A Rustle of Silk: A new forensic mystery series set in Stuart England (A Gabriel Taverner Mystery)

by Alys Clare

  And how, I asked, did he protect himself from infection?

  ‘Before I venture among the desperate, suffering victims I put on a heavy, moisture-repellent cloak and gloves, and I pick up my cane,’ he told me. ‘The cloak and the gloves are for my protection; the cane is to keep the healthy at a distance, for, while I still wear my protective garments, the deadly plague miasmas crawl upon me and it is not safe to approach.’

  And, finally, he told me how he covered his head and face.

  ‘I wear a hood, of the same fabric as my cloak, and it fits tightly so as to cover my hair and my flesh. On my face I wear a mask, with crystal eyepieces to look through and a long beak through which to breathe. The beak – it is nearly as long as my forearm – is stuffed with herbs that counter the polluted air. Various substances are employed, but to speak for myself, I favour cloves, pepper and camphor.’ He smiled briefly. ‘So far, they have kept me safe, and I pray God they continue to do so.’

  ‘Amen,’ I said.

  Now, sitting in my father’s pew in a Devon church, I shivered in horror at the memory. And I knew, without a doubt, what it was I’d been trying to bring to mind: Judyth’s description of her mysterious stranger’s mask precisely matched that worn by my long-ago colleague.

  The killer had used a weapon of foreign manufacture: almost certainly, it was Venetian. He had disguised himself in the sinister guise of a Venetian plague doctor. And Nicolaus Quinlie’s main income derived from trading in Venetian silk.

  My mind was racing and it took all my willpower to remain in my seat for the last, endless hour of the service.

  The following morning I left my sister, newly reinstalled at Rosewyke, sorting through the multiplicity of objects – furniture, fabric, curtains, rugs, paintings, personal possessions – that I had purloined from Ferrars on her behalf, and rode off to my meeting with Theo. I was shown into his office in the usual offhand way, where I found him in intense conversation with Jarman Hodge.

  They broke off as I came in. ‘Jarman has been pursuing an investigation of his own,’ Theo said, ‘and we’ll tell you about it directly. But, first, what have you to tell us?’

  As succinctly as I could, and trying not to include my personal opinion and speculation, I explained how I’d searched Nicolaus Quinlie’s office – I didn’t dwell on the fact that I’d picked the locks and broken in – and found the almost-empty file with the one document, and how the rest of the papers that had been in that file turned up at Ferrars, where only Jeromy could have hidden them. I was about to expound my theory as to what Jeromy had planned to do with them but I’d only got as far as ‘Jeromy was deeply in debt and in serious financial trouble …’ when Theo, nodding his understanding, interrupted me.

  ‘And you reckon he planned to use these documents to put pressure on Quinlie to release him from his debts.’ I nodded. ‘A very dangerous ploy, with a man of Nicolaus Quinlie’s nature,’ Theo observed.

  ‘Those papers must contain something of an extremely sensitive nature,’ Jarman mused. ‘Jeromy would have known what a tough man Quinlie is and so, to believe he had any chance of forcing his hand, the secret must have been one that Quinlie wanted very badly to keep to himself.’

  They both looked expectantly at me. ‘I have no idea what it is,’ I confessed. ‘The documents merely record a list of payments made over the last twenty-five years or so to some person or organization, and the only clue to its identity are the letters Laz … to.’

  Once again, that little chime seemed to go off inside my head. You know this, I heard a voice tell me. Think!

  But there was no time for reflection. Theo had turned to Jarman, and was inviting him to share the fruits of his recent investigation with me.

  ‘I’ve been making more enquiries about Nicolaus Quinlie’s past,’ he began, ‘and I’ve found out the name of the young woman he was betrothed to. Her name was Rose Willerton, and she was closely related to the Sidneys.’

  ‘Quinlie was after the backing of a man of power and influence,’ Theo put in, ‘because even in his youth he had great ambitions, and saw his future as a major figure in England’s status as a trading nation.’

  I knew I ought to know the relevance of the name Sidney but I couldn’t bring it to mind. Jarman, apparently perceiving my bemusement, said, ‘Philip Sidney was the son of Lady Mary Dudley, the Earl of Leicester’s sister.’

  The Earl of Leicester. Robert Dudley, the late Queen’s beloved Robin. Ah, yes. In terms of importance in Elizabeth’s court, families didn’t rank much higher.

  ‘And Philip Sidney’s aunt – his father’s youngest sister – was called Suzannah,’ Theo added; it was apparent that he and Jarman had talked all this over already – ‘and she married Sir Ambrose Willerton, and Rose was their only child.’

  ‘So …’ I paused to work it out. ‘Rose and Philip were cousins, and she was … well, she was some fairly close relative of Elizabeth’s favourite.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hodge agreed.

  No wonder Nicolaus Quinlie had wanted to marry her. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, Ambrose Willerton was from an old Catholic family – their estates were in Somerset – and Walsingham suspected he was involved in the Ridolfi Plot, although Ambrose denied it.’

  Theo was watching me with a smile. ‘I think you’re going to have to prod his memory again, Jarman.’

  ‘I was at sea during those turbulent times!’ I protested. ‘I had far more immediate dangers to worry about.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ Theo said soothingly. ‘Go on, Jarman.’

  ‘The Ridolfi Plot was an attempt by the Catholics to free Mary, Queen of Scots, and it allegedly had the support of the Spanish,’ Hodge said. ‘Mary was to be brought to London to supplant Elizabeth.’

  ‘Who was Ridolfi?’ I asked.

  ‘He was an Italian banker, and he was said to have put up a lot of the money. The plot failed, obviously, and the Queen’s spymaster got busy rounding up all those he thought had a hand in it. He didn’t find enough damning evidence on Ambrose Willerton to bring him to trial, but for some reason the common view was that Willerton had been one of the prime movers, and, as they say, mud sticks.’

  ‘Whereupon Quinlie, whose sole reason for marrying Rose Willerton was presumably because of her formerly important and influential connections, instantly decided he no longer had any use for her.’ I glanced at my two companions. ‘It was convenient that she died when she did,’ I remarked, thinking of the elaborate tomb that Hodge had earlier described.

  There was a brief silence. ‘Yes, I’ve been asking around about that, too,’ Jarman said. He paused. ‘Rose Willerton was buried in Somerset. Not at her family home, but in the village in which Nicolaus Quinlie had recently purchased a costly manor, presumably intending that it would be the marital home. The village is called Bircholt. It’s in the west of the county, in the hills below Bristol.’

  ‘The Quantocks, I believe,’ Theo put in.

  ‘Probably,’ Jarman agreed. ‘Pretty place, anyway, and not much more than a couple of days’ ride from here if you keep up a good pace.’

  Theo knew his man far better than I did. Even as I was still wondering where this would end, he said, ‘What did you discover?’

  ‘Only rumours, but interesting ones,’ Hodge said softly. ‘Such as, that great monument of a tomb has no occupant. That the men who bore Rose Willerton’s coffin to her grave all disappeared mysteriously not long afterwards. That nobody ever knew how she died, so how can anyone be certain it was from natural causes and Quinlie didn’t help that death along? That he was hand in hand with the Devil, who somehow spirited Rose away and she was never seen again.’

  ‘Any truth in the tales?’ Theo asked.

  Hodge shrugged. ‘They’re persistent, I’ll say that much. Mind you, nobody there had a good word to say for Nicolaus Quinlie. He sold up after Rose’s death and came down to Plymouth, and they all reckon it was good riddance.’

  ‘Derogatory stories have a way of
attaching themselves to unpopular men,’ I observed, ‘especially when the men are very wealthy and important.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Theo.

  ‘And,’ added Jarman, ‘when a man’s as disliked as Nicolaus Quinlie, men don’t hesitate to speak ill of him, perhaps in the hope that in some way he’ll finally get the retribution he deserves.’ Jarman stared into the distance, his eyes narrowed. ‘I pick up a lot of information that way. People see me as an ally when I begin to dig for dirt on an unpopular man. What’s it they say? My enemy’s enemy is my friend.’

  I studied him, trying not to make it obvious. Such a colourless, unobtrusive figure: unmemorable, mild-seeming, yet what a quick and agile brain ticked away inside his head; what a sharp glance looked out from those ordinary-looking eyes. No wonder Theo valued him so highly.

  A contemplative silence fell. I thought back over what we’d just learned, realizing how extraordinary it was … Was nobody going to speculate further? ‘If Rose Willerton isn’t in the tomb,’ I burst out, ‘then where in heaven’s name is she? Is she alive, even?’

  Jarman Hodge looked coolly at me. ‘Couldn’t say, doctor. Reckon there’s only one man knows the truth of it, and I’m not planning on asking him.’

  As I rode home, I began to wonder if Jarman’s attitude wasn’t perhaps the right one. It appeared we’d found out who had killed Jeromy and why. Perhaps we didn’t know whose hand had wielded that ghastly blade, but there could be no doubt of whose pay he had been in. Nicolaus Quinlie knew that Jeromy had stolen the sensitive documents, guessed what he planned to do with them and forestalled any such hostile move by having him murdered. The killer had worn the disguise of a Venetian plague doctor, so even if anyone had seen him – as Judyth had – then they’d be none the wiser as to his identity.

  Nicolaus Quinlie may or may not have murdered the woman he had promised to marry, but was it up to me to uncover the truth of it? As Jarman had hinted, you went up against Quinlie at your peril. Wouldn’t it be wiser to look ahead rather than back into the past? I would be better employed, surely, helping my grieving sister make a new life for herself than persisting in my attempts to tie up every last strand of a mystery that was already a quarter of a century old.

  I will put all this behind me, I resolved, and I’ll encourage Celia to do the same. Jeromy was dead and buried, and his widow must mend her broken heart and look to the future. Perhaps she and I could go on a visit somewhere … I could take her to London to show her some of my old haunts, and even to see one or two of Shakespeare’s newest offerings. It would take a deal of planning and quite a lot of persuasion, but what was to stop us?

  Suddenly eager to put my plan into action, I dug my heels into Hal’s sides and raced for home.

  THIRTEEN

  But the optimistic future I’d been envisaging was not yet to be. I didn’t see Celia that day to share my ideas with her, for she left word with Sallie that she was going to work on some sewing for the rest of the evening, would take a tray of supper in her room and have an early night. Then in the morning, a messenger came galloping up to my door, thrusting into my hand a crumpled piece of paper. I unfolded it, knowing even as I did so that something frightful had happened.

  ‘Come immediately,’ Theo had written. ‘Quinlie found dead.’

  The air of urgency had communicated itself to Samuel, for he was preparing Hal even as I raced into the yard. I fastened my leather bag behind the saddle, swung up onto Hal’s back and clattered out to join the messenger. Then we were on our way, riding fast and without speaking for Plymouth and Nicolaus Quinlie’s warehouse.

  Theo was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. I’d been glad of the messenger’s presence to show me the way, having entered by a less orthodox route on my only previous visit. Theo looked pale. He nodded to me, muttered his thanks for my swift arrival, then stepped back and allowed me to precede him into Quinlie’s office.

  There was a farmyard stench in the room.

  Nicolaus Quinlie sat in a dignified pose, stiffly upright, hands resting on the beautifully carved arms of his chair, the rich, heavy silk of his elegant black robe glowing with a slight sheen as it fell in wide folds onto the floor. But there the gracious, civilized manner ended.

  His wrists had been bound tightly to the chair arms. The top eight inches or so of the lacings of his beautiful velvet doublet had been loosened, and blood splashed out to soak the crisp white chemise.

  His head was thrown back. His eyes were wide with agony and horror. His mouth yawned open, the jaws straining at an impossible angle.

  A roughly shaped, sharp-edged piece of stone about the size of my clenched fist – granite, I thought, for the light caught glistening sparkles in it – had been shoved into his mouth.

  The abomination had been done before death – some time before – and blood had flowed freely. His front teeth had been shattered and at least four more had been knocked out, and now lay on his breast. There were ragged tears at both corners of his mouth. His lower lip had split in a wide gash, and I could see the mashed and bloody gums inside his mouth.

  I stepped away from him, in need of just a moment’s recovery.

  Theo said quietly, ‘It’s awful, isn’t it? I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Nor have I.’ I was once more leaning over the corpse, now pushing back the doublet and the shirt. ‘That stone didn’t kill him.’ I moved so that Theo could see what I had uncovered. ‘It was this.’

  The ivory hilt of a knife stuck up out of Nicolaus Quinlie’s chest. The killer knew anatomy: the blade of the knife was at just the angle for the tip to have been driven deep into the heart.

  Theo stood silent beside me. Then he said, ‘Was it torture to make him talk? To reveal some secret?’

  He was thinking, I guessed, of those papers that Jeromy had stolen. ‘He was very obviously a man who had secrets, I grant you,’ I replied. ‘But as for making him talk, if the method of torture was that lump of granite, then it would have been counter-productive.’

  Theo nodded. ‘Eventually, yes, but what if the assailant thrust it in just a little way once or twice, to give Quinlie an idea of what to expect if he didn’t provide the information?’

  I inspected the ruined mouth more closely. ‘I can’t be certain, but I suspect this was just one very powerful and determined thrust,’ I said. I added softly, ‘I think the motive for this was sheer hatred.’

  ‘Can we take him away?’ Theo asked after a moment. ‘You’ll wish to examine the body thoroughly, I guess?’

  ‘I’ll do that, but it won’t tell me more than I already know.’ I straightened up, wiping my bloody hands on a clean fold of Quinlie’s shirt.

  Theo shook his head. ‘I thought we had seen the end of all this,’ he muttered. ‘But now’ – he scowled heavily, shooting the corpse a look of intense dislike – ‘now this bugger’s going to cause me even more sleepless nights.’

  I watched as he summoned four of his men, who cut the cords binding Quinlie’s wrists and then manoeuvred his body onto a stretcher. As they lifted him out of his chair there came a squelching sound and a latrine stench: in his terror, Quinlie had soiled himself.

  The men bore their burden away, the dead face and the stone covered by a length of cloth. They manhandled it awkwardly through the door and down the stairs, and I looked out of the window to see them emerge onto the street and to the waiting cart. I wished that I’d never have to set eyes on it again, but all too soon, I well knew, I’d be bending over it in Theo’s cellar.

  ‘Are you staying?’ Theo’s voice brought me out of my dismal reverie. ‘I don’t believe there’s any more to be found here – my men and I had a good look round while we were waiting for you.’

  I was about to say No, I’ll follow you out, but something stopped me. ‘I think I’ll have a poke around, all the same.’

  A very brief smile creased Theo’s face. ‘Maybe you’ll spot something you missed the other night, eh?’

  I smiled back but did
n’t speak. It wasn’t so far from the truth.

  ‘See you later, then,’ Theo said as he headed for the stairs.

  I waited till all was quiet. The warehouse below was deserted: no doubt the discovery of the master’s brutally mutilated corpse had caused the cessation of all work for the day. I wondered idly who would take over Nicolaus Quinlie’s empire now that he was dead. Not that I cared overmuch.

  I looked through the documents on his desk. To my ignorant eyes, they were of the same order as those I’d seen before. I went over to the chest, and once more rummaged down to the bottom to find the empty leather-bound folder. I didn’t expect to learn anything more from it, and I wasn’t really sure why I was even bothering to look at it.

  But it wasn’t empty any more.

  It wasn’t full, either, but where there had before been the one page with the crest and the Laz … to letters and a handful of blank sheets, now there were three sheets covered in neat writing: black ink and a sloping hand, the letters elegantly written and with quirky, pointed tails to the gs, js, ps, qs and ys. Although these were predominantly words whereas the documents Jeromy had taken contained mainly figures, there was enough of an overlap to detect that the same hand had written both. The hand, I strongly suspected, of Nicolaus Quinlie.

  I tried to read the words but they were in a language with which I wasn’t familiar. It was similar to Latin: Vulgar Latin, perhaps?

  Or was it the language of Venice?

  I ran my eyes down the close lines of text, searching for understanding. And then suddenly a word jumped out at me: Lazaretto.

  At Theo’s house, I found him speaking quietly to Jarman Hodge in the hall. He looked at me and nodded in the direction of the cellar. ‘He’s down there,’ he said briefly, and I followed him down the steps.