Murder at Whitehall

by Amanda Carmack

  Kate nodded, and remembered what she had overheard between the Spanish secretary and the Scotsman. Though she still did not understand it at all, she quickly told Cecil about their conversation. “Could he truly have done this?”

  Cecil shrugged, but Kate could see the wary, speculative gleam in his eyes. “Ah, Mistress Haywood, I know you have seen what men are capable of when their passionate anger is roused, or their fortunes are at stake. It is a sad fact that far too many do not pause to consider the consequences.”

  Kate had indeed seen such things often at court, where feelings and ambitions ran so high. “But Lord Macintosh came here for a much higher purpose than to quarrel with one Spaniard, surely.”

  Cecil suddenly touched her sleeve and she felt the tension in his hand. “This Scots project is of utmost importance to the safety of Queen Elizabeth. She may have dismissed such knowledge in favor of Christmas frivolity with that blasted Dudley, but I must make sure she remembers it. Mary of Scots and her French mother threaten the English throne.”

  Kate swallowed hard. “But surely Lord Macintosh must be just as passionate about his course. If he seeks Scottish independence from France . . .”

  Cecil gave her a crooked smile. “My dear Mistress Haywood, your youth and dedication do serve the queen well, and I think you are a great asset to her. Yet surely you know by now that some men do not let their best interests rule their emotions as they should.”

  “I have seen that, Sir William.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “But you would wish it otherwise?”

  Kate nodded, even though she felt rather naive in the face of all his knowledge. She did wish to think the best of people, even when she was faced with the facts of their greediness, their lust. She needed to know that there was a more noble purpose to their work here at court. “Of course I would wish it otherwise. But I know it cannot always be so. Human nature will not allow it.”

  Cecil nodded. “Will you come with me to speak with Lord Macintosh now, Mistress Haywood? You were of much help last summer at Nonsuch when I had to question young Master Green.”

  Kate thought of the days when Violet’s now-husband was locked in a village gaol, his quarrel with another young man misunderstood—as perhaps was the case now. “I would be happy to help, if I can. I am learning to be a good listener.”

  “Indeed you are. It comes from the musical training, no doubt.” He shook his head, his shovel-shaped beard trembling. “I never had the patience for such myself.”

  Kate remembered how Cecil sat at his desk for hour upon hour, reading stacks of letters with their tiny, cramped, often coded writing by candlelight, never tiring, seldom giving in to his wife’s entreaties to rest. Only Queen Elizabeth could match him for energy, though hers was of the restless, dancing, never-still type. “I do not think impatience is a fault you can claim, Sir William.”

  He laughed. It was a sound heard so seldom in the palace corridors that Kate almost stopped in her tracks in surprise, and his secretaries looked at him with wide eyes. “I would never finish my tasks if that was so. And how are you coming with the Plato manuscripts I sent you, Mistress Haywood?”

  “I find them most interesting. The idea of using musical cadences for messages must be very useful.”

  “Good, good. I think that once we understand the Platonic idea, it should be simple enough to come up with our very own English code, don’t you?”

  Before Kate could answer, they reached the wing of the palace where the Scots were assigned their rooms, far from the Spanish. It was quieter there, the gallery facing away from the river. A guard in Cecil’s livery waited outside one of the closed doors, but other than that it was perfectly silent in the corridor, the hum of lively conversation and games, the gossip of murders, far away.

  “Is Lord Macintosh not under heavier guard?” Kate whispered, thinking of the Scotsman’s burly shoulders.

  “He has nowhere to go,” Cecil answered. “Besides, he claims steadfastly he knew little of Senor Gomez’s doings, though they were acquainted, and he was not in the garden today at all. In fact, he says he has an alibi, though he will not yet say what it is.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “What you overheard certainly makes me wonder, Mistress Haywood—though I do not believe anyone, as a matter of principle. Let us just ask him, shall we?” Sir William nodded at the guard, who quickly swung the door open. Cecil gestured to most of his men to wait in the corridor, taking only Kate and two others with him.

  It was a small room, much like Kate’s own at the other end of the palace, with a narrow window at one side and a fireplace at the other, and furnished with a narrow bed, a desk, a traveling trunk. Lord Macintosh paced from one end to the other, needing only a few steps to do so. She remembered him at the banquet, dancing, laughing with the other Scotsmen—and she also remembered him arguing with Senor Gomez.

  At Cecil’s appearance, Macintosh went very still and swung around to face them like a wild animal in the menagerie.

  “Well, Lord Macintosh,” Sir William said without letting Macintosh speak first. His voice was most affable, as if he merely greeted the man on a stroll in the gallery. “We hear you knew poor Senor Gomez rather better than might be expected, aye?” He lowered himself carefully into the room’s one chair, wincing at his rheumatism, and Kate had to resist the urge to help him, as she did her father. She stayed near the door, trying to be unobtrusive.

  Lord Macintosh ran his hand through his reddish hair, leaving it standing on end. “I knew him, aye, but everyone at a royal court knows everyone else,” he said, his Scots brogue thick. “It is our duty.”

  “But surely your quarrel here is with France? What was your business with Senor Gomez?”

  Macintosh studied Cecil carefully, and something in Sir William’s steady gaze and unwavering little smile seemed to convince the Scotsman that dissembling would not work. He did not seem good at it anyway; he struck Kate as more a battlefield sort than a courtier. “When we arrived here, Senor Vasquez did approach me that evening. I confess I had drunk too much of your queen’s good wine, and he offered to help me to find my chamber. He seemed a quiet sort of man, and his cousin was most friendly too, so I agreed. On the way, he said they had heard my fortune was not so great . . .”

  “And is it not?” Cecil asked.

  Macintosh scowled. “Nay, not now, not after the French took over so much in my homeland. Senor Vasquez told me his master wished to offer me a bargain in exchange for my help, for aid against our common enemy France. ’Tis true I have no liking for Spaniards, but better them than the French. I saw no harm in talking to him. Until I found out he thinks your English throne would be better occupied by another. Not Queen Mary, but I still told him nay.”

  Kate studied Macintosh carefully, wondering if the man could truly be as dim-minded as he sounded now, and if so why had he been chosen by the Scots as part of their vital delegation? She glanced at one of Cecil’s secretaries, whose raised brows seemed to say the same thing.

  “Why did you not go to Queen Elizabeth immediately?” Cecil said, his voice still calm and quiet. “Her Grace is most gracious and generous to those who are loyal to her, and she values honesty above all.”

  Macintosh frowned, seeming confused by Cecil’s very calmness. “I—well, I thought to learn more to bring Her Grace more information.”

  “Indeed? Most clever of you. What did you learn?”

  “Naught, for there was no time. Vasquez claimed they had proof Queen Elizabeth was not the rightful queen, and that we should be negotiating with another power, but he died before he brought it to me.”

  “Aye, a most convenient demise. If you were angry with him that he would not give you such information immediately, or that he did not pay you whatever amount you agreed on for your help . . .”

  “Nay!” Macintosh shouted, his tone growing more desperate. “I am no
traitor, not to Scotland. I knew Vasquez was wrong, and aye, I was angry that he tried to draw me into Spanish schemes, but I could not have killed him. I promise you that, Sir William, and I will gladly go to my knees before the queen and beg her pardon.”

  “Why don’t you just first tell us what you know. There will be time for begging the queen later. And you can start by telling us where you were earlier today, when you claim you could not have been in the garden.”

  Macintosh glanced at Kate. “I was with a lady.”

  “Of course,” Cecil answered. “And does the lady have a name?”

  Macintosh looked again at Kate, and she just smiled at him.

  “Ah, I see, a gentleman who will not speak of such things before a lady,” Cecil said. “You can tell us her name once Mistress Haywood has left us, but in the meantime she is assisting me. Tell me what Senor Vasquez offered for your help in this scheme. I assume it was a plan to replace Queen Elizabeth and then negotiate with whoever this new monarch was to be to oust the French army?”

  Put in such plain terms, it sounded like treason of the highest sort, and Macintosh knew it. He collapsed at the edge of the narrow bed, his hands over his face. “I never would have let it go further! Gomez and his master are treacherous, as all the Spanish are, and I should never have taken any coin from them at all. I thought the small amount they gave me could hurt no one, that I could find out more. . . .”

  “But you discovered you do not have the makings of an intelligencer,” Cecil said dismissively. “Once we have settled this matter, you can return to Scotland and fight on the battlefield, then. Just tell us what you know, and if you have any ideas of who could have killed Senor Vasquez. It sounds as if he must have made many people angry.”

  “Indeed I am sure he did,” Macintosh said eagerly. “I cannot have been the only one he approached.”

  Cecil nodded. He gestured to Kate, who leaned down to hear his whisper. “We will find out about this supposed rendezvous, Mistress Haywood, if you could perhaps take a small look at the Spanish chambers tomorrow afternoon? They will be quiet then. I will speak to you later. I would like to hear your thoughts about the players in this little scene.”

  Kate nodded and hurried from the room. At the door, she glanced back to see Lord Macintosh watching her. Something about his frown, his puzzled expression, unsettled her, and she happily left the quiet wing of the palace for the crowded corridors that had seemed too noisy earlier. Now, they seemed an escape.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Later that night

  “They say Senor Vasquez was in love with a merchant’s daughter, who was betrothed to her father’s elderly business partner, and the father found them together and had Senor Vasquez murdered!” Violet Green whispered, her eyes wide and bright with romantic tears. “Is that not tragically sad? The poor man seemed so very dour, so—so Spanish. Could he really have had such romance in him?”

  “Oh, Vi,” Kate whispered back. They sat in a corner of the queen’s presence chamber, embroidering as they watched Elizabeth receive yet more Christmas gifts from her many suitors’ ambassadors. It was a scene of great splendor, Elizabeth in a gown of forest green velvet embroidered with rubies and pearls that was as rich as the red-and-gold canopy of state over her head. The array of gifts on the long table before her sparkled as the ambassadors read out odes to her great beauty and virtue. But it was also a very long scene, and looked as if it would go on even longer, which made for some dull moments. No wonder such poetical fancies were flying about.

  Kate herself had considered just such a thing, as her fingers automatically and none too skillfully plied her needle. But Senor Vasquez’s romance seemed unlikely.

  “That is certainly a most . . . specific tale,” she whispered to Violet. “Where did you hear it?”

  “From Lady Southerland,” Violet answered, turning the blackwork cuffs of the tiny smock she was making for her baby. “And she said she heard it from Lady Hunsdon herself. Is it not a sad one?”

  “Sad—and probably not true,” Kate said.

  Violet gave a sad frown. “Nay, perhaps not. But what then did happen, do you suppose?”

  As the Swedes moved forward with gifts from King Erik, Bishop de Quadra stepped to the side of the crowded chamber, near to Monsieur de Castelnau and the French. The two men bowed to each other with ostentatious politeness.

  Kate pretended to have her head bent over the embroidery, but she saw when Senor Gomez slipped away from the rest of his group.

  She murmured an excuse to Violet and laid aside her embroidery to follow him. It was most unusual for anyone to leave a royal audience, but Senor Gomez did look rather pale, the lines of strain on his face making him look older than the handsome, charming man who had taught her a song on the vihuela.

  She found him at the far end of the waterside gallery. The space was almost deserted, as everyone was gathered where the queen was, but his dark clothes made him blend into the late-afternoon shadows as he stared out the window at the river.

  She was struck by how very much he looked like Senor Vasquez. Up close, the two men were rather different, Senor Vasquez’s features being sharper, leaner, but from such a distance they were both tall and fashionably slim, dark-haired, bearded, with Spanish-cut clothes. Was it possible someone had mistaken Senor Vasquez for his friend in the garden? He was the one who played the vihuela, even though the strange music had borne Senor Vasquez’s initials.

  Was Senor Gomez involved in the scheme with the Scots as well? Or was it something else altogether, something she had yet to piece together? Something commonplace, like the romance Violet spoke of? Jealousy, greed? A religious mania?

  She moved slowly toward Senor Gomez, her silk skirt with its quilted underkirtle rustling in the silence. He glanced up, and gave an automatic-looking smile. Yet his eyes were still shadowed.

  “Senorita Haywood,” he said.

  “Senor Gomez,” she answered. “I wanted to tell you how truly sorry I am for the loss of your friend. I know how bleak it can feel to have those we care for suddenly snatched away.”

  His smile turned sad, more true. “We should be accustomed to such things, should we not? Plagues, battles . . .”

  “Childbed fever,” Kate murmured, thinking of her own mother, of Queen Catherine Parr.

  “We can all be carried away in an instant.”

  “Yet the way Senor Vasquez was taken was . . . different.”

  His jaw tightened under his close-cropped beard. “Jeronimo feared God, as a good Catholic should. He would not do such a thing, such a vile sin.”

  Kate thought of the dagger in the wrong hand. “You think he was murdered?”

  If he was shocked by the word, he did not show it. “All I know is this, senorita: He would not have done that to himself.”

  “You said once he might have a ladylove. Could she know about his death?”

  Senor Gomez laughed roughly. “He claimed he knew no such lady, so I could not say. I do hope he took some comfort in such a way before he was taken from the world, but he was so very austere.”

  “Did he take any comfort in music, as you do?”

  “He did play the lute, as any gentleman should, but I do not think he loved it as you and I do.”

  Kate nodded, wondering again who the strange music actually belonged to. “So he did not write songs himself?”

  “Not that I know, senorita. Why do you ask?”

  Kate shrugged. “I am always curious about people and their music, I fear. I only wanted to tell you how sorry I am, senor.”

  “You are kind, Senorita Haywood. In Spain, they say the English are rough and barbaric. I am happy to say I have not found it so at all.”

  Kate gave a quiet laugh. “We hear that the Spanish are dour and shun all merriment. I have not always found that to be so, either.”

  She left Senor Gomez alone with
his grief as she made her way back down the gallery. Her conversation with him had only left her with more questions.

  Before she could return to the presence chamber, she caught a glimpse of a glossy black satin gown swirling around a corner as a lady ran away from the queen’s audience. Curious, Kate hurried to follow, and was surprised to see it was Lady Catherine Grey fleeing the crowd. Lady Catherine glanced back once, but she didn’t seem to see Kate. She disappeared through a doorway, and by the time Kate could catch up she had vanished.

  Rob appeared suddenly, stopping to watch the gathering, unaware that Kate was so close. Kate studied him closely. He smiled with his usual flirtatious expression, but his eyes were solemn. She did need help, and Rob, despite his mysterious ways, had proven himself trustworthy in the past.

  “Can I show you something, Rob?” she asked quietly. “I would greatly like your advice on a matter I think might be of some importance.”

  Rob pushed himself away from the wall, suddenly entirely serious. “Of course I will help, if I can. Are you in some danger, Kate? As you were with that sad business of Nell?” Kate swallowed hard at the reminder of Nell, the pretty, red-haired Southwark goose who had been killed during the queen’s coronation—and had once been Rob’s mistress. “I do not think it is like that. I’m not sure yet what is happening. It is like a song where all the notes are jumbled.”

  He frowned in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

  “Come with me. I will show you.” Kate took Rob’s hand to lead him from the corridor. She glanced back over her shoulder, but Lady Catherine hadn’t reappeared. Kate would just have to deal with her later.

  She took Rob up to her father’s chamber, where she had left the strange Spanish music for Matthew to look at. She knew the room would be empty, for her father and his friends had borrowed one of the queen’s litters to go buy some paper and ink. She quickly sorted through the sheaves of her father’s new music tucked into his portable desk until she found it.