A Murder by Any Name

by Suzanne M. Wolfe

  “What do you mean?” she said. “It was just chapel. Same every morning.”

  An honest answer. Habit was hard to remember, the sequence of routine actions blurred. Unless something out of the ordinary happened, one merely assumed something had happened as it always had, rather than actually remembering it. Given enough time, the assumption would take on the guise of an actual memory. Nick had interrogated enough people to be familiar with this strange phenomenon of the human mind.

  Nick tried another tack. “Who was sitting near Cecily in the pew?” This should be easier for her to answer as there was a strict rule of precedence, which would be engraved on the countess’s mind. She was known to be a great stickler for rules.

  “As the youngest and most recent of the ladies,” the countess said, “she was at the end near the center aisle on the right side of the chapel.”

  That meant another lady-in-waiting would be sitting on her right, and the center aisle of the chapel would be on her immediate left. No one sitting next to her had slipped her a note. Nick did not think it could have happened during the service, but he had to check. That left afterward, when people were hurrying to breakfast or jostling to be the first to importune the Queen for some favor.

  “Who was sitting behind her?”

  A log spat in the fire, and an ember landed on the floor. Sir Christopher jumped up and stamped it out. He had been so quiet up to now that if it hadn’t been for his occasional sneezing, Nick would have forgotten he was there.

  “It could have been anyone,” the countess said, looking at Nick as if he were an idiot. “I was sitting next to the Queen in the front pew.”

  “Of course.” According to court precedence, Cecily would be seated behind the Queen, the countess, and the most senior ladies-in-waiting. The countess would have had her back to her.

  “What about when you were leaving the chapel?”

  “She was still behind me,” the countess said, moving restlessly under the rug. Nick could see she was losing patience. But now he knew that she would not have seen anything. Her only use was in nailing down the approximate time when the note could have been passed.

  Stifling his disappointment, he gave her his most winning smile. “Bear with me, if you would,” he said.

  She snorted, obviously immune to his masculine charms. A widow for many years, Nick was amazed she had even deigned to marry in the first place, so great was her disdain for the male sex. No wonder her nephew was terrified of her. “Can we get this over with?” the countess said. “I’m not well.” As if to prove it, she sneezed. “Bloody dog,” she muttered, eyeing it malevolently. Her nephew looked apologetic but made no attempt to put the dog out of the room.

  “But when you returned to the royal apartments, you noticed her mood was different?”

  “As I said before,” the countess replied. She looked at her nephew. “Christopher, all these questions are making me thirsty. Get some wine.”

  Nick hid his surprise at her giving orders as if Sir Christopher were her servant. No doubt used to her imperiousness, he meekly got up and went to the door.

  “Perkin,” he bawled. “Wine.”

  The countess blinked in surprise, then looked irritated. “Must you shout?” she complained. “My head’s splitting.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled and sat down again.

  “In what way different?” Nick pressed.

  “Happier.”

  “And then she asked to go to the privy?”

  The countess nodded.

  “How did she appear when she returned?”

  “Secretive.”

  An interesting word, Nick thought. And unexpectedly astute of the countess. “But she said nothing?”

  She shook her head.

  “And later that night, when the Queen was going to bed?”

  “She was distracted. Kept forgetting things.” She glared at Sir Christopher. “Like the wine.”

  At that moment, Perkin sauntered in, carrying a silver tray with matching flagon and goblets. Nick was a little taken aback by how wealthy Sir Christopher appeared to be. Everything was of the best—woven, not painted, tapestries from either the Gobelins Royal Factory in Paris or the most famous tapestry district in France, Arras, judging by the quality of thread and color. Thick glass on the casement window; embroidered cushions on the window seat; silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece. He wondered if Sir Christopher were involved in the luxury trade. There was the dolphin knocker on the door—a maritime symbol—and he had heard somewhere that Sir Christopher often traveled abroad.

  Setting the tray down on a large oak press against the wall, Perkin poured and handed around the cups, serving the countess first, Nick second, Sir Christopher last. Pecking order, Nick thought, concealing a grin. Servants always revealed more about their masters than people thought. From the time of ancient Rome, comedy was replete with the stock characters of uppity servants running the lives of dullard masters, cuckolding and fleecing them with impunity. Nick always liked to question servants if he could. That was why he had made a mental note to return to the apothecary’s at closing time. He hoped to have a quiet word with Wat, the assistant. And now that he had established his credentials with Perkin vis-à-vis the lad’s mortal enemy, the hideous ball of fluff, he had no doubt he would be forthcoming if only Nick could get him alone.

  He was often amazed at how eager most servants were to spill the beans about the most intimate and embarrassing details of their masters’ and mistresses’ lives, without money changing hands. At first he had been surprised, expecting discretion, but then he had quickly come to realize that revenge for innumerable slights, real or imagined, was usually the motive behind such loquacity. Whatever the reason, he usually profited by it. He could also learn a great deal just by watching the body language of servants; when Perkin placed his master’s goblet on a table beside him, Nick saw him shoot Sir Christopher a contemptuous look and then ostentatiously brush at nonexistent dog hair on his doublet. Nick noticed that Perkin’s left hose near his ankle had been torn and inexpertly sewn up. His doublet was stained, and his linen shirt yellow with age and gossamer thin with wear. For a household as rich as this one clearly was, Nick thought it strange the servant should be so shabbily dressed. Sir Christopher struck him as a person whose vanity demanded that his servants do him credit, but Perkin wore no livery and seemed to be the only servant in the household.

  Sir Christopher seemed fastidious in all other respects—the way he dressed, for example: matching hose and slippers, jewels chosen to complement the color of his doublet. Nick had an instinctive mistrust for a man who took such care with his dress and toilette; he thought it womanish. He himself was dressed in whatever clothes lay on top of the heap on his bedchamber floor. Today it was a padded leather jerkin with a reasonably clean shirt underneath and a workaday doublet cut unfashionably low and loose in the leg, like breeches. His stint as a soldier had taught him to choose comfort, durability, and freedom of movement over fashion. Sir Christopher’s yellow doublet was cut so high on the thigh and was so voluminous he looked like an obscene squash.

  Perkin’s shabby appearance was an odd anomaly; one more thing Nick added to his list of why he couldn’t stand Sir Christopher.

  “Thank you, Perkin,” the countess snapped. “That will be all.” It seemed she too had witnessed this dumb show, and however much she herself despised her nephew, inferiors slighting their betters was clearly not to be tolerated.

  The lad sketched a perfunctory bow and withdrew. Nick could imagine him listening outside the door.

  Nick sipped his wine, wishing they would offer him some food. He hadn’t eaten since he had broken his fast with Eli and Rivkah that morning, and it was long past midday. Outside the window, the brief daylight of winter was already fading, the room becoming dim. Soon it would be the shortest day of the year. Christmas would be upon them, and the court would move to Hampton Court for the festivities. He must hurry to solve this case before then, before people scattered
to their own estates. And he must hurry if he were to catch Wat at the apothecary’s before dark, even if it was only a brief walk from Cheapside. He rose and set his goblet down.

  “Just one more question,” he said.

  Sir Christopher had also risen and was hovering near the door as if he couldn’t wait to see Nick out. The countess gave a great sigh—pure theater—a clear message that her patience had been sorely taxed, but she was willing to put up with it for the moment. Nick had saved his most difficult question for last.

  “Why were you so upset by Cecily’s murder, Countess? I’m told you didn’t like her very much.” He deliberately hardened his voice and phrased it as bluntly as possible for maximum shock, hinting that others had been gossiping about her behind her back. He was heartily sick of the countess’s air of superiority and wanted her rattled, off balance.

  She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again like a trap. Her eyes bulged and spots of color suddenly flamed in her cheeks.

  “I say,” Sir Christopher objected.

  Nick ignored him and waited, his eyes on the countess.

  “How dare you?” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it. She looked more flustered than indignant once the initial shock of his rudeness had worn off. Nick saw her glance quickly at her nephew as if drawing strength from a relationship where she was clearly dominant and never on the receiving end of impertinent questions. Nick guessed the only person she considered her superior was the Queen herself. An earl’s younger son was a nothing.

  “It was—it is a terrible thing,” she said at last. “I would not wish such a death on my worst enemy.” Before Nick could reply, she added, “And Cecily was not my enemy, young man. A bit flighty, perhaps, especially after she took up with Mary, but a good girl at heart. Although,” she added, “she was useless as a lady-in-waiting.”

  Nick suppressed a flicker of anger. He would have described her friend Mary as flighty, but not Cecily. Cecily was sweet and innocent, almost ethereal with her long golden hair and guileless blue eyes. It was her very innocence that had made her such a perfect victim, someone easily taken in by that cold note. She was so much a child that she would have thought nothing of the note’s prescriptive tone, not being long out of the schoolroom herself. And to describe Cecily as useless was unkind; she had only been at court a few weeks and was still learning the ropes. It was inevitable that she should make mistakes. The countess’s harsh judgment was clearly based on envy, Nick thought. Envy of Cecily’s youth and innocence, perhaps even envy of the Queen’s affection for her youngest lady-in-waiting. He knew he had outstayed his welcome. Concealing his dislike, he gave a small bow. “Thank you, Countess. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Sir Christopher was hovering near the door.

  “Did you know Cecily?” Nick asked.

  “I danced with her once,” he replied. He flushed at the memory.

  Now Nick remembered seeing them dancing at the Accession Day Ball. His impression was that Cecily had agreed to dance with him out of politeness and perhaps because she was too inexperienced with men to know how to refuse. Certainly, he recollected, she had made sure to disengage her hand quickly after the dance was over and glide away into the crowd so Sir Christopher could not ask her again.

  Nick started to leave, then swung back. “Where were you at midnight last night?”

  “At the Custom House,” Sir Christopher said.

  “At midnight?” Nick said incredulously.

  “My nephew works all hours,” the countess said proudly. “He is a highly successful merchant.”

  Nick glanced at Sir Christopher for confirmation. “A shipment of Venetian glass,” he explained. “Very costly. Seems it was ‘lost.’ I was called in to sort it out.”

  “Did you find it?” Nick asked.

  “Turns out it was unloaded onto the wrong wharf.”

  Nick knew that business on the busy docks and quays of the Thames went on around the clock. London was, after all, one of the biggest centers of commerce in all of Europe. Still, it was unusual for a man of Sir Christopher’s wealth and status to be required to take himself to the docks in the middle of the night, even if a costly import had been misplaced. He wondered if Sir Christopher was the kind of man who found it impossible to leave his underlings to get on with a job, who was constantly fussing over their every move. He certainly looked the type. Still, something was fishy about his alibi, and it would have to be checked.

  As Nick turned to go, he thought he saw the flash of something in Sir Christopher’s eyes, quickly gone. The worm turns, he thought. Well, well.

  Nick left the room and descended the stairs. Perkin was loitering in the hallway by the front door, but Sir Christopher was still standing on the upstairs landing, so Nick decided to postpone his talk with the lad. He could return when he was sure Sir Christopher was out.

  When Nick dropped by the apothecary’s on his way back from Sir Christopher’s, he found the shop closed. A chink of light showed through the shutters on the second floor, but he had no way of knowing if Master Hogg lived above his shop or merely rented out the space. Besides, he preferred to talk to Wat alone. He would have to come back later and watch for him to leave; apprentices spent half their lives delivering goods, so he was certain he would catch Wat at some point. With night falling, Nick gave up for the day and continued back to Bankside along London Bridge.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Palace of Whitehall

  He returned to Whitehall the next day with Hector and John. Maggie, John’s wife, had not been happy when Nick asked if he could borrow her husband for a couple of days. John stood silently by and let Nick do all the talking. A brave man in a fight, he was a complete coward when it came to the wife he adored.

  He had known John, the son of his father’s steward, all his life. As boys they had fished in the streams on the estate and hunted rabbits together; as teens they had taken it in turn bedding wenches in the barn, the other acting as lookout in case they were discovered. When he went off to Oxford at fifteen Nick had begged his father to let John come with him as his manservant—in truth, his companion. His father, with characteristic fairness, had deferred to his steward, John’s father, who had reluctantly agreed. He had known for years that his eldest son wasn’t cut out for facts and figures, the tally books and records of a steward’s life. His younger son, Simon, being naturally bookish, showed more aptitude, and he had long been training him to take over his position. The long and short of it was that Master Stockton gave John his blessing; the earl gave him a horse—a much more practical gift, but no less loving for that—and a small purse of gold.

  Two years ago they had met Maggie when he and John had stopped by the tavern, then named Ye Olde Cock, after having disembarked at Bankside after a trip to the Continent. Seated before the fire in the taproom, Nick had gradually become aware that his friend kept looking at the woman behind the bar. A boy was helping her, obviously her son by the strong resemblance and the way she smiled at him and occasionally ruffled his hair.

  “See something you like?” Nick had quipped, digging John in the ribs. John had ignored him and kept staring.

  “Don’t blame you,” Nick had said. “She’s a looker all right.” The woman had a heart-shaped face and flashing green eyes. Curly auburn hair tumbled out of the kerchief she wore tied around her head, and she kept blowing at a strand that was tickling her cheek—a very fetching sight, Nick had to admit. She moved quickly and efficiently about the bar, chatting with customers and occasionally good-naturedly shoving them away if they got too friendly. Interestingly, Nick noticed that few customers molested her, tipsy as they were. A rough lot, mostly sailors and men of less definable professions that Nick suspected landed squarely on the wrong side of the law, they seemed content to lean their elbows on the bar and feast their bleary eyes on her. Much the same way John was doing.

  Except that John was watching one man in particular more than he was looking at the woman, Nick realized. Squat, wide, and with a
once powerful torso now running to fat, the man was leaning across the bar saying something to the woman. She frowned, shook her head, and tried to move away, but the man grabbed her arm and yanked her forward, upsetting the tankard of ale she was carrying. Her son tried to intervene but was brushed off as if he were a troublesome gnat, and fell back behind the counter. John leapt to his feet and was almost to the bar before Nick realized what he was doing. The sound of the punch John delivered was drowned out by the shouts of the crowd, but Nick saw it in dumb show as the man’s head snapped back on impact. The man stood his ground, and as he launched himself at John, they began to grapple. At the first sign of trouble, the other patrons had drawn back to the edges of the room, part entertained, part fearful. Nick saw another man detach himself from the crowd and move toward John. In his hand, Nick caught the glint of a knife.

  “Behind you, John,” Nick yelled and flung himself at the man. There wasn’t enough room to draw his sword, so Nick went for the man’s knife hand, grasping his wrist and twisting until the weapon clattered to the floor; then he swung him around and delivered a straight-handed chop to the throat followed by a knee to the groin. Not very sporting, but effective. Fighting for his life in Spanish alleys and dockyards had led Nick to believe that the notion of fair play was overrated. The man toppled like a felled oak and lay there making peculiar retching noises. By the time Nick looked up, he saw that John had the squat man in an armlock and was repeatedly bashing his head against a post. Nick watched admiringly. The man’s head was hard—he’d give him that. It took five blows before his eyes rolled back and he went slack. John let go, and the man joined his companion in a crumpled heap. Immediately, the other patrons stepped over the bodies, bellied up to the bar, and demanded more ale.