robert, Earl of Blackwell, lately returned from spying for the Queen on the Continent, was dreaming of white, willing female flesh, his lips grazing over smooth pearlescent thighs, lute-flaring hips and upward to what he confidently anticipated to be pillowy and perfectly rounded breasts; murmuring endearments, if not of love, then those guaranteed to induce enthusiastic cooperation—sweetheart, my Venus, even the low and surprising moan Mouse. The only fly in the ointment was an inhumanly pitched shrieking that kept putting him off his amatory stride.

  “Rise and shine, rise and shine, rise and shine …”

  “I’m risen,” he growled.

  “Evidently,” a voice said.

  Nick blearily became aware that the voice was male and could not possibly have emanated from the lips of his dream goddess. At the same time, her flesh began to melt, oozing unpleasantly through his fingers like marchpane on a hot summer’s day at the fair, until she was gone. In its place a horde of blacksmiths set up shop inside his skull and started clanging away.

  “John,” Nick said without opening his eyes, “be a pal and sod off.” And as an afterthought: “And shut that bloody parrot up before I stuff it up your arse.”

  The shrieking subsided to low avian grumblings as John Stockton, Nick’s friend and companion in arms, threw a cloak over the stand where Bess, said parrot, was chained. Next he shook Nick, who was sprawled on a bench in a corner of the taproom of The Black Sheep, the tavern Nick owned and John ran. A raspy, wet tongue began to slaver Nick’s face.

  “Cut it out, Hector,” he muttered, pushing the big canine muzzle away.

  “Nick,” John said, “there’s an urgent message from your brother.”

  “He can sod off too.” But something in John’s voice made Nick open his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Sir Edward Carew’s daughter.”

  “Which one?”

  “Cecily.”

  Nick sat up quickly, then regretted it as the room tilted and his stomach lurched. Hector, his enormous Irish wolfhound, so massive the shaggy head was on a level with his own, was regarding him with reproachful eyes. Nick had fought beside Sir Edward, visiting his manor in Herefordshire many times. He recalled Cecily as a shy, dreamy girl with long, fair hair and guileless cornflower-blue eyes. As he grew accustomed to the shuttered gloom of the taproom, he recognized an adolescent boy in the livery of his brother, standing near the door, face taut, eyes black holes in a white face.

  “What’s amiss, Alan?” he asked, pulling on his boots and buckling on his sword belt. Black wings began to beat inside his chest.

  “It’s Lady Cecily,” the lad replied. “She’s been murdered.” Then he burst into tears.

  * * *

  The corridor outside the chapel was in an uproar, a seething mass of plush taffeta brocade and the humbler fustian as nobles, pages, and servants jostled one another and craned their necks to see through the crossed pikes of the two stony-faced Royal Guards positioned at the door. Nick pushed his way through the crowd, the page boy, Alan, at his heels. Hector padded silently behind, a path magically opening up around him like Moses parting the Red Sea as people shied away from this canine monster.

  Nick had questioned Alan closely as they were being rowed across the river in the wherry Robert had sent to fetch him, a river crossing being quicker than attempting London Bridge on foot, or even on horseback, with its throngs of pedestrians and lumbering carts. All the boy could tell him was that at first light, when the Queen and her ladies had gone to the chapel for morning prayers, they had discovered Lady Cecily’s body.

  * * *

  “Let me pass,” Nick said.

  The guards’ expressions did not change, the wickedly sharp pikes remaining resolutely crossed. Nick sighed.

  “Robert,” he shouted. “Tell these trained monkeys to stand aside.”

  “Let him pass,” a voice ordered. Wood clashed on stone as the guards came to attention, pikes smartly brought into the upright position.

  “Majesty,” Nick said, belatedly catching sight of a froth of red curls just inside the door. He gave a small bow, all he could manage in the cramped space, then entered the chapel.

  “Thank you, Alan,” Nick said, touching the boy gently on the shoulder. “Tell the earl I will speak with him later.” Nick saw his brother, Robert, with an arm awkwardly about the shoulders of Sir Edward Carew, who was sitting on the altar steps, face buried in his hands, shoulders heaving, although not a sound escaped. Alan nodded and went to stand beside them.

  The Queen was striding up and down the center aisle, her inner circle watching from the pews with pale, strained faces. Off to one side, the white-haired Baron Burghley, the Queen’s chief advisor and Lord Treasurer, was whispering urgently in the ear of Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary of State. A young boy in a white surplice, one of the choristers, was throwing up in the corner. Even the Queen’s Fool was silent, standing forlornly off to one side like a forgotten child. As Nick approached, the Queen abruptly stopped and whirled around. Two bright spots of color burned on her cheeks, and her brown eyes bore into him like gimlets. He recognized the signs: the Queen was afraid and because she was afraid, enraged.

  “Disperse those ghouls,” she bellowed. “It’s not a goddamned cockfight.”

  A tremor passed through the crowd outside the chapel, like a chill wind. The guards stepped forward, and reluctantly, with many a backward glance and low muttering, people began to drift away.

  “Come with me,” the Queen said, turning on her heel and making for the altar.

  The chapel was brightly lit with candles and torches held by guards in a circle around the altar, but the acrid smell of pitch and beeswax could not mask the faint odor of the onset of decay. Nick briefly closed his eyes; he was all too familiar with that smell. Here, however, in this place of worship, it seemed doubly obscene. Here should be safety and hush, not the scrape of steel on bone, the clash of metal on metal, the banshee screams of the dying; here should be pe
ace.

  Nick spotted Cecil, the Queen’s spymaster under Sir Francis Walsingham, standing behind the altar, with his back to the rood screen. His nickname at court was the Spider, for he favored black and preferred dark corners, the better to observe without being seen.

  At the absurdly young age of twenty two, Cecil was a prodigy. Officially still a student at Cambridge, his father, Baron Burghley, had persuaded Sir Francis Walsingham to take him on as an assistant. Cecil had proved to be a master at uncovering traitors and plots, soon becoming invaluable to the Queen’s chief spymaster, especially since Sir Francis was in failing health. Now Cecil virtually ran Walsingham’s spy network and was rumored to be poised to succeed him. Affectionately called “Pygmy” by the Queen on account of his short stature, Nick preferred the much more popular nickname of “Spider.”

  Nick now knew who had summoned him. Coerced into working for Cecil a year ago, he had spent the past six months traveling around Europe as a dissolute nobleman out to see the world, in reality spying on the Spanish navy yards. The look Cecil gave him from under hooded lids told him he should have reported in by now. He had been back in London for over a fortnight. Only Walsingham, the Spider, the Queen and—unbeknownst to Nick’s masters—the faithful John Stockton, knew he was a spy and a man who ferreted out the truth. To the rest of the world, he was a sot and the rapscallion younger brother of a great lord, a blight on his aristocratic house, and the envied master of the biggest dog they had ever seen. It was a perfect, though frequently tiresome, cover.

  Nick saw the Queen briefly lay a be-ringed hand on Edward’s bowed head as she climbed the steps. At her approach, the guards parted to reveal the altar.

  Cecily was laid out with her hands crossed over her breast in a terrible parody of tranquility, her face a beautiful alabaster effigy, her eyes mercifully closed. Arranged, Nick thought at once. A low rumbling emerged from Hector’s throat, his hackles standing up along his back.

  “Easy, boy,” Nick said.

  Behind him he heard the Queen ordering everyone out of the chapel except for Cecil and Nick, whom she motioned to remain with a flick of her hand.

  “Take my ladies back to the royal apartments,” she instructed the countess, who was standing motionless with a blank expression, oblivious to her women who were clustered around her, weeping. “Now, Eleanor,” she added gently when the countess did not move. The countess gave a start, as if awakening from a trance, and began to usher the ladies-in-waiting down the aisle, forgetting to curtsey to the Queen, an unprecedented lapse in protocol and as eloquent an expression of shock as Nick had ever seen.

  The Queen turned to Nick’s brother. “Escort Sir Edward there too, Robert,” she said. “Comfort him as best you can. I shall join you anon.”

  When the chapel had emptied and all but the Queen, Cecil, and the Royal Guard remained, Nick leaned over the body, forcing himself to look dispassionately.

  Below Cecily’s neck, the effect of peaceful repose was cruelly mocked by a tiny hole in the fabric of her dress beneath the left breast. Sending up a silent apology to the dead girl for such a violation of her modesty, Nick gently unhooked her bodice and moved the material aside so that her breast was exposed. As he expected, a corresponding hole obscenely marred the alabaster white of her skin. An upward thrust to the heart with a stiletto, Nick realized. An assassin’s blade as long and slender as a needle, made to slide between the ribs before the victim even knew she had been stabbed, it was an elegant and deadly weapon, easily concealed. He gently pushed on the flesh around the wound with his finger, and dark, viscous blood emerged. Heart blood. A treacherous way to kill, and silent, but a quick way to die. Mercifully, Cecily would not have known what was happening, would have had no chance to cry out. Nick would not be surprised if no one had heard anything last night.

  He reached out and gently manipulated Cecily’s crossed arms, then her legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Queen flinch. Cecil looked at him over the corpse. Do what you have to do, his look said. As long as you get results. Nick shrugged. Everyone knew that a body went rigid not long after death and then relaxed again a few hours later. What was not commonly known was what his friend, Eli, a Jewish physician of great skill, had told him: that a corpse could often tell the careful examiner how it had died and even, approximately, the time of death. The problem, Nick knew, was not how and when, but who and why.

  “Cover her up, for pity’s sake,” the Queen exclaimed, turning away.

  “I’m sorry, Majesty,” Nick said, “but I need a friend to examine her just as she is.” Then added: “A Jewish doctor.”

  The Queen looked sharply at him. “I overheard a fool muttering that this is a murder perpetrated by the Jews. A sacrifice of an innocent to mock the Eucharist.” Before Nick could speak, she waved him silent. “Utter folly, I know. Whoever did this is a member of the court. My court.” Her eyes flashed dangerously, and Nick was suddenly reminded of her father, Henry VIII, the Tudor Lion. “But the mood of the city will turn ugly if these rumors spread, as they are bound to do. Londoners have been known to riot for less.” She was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I will have him escorted here in secret. He may examine the body.” She turned to one of the guards. “See to it,” she ordered.

  “Thank you, Majesty,” Nick said.

  His gaze moved farther down the body. There was no other damage. A mercy. A brief vision of Cecily, alive and laughing, came to him: He had been strolling by the river on the Carew estate one evening at dusk when he heard a splash. Thinking he had disturbed a waterfowl from its nest in the reeds, he’d scanned the river and seen a lithe white body emerge above the surface and then dive down again like a sleek albino otter. He had crouched in the long grass watching, entranced by the girl’s innocent play, a river naiad straight out of the tales of Ovid. When she began to swim toward the bank, he stole silently away, not wanting to frighten or shame her. Her innocence had stayed with him and provided a kind of solace in a world neck-deep in lust, greed, treachery, and death.

  Now that loveliness had been callously snuffed out. Nick vowed to find the monster responsible and hand him over to the executioner to be hung, drawn, and quartered, for surely only a low-born varlet’s death could atone for such a sin.

  “Find the one who did this, Holt,” the Queen said, as if reading his thoughts. “And bring him to me for, by Christ, I will not suffer such a man to live.” She looked down at Cecily for a long moment, then leaned over and kissed her tenderly on the forehead as a mother might kiss a sleeping child. Then she turned and swept out of the chapel, ordering the guards to permit no one access except Nick, Cecil, and Eli the physician.

  “Here,” Nick said, thrusting a flaming torch at Cecil. “Hold this.”

  If Cecil minded being ordered around by one of his spies, he didn’t show it. The son of a commoner and Baron Burghley, the former Sir William Cecil and the Queen’s most trusted advisor, perhaps he considered it politic to comply with an order given by the son and brother of an earl, an aristocratic heritage bred in the blood and not merely bestowed by a grateful monarch like his own father’s title. In fact, he rarely showed emotion of any kind, his voice always pitched low, face bland, his prodigious intellect and love of cruelty apparent only to those who knew him very well indeed. Like Nick.

  Born with a deformed spine and consequently hunchbacked, he was short in stature and walked with a pronounced limp. It was easy to underestimate him, to treat him as an object of derision. He used long used this to his advantage, squatting like a black spider in the dark corners of chambers, listening and recording, always recording, filing away names and injudiciously spoken words in the great ledger of his remarkable memory, constructing webs in which to snare the traitor and the assassin. Although only in his early twenties, he had swiftly made himself invaluable to the Queen, with his network of spies at home and abroad, with his lists of traitors, his suspicions of plots. Cannily exploiting the Queen’s very real fear of assassination (she had survived sev
eral attempts), he had convinced her that he and his network were the only bulwark between her and the assassin’s knife or musket ball and gunpowder.

  Nick noticed that one of Cecily’s hands was tightly closed into a fist. Gently he pried open her fingers one by one and extracted a tiny roll of parchment. When he read it, he was assailed by a terrible anger that the girl had been so heartlessly tricked to her death. He imagined her anticipation during the day, her girlish romantic fantasies, her excitement as the time for the assignation approached. Perhaps she even knew her killer.

  Nick also felt a small flicker of hope, for now he had a letter written by the murderer himself. If he could match the handwriting, then he would have his man. And the specification of the time—midnight—made Nick suspect that Cecily had received the note yesterday morning. In view of the fact that the Queen’s ladies were kept busy throughout the day tending to the needs of their royal charge, Nick thought it likely that the only opportunity the killer would have had to freely approach Cecily in a crowd would have been after morning chapel the day before. Before chapel, the Queen would have processed down the aisle, her ladies following in her train, the pews already packed with courtiers. After the service, the Queen was well known to stop and hear petitions, giving her ladies a brief opportunity to fraternize. Anyone could have brushed against Cecily in the crush and slipped her a note. Nick decided to proceed on the assumption that the killer must have attended morning chapel. This, at least, had the virtue of narrowing down his suspect pool.