Murder at Whitehall

by Amanda Carmack

  Kate looked up at Anthony, who gave her a questioning frown. “May we just come in and look around, then?” Kate asked. “The queen is most eager to order more of Master Orrens’s work, and I am sure that when he returns he would not be happy to find he had lost the royal patronage.”

  “Oh, no, miss! If the queen herself—I should not like to lose my place here, it’s the best I’ve had.”

  “I shall be most careful, I promise you,” Kate said earnestly, and at last the maid stepped back to let her enter. Anthony stayed close beside her as the maid led them along a narrow, dark corridor, past the closed door of the shop itself, into what seemed to be an office. It was a small room, stuffy with the window shut and the fire banked, with a table piled up with papers and a couple of stools. Shelves rose along one wall, filled with ledgers.

  “What is your name?” Kate asked the maid.

  “Mary, miss.”

  “Do you know anything about how Master Orrens organizes his records in here?”

  “Not much, miss.” Some of Mary’s uncertainty had faded into curiosity. “I think he writes about materials that have been ordered and arrived here, and the sales go in those books.”

  “I see. Well, I do not want to keep you from your work. Master Elias and I will just look around.”

  Mary nodded, but Kate noticed she hovered in the doorway, her eyes bright as she waited to see what would happen next.

  For the moment, that would be nothing. Kate pursed her lips as she studied the dusty piles of papers and ledger books. She wasn’t sure where to start looking.

  “What are you searching for exactly, Kate?” Anthony asked quietly.

  “Someone once ordered a crown that is in the style of Master Orrens, and the queen would like to know who that was,” she answered. “The Office of the Revels gave me his name.”

  Anthony gave a rueful laugh. “Rather like the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

  Kate laughed, too, and felt her enthusiasm for the hunt rising in her mind. She did rather like a challenge. “We have found other documents with far less clues, I think.”

  “Beg pardon, miss,” Mary the maid said. “I don’t read very much, but I know Master Orrens keeps records of his materials here. If you know what the crown is made from, perhaps it would be easier to trace the sale in those ledgers?” She pulled out a box overflowing with what seemed to be order sheets.

  “Very clever, Mary,” Kate said, and the maid giggled. “I know the crown was silver wire wrapped with gold thread, and the base was of sable and red ribbons, which cannot be very common. But I don’t know when it was made.”

  “I know these go back to the 1540s, when Master Orrens came here from Lille. He said his wife kept the records then, until she died of the sweating sickness.”

  “Here, Kate, you look through this half, I will do the other,” Anthony said, dividing up the documents.

  Kate glanced through them—gold from Seville, silver wire from Amsterdam, silks from Antwerp, pearls and glass beads, furs. Master Orrens’s art was not a cheap one. “Do you help make the headdresses, Mary?”

  “Oh, nay, miss. I just clean and tend the fires, do a bit of cooking. Master Orrens keeps his workshop in Chelsea now. They’re only brought here to the shop when they’re done.”

  “Chelsea?” Kate asked. She wondered if the workshop was near the palace where Queen Elizabeth had lived for a time with Queen Catherine Parr after King Henry died.

  “Master Orrens says there is more space to be had cheaper there. I think when he first came to London so long ago, the workshop was in the garden at the back. He’s made pieces for the royal court since King Henry’s time, or so he says.”

  “Indeed?” A man like that could be very useful, with information going back so far—if he could be found.

  “Could this be what you’re seeking, Kate?” Anthony asked. He showed her a crumbling document stamped from Antwerp, with the year 1547 at the top. “It is surely something of an unfashionable piece by now.”

  “The queen can be most thrifty when it suits her,” Kate said as she scanned the neat columns. “She would not waste such a quantity of silver and gold wires, I am sure.”

  The list also included a fine pelt of sable from Muscovy, which had made the base of the crown as it sat on the poppet’s head. There was also scarlet silk, and red glass beads.

  “Are all the final sales in the ledgers?” she asked Mary.

  “I don’t know, miss. But surely the old ledgers would be back here.” The maid dug to the back of a series of shelves and pulled out some heavy, dusty old books.

  As Kate glanced through them, she saw that luckily Master Orrens was more organized than his desk made it seem. The ledgers were mostly in order of year, and he was careful in marking who ordered what, and the money they owed for it. It seemed that when a young Master Orrens first came to London, his business was made successful by the extravagant Queen Catherine Howard, who had surely patronized every seamstress and goldsmith in London. She and her ladies had ordered several pieces.

  After that, Master Orrens’s court orders tapered away sharply, though he still did some work there.

  At last, she found what she sought. Master Orrens had made for Queen Catherine Parr one small crown of gold and silver, with red beads and a sable base—meant for a christening gift. It was delivered to the queen shortly before King Henry died. Kate remembered tales of how the queen had loved children, had longed to have one of her own, but there were no children with the king, and the baby daughter she had with Tom Seymour had died soon after birth. It seemed a sad gift, so elaborate and careful, for a baby not her own. Or perhaps it had been for her own child? The longed-for infant?

  Kate’s thoughts were racing. Where had the crown been all that time? Could it really be the same as the one that appeared on the head of the poppet? What did it mean? And where was the maker now?

  Startled by what she had found, Kate carefully put the ledgers back where they had found them. “Thank you, Mary. The queen will be most grateful. I should like to speak to Master Orrens as soon as he returns, if you would be kind enough to send me word. Or if he has indeed returned to France for some reason, as your cook suggested, I would like to know that. My name is Mistress Haywood, and I am at Whitehall until the court moves to Richmond in the new year.”

  “Oh, yes, miss, of course. I’m ever so happy to help the queen. I saw her pass by in her coronation procession. All gold and white—like an angel.” Mary frowned, her eyes bright as if she would start crying. “Is Master Orrens in some trouble?”

  Kate wasn’t sure what to tell her. It was strange the man would vanish now. “I am sure he is not, Mary.”

  Anthony walked with her back to Monkwell Street, and they made their way through the lanes back to the river, until the stone walls of Whitehall came into view. They walked quietly, as Kate went over all the questions that finding the source of the crown had answered—and created.

  “You are not in trouble, are you, Kate?” Anthony asked solemnly.

  She gave him a quick smile. A horse galloped past, bound so fast for the palace that it scattered cursing pedestrians in its trail. “No more than anyone else in London, I am sure.”

  “Kate . . .” He paused, and shook his head. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but he just smiled ruefully. “I hope you always know I am your friend, and you can call on me whenever you need help.”

  “I do know that, Anthony, and I cherish your friendship,” she answered, and found contentment in her own words. “I hope you enjoy your time in the country with the Hardys.”

  “And I hope you stay safe with your courtly Christmas. I know how you love the work.” He took her hand and kissed it before he turned and made his way back along the street. His tall figure was soon swallowed in the crowd.

  Kate watched until she couldn’t see him any longer. But she couldn
’t stand there for long. The wind was growing even colder as evening moved in, and she had to return the crown to a safekeeping spot. She hurried up the stone steps and through the Holbein Gate that led across the street into the palace itself—only to find Rob standing in the doorway.

  It looked as if he had been waiting there, for he leaned against the whitewashed wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He smiled and looked deceptively lazy. But she recognized the catlike gleam in his bright blue eyes.

  “Out for a stroll with your lawyer friend, Kate?” he said with a laugh. “Nice for some people to have a long pause from working.”

  Kate laughed. “Because I see you are practically a slave to duty, Rob Cartman! Have you been lazing here for long, watching all the pretty ladies go by?”

  “If you must know, I have been looking for you. The queen wishes to have the new Venetian branle for the dancing tonight, and we have not yet practiced the music. But Violet Green said you left the palace hours ago.”

  He had been looking for her? Really? Kate felt a bit nonplussed, and yet strangely pleased, by the thought. “You are quite right, Rob. I should not neglect my first task here at court, to entertain the queen. Let me fetch my lute, and I shall meet you in the musicians’ gallery.”

  He caught her hand as she walked past, and Kate looked up at him in surprise. His smile turned rueful. “I was worried.”

  “Worried? For me?”

  “After what happened at the hunt, and with Senor Vasquez—of course I was worried. Were you really out for a romantic walk?”

  Kate was tempted for a moment to say she was, partly because she truly didn’t want anyone to worry, and partly because, silly as it was, she rather liked it that Rob could be jealous of her. But she knew she couldn’t. She had already brought him into the sad matter of Senor Vasquez’s death by showing him the music.

  She shook her head, and stepped closer to speak quietly to him. “I took the poppet’s crown to a tiremaker in Cripplegate to see what they could tell me about it.”

  He frowned. “Did they know anything?”

  “I did discover something interesting—and strange.” She glanced around at all the people hurrying past. “I will tell you of it in the musicians’ gallery, before the others arrive. Have you deciphered anything in the music?”

  “I have some ideas, but nothing certain yet. You do get into more complicated conundrums than any play, Kate.”

  “Nay, my life is much duller than a play! Especially your plays,” Kate said, thinking of some scenes she had seen Rob play out on the stage, of the deaths of kings and tragic romances.

  “‘Dull‘ is the last thing I would call you,” he said with a smile. To her surprise, he reached out and softly brushed his hand over her cheek before he stepped away.

  Kate was so flustered she hardly dared look at him. Better to go back to what she knew. “I—I shall see you in a little time in the gallery, Rob.”

  She hurried up to her room, sweeping off her damp cloak to let it dry over her stool. She quickly took off her pattens and changed into her fine Spanish leather court shoes. She peeked into the small looking glass that hung near the fireplace, trying to tidy her hair. Not that she cared how she looked when she met with Rob—certainly not.

  Kate laughed at herself, and turned away to find the music she needed to rehearse. As she picked it up, she noticed that the stacks of papers and books on her desk were not quite as straight as she had left them.

  “Surely not,” she whispered. Perhaps one of the maids had come to tidy, though they seldom ventured so far into the depths of the palace, unless it was to clean out the grate. She shuffled through the music, which she had left in the order of the Christmas festival where it must be played, and found her suspicions all too correct. The pages were out of order.

  Someone had been searching through her papers.

  * * *

  Kate hurried up the steep spiral staircase toward the musicians’ gallery, her lute in her hands, her heart still pounding with the disquieting thought that someone had been in her chamber. The great hall far below was bustling like a beehive, servants setting up the long table and benches for that night’s banquet.

  But the gallery itself was quiet, deep in shadows. Music stands and stools clustered in an empty huddle near the railing, and Kate knew that very soon the space would fill with the noise of lutes and tambors. For now, she was alone there—except for Rob at the far end of the long, narrow gallery.

  He did not see her yet, and she paused to study him in that rare unwary moment. He leaned against the railing, watching the scene below. He, too, was half covered in shadows, his golden hair glowing in contrast. He frowned, and Kate wondered what was making his thoughts so serious now.

  She had known Rob for over a year, and had seen so much with him—the murder of his uncle at Hatfield, the death of his mistress at the Cardinal’s Hat, his time in prison. He had helped her with so very much as well.

  So often he exasperated her, made her laugh even against her will when she wanted to be stern, made her see the world in a slightly different light—or he surprised her when he understood so well how she saw it. And sometimes she was even startled anew by how handsome he really was.

  And how many personas he had, just like characters he portrayed so adeptly on the stage.

  He turned and smiled at her, and that moment of seriousness was gone. “Fairest Kate, here you are at last.”

  Kate shook off her confused emotions toward him, and the disquiet that had been tugging at her mind since she thought her papers had been searched through. “I still get lost here at Whitehall, I fear,” she said with a laugh. She didn’t want to tell him her suspicions, not yet. “Shall we practice the new music for tonight? There isn’t much time before the banquet.”

  “Of course, though I suspect you know it perfectly already, as you always do.” Rob fetched his own lute, and they sat down together on two stools near the wall, far from the sight of anyone in the hall below.

  As they tuned their instruments, she whispered, “What did you discover on your night with the Spanish, then?”

  Rob’s expression, his half smile, didn’t waver. He bent his head over the lute and whispered back, “That the Spanish, for all their vaunted devoutness, can drink as much strong ale as any Englishman. Senor Gomez seemed eager to forget what happened to his kinsman for a time, which I understand. The tavern made its share of coin that night.”

  “A tavern owned by friends of yours, I’m sure.”

  “Perhaps. I am lucky to have friends in many places, Kate, as do you.”

  Kate thought of some of the unlikely friends she had made in the course of her work for the queen, from Cecil to Mistress Celine, the bawdy house owner. “And your tavern-owner friends did not water down the Spaniards’ drink, I suppose.”

  “Indeed not. They were very generous. But it seems even the strongest ale cannot quite loosen tongues enough.”

  “They did not say what they are really doing here in England for de Quadra and King Philip?”

  “Not precisely. Senor Gomez did mutter darkly about the ‘perfidy of English ladies,’ before he tried to teach the whole great room a bawdy Spanish song.”

  Kate had to laugh at the image. “Are there bawdy Spanish songs?”

  “There are bawdy songs in every language. But in between choruses, Gomez did say that if he returned to Spain empty-handed he would not have his promised reward, and he seemed to grow rather angry about that. I think he was worried about more than what happened to his kinsman.”

  “Promised reward?” Kate said. What could it be? Marriage to some fine lady? A fortune? Or a bishopric, as he was said to be devout. “For what?”

  Rob shrugged. “He would not say, or rather he would not say anything I could understand. I thought actors were cryptic creatures, but they have nothing on the Spanish. He seemed rather fearf
ul that his errand was impossible. I can’t help but think it is Senor Gomez who was the better actor of the two.”

  “Hmm.” Kate played the first chords of the song the queen had requested for her banquet. It was not much to go on, aside from what she already knew—de Quadra’s men could not be merely “secretaries.” Yet there were spies everywhere at court, and they seldom behaved as strangely as Senor Gomez and his late cousin.

  “Shall I go out with Senor Gomez again?” Rob asked. “Maybe a trip to the Cardinal’s Hat would loosen his tongue a bit more. Celine’s girls would be happy to tell you anything they hear.”

  Kate kicked out at him with her slipper. It was a soft satin creation, and muffled by her heavy skirts, but he still yowled and winced dramatically. “I think it would be you who lost your wits there. But, aye—if you can talk to them again, you should. You can better ferret out secrets from men like that than I could.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Kate,” he answered quietly. “I think that you could discover any secret at all from a man, just by one glance from your green eyes.”

  Flustered, Kate tightened her fingers on her lute strings. “Such fustian. You are not on stage now, Master Cartman. Now, shall we play the rest of the song?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bringing in the Boar Day, December 30

  “The boar’s head in hand bear I, bedecked with bays and rosemary! I pray you all now, be merry, be merry, be merry. . . .”

  The company in the queen’s great hall applauded as the servants carried in the roasted boar, borne aloft on a silver platter. It was a large boar, indeed, caught before the royal hunt at Greenwich went so awry, adorned with garlands of herbs and candied fruits, a whole apple propped in its mouth. It was paraded around the hall before being presented to the queen, led by Rob in a fine bright green doublet and feathered cap as he conducted everyone in the song.

  Kate clapped along with everyone else, watching the crowd as more delicacies were carried in. She could read no ill intentions in anyone’s smiles. All seemed merry indeed. What lurked behind those smiles? Who had been searching through her chamber?