Murder at Westminster Abbey

by Amanda Carmack

  “And I never knew my father at all. We are a castaway pair, Mistress Haywood.”

  Castaway, was he? And where was his cousin now? What was happening in this strange Everley family? “But you have your uncle and your cousins.”

  “So I do. Though Mary was the best of my family, I am afraid. We shall never be the same without her.”

  “I will miss her, too,” Kate said, laying her hand in a brief, confiding gesture on his sleeve. He winced a bit but did not move away. “I hear that your uncle is so grief-stricken he cannot leave his chamber. Does his son stay with him?”

  Richard studied her for a moment before he smiled again. “Come with me, Mistress Haywood, so we may talk quietly for a moment. As quietly as one can in a palace.”

  Master St. Long took Kate’s arm and led her to a small stone arbor set in the wall of the courtyard. Kate thought of men lurking in dark churches, but the courtyard was bright enough, bustling with servants. And Richard St. Long was being carefully gentle and gallant. She did wonder what he had to say.

  “I must tell you, Mistress Haywood, that what I say must be in secret.” Richard ran his hand through his hair again, pushing it back behind his ears to show his stylish pearl earring. “I should say nothing at all, but I fear the worry may drive me mad if I do not. And you do seem kind, much as Mary herself was. At least, she said you were a good soul.”

  Secrets? Kate could hardly breathe. “Of course you can confide in me, Master St. Long,” she said softly. “If I can be of some help.”

  “I fear my cousin Henry is not with Lord Everley. We don’t know where he has gone, and of a certes I do fear for him.”

  “Not with your uncle? At such a sad time?” Kate said, confused. Confused—and alarmed. She remembered Henry Everley’s anger toward his sister, and cursed herself all over again for not watching him closer. “Could he have gone back to Everley Court? I have heard tell that grief can make people behave most strangely.”

  “My uncle has sent men to Everley Court, but Henry hasn’t been seen there. Nor has he been to any of his usual pleasurable escapes. I have just come from searching across the river.”

  “At Southwark?” Kate murmured.

  “Aye, and at a tavern nearer the palace, the Bull. None have seen him anywhere. I only heard tell of him at one place.”

  “Where was that?”

  “At a goldsmith he has gone to for small loans before, when he didn’t want his father to know how much he had lost at the primero tables. A Master Lucas in Cheapside. He saw Henry yesterday, and made him an advance.”

  “Did Henry know of his sister’s death before he visited this Master Lucas, or after?”

  Richard’s square, stubble-covered jaw tightened. “Oh, aye, before. ’Twas mere hours later he vanished.”

  Kate’s thoughts raced, and she tried to keep her face smooth and expressionless. Henry Everley borrowed money and fled right after his sister was foully murdered. A convenient confession of guilt? Or something else? “As I said, perhaps grief has made him mad. Was he close to his sister?”

  “When we were children, perhaps. But since we came to court, I fear my uncle and cousin became set on Mary’s betrothal to a wealthy lord of some advanced years. She had some objections.”

  Kate remembered the man at the Tower, Walter, who ran from her at the church. “I would imagine she would.”

  A rueful smile touched Richard’s pale, drawn face. “Aye. I heard her shouting she would be no Queen Catherine Howard, married to a stinking old lecher. Henry was not best pleased.”

  “So you think this disappearance has something to do with Mary’s sad death?” Kate said bluntly.

  He looked startled at her sudden words, but he gave a slow, reluctant nod. “Henry can be an amiable companion, generous in his own way, and ladies do seem fond of him. Yet he does not care to be crossed.”

  “Especially not by his own sister?”

  “As you say, Mistress Haywood. I do fear for my family. They are all I have left now.”

  Family was indeed important. What would a man like Henry Everley, or his father, do to a mere female who defied them? What would Richard St. Long do, where would his loyalties lie? “I do understand family loyalty, Master St. Long, and you honor me with your confidences. I am not sure how I can be of help to you. I know of little except music.”

  “And friendship, Mistress Haywood. Mary said you knew much of that, and my cousin and I understood each other.” He reached out and gently took her hand between both of his. His fingers were blunt but strong, the tips callused as if he worked at swordplay more than cards, the nails bitten. “Confiding in you has helped me much. I feel much more at peace in my mind.”

  “Richard!” someone shouted. Kate glanced over her shoulder to see one of the young, brightly dressed courtiers who followed Robert Dudley about. He waved at Richard.

  “I will be there anon,” Richard called back. He kissed Kate’s hand gently and let her go. “If I do hear word from Henry, I will tell you.”

  “I will help however I can,” Kate said again. “Perhaps I should visit your uncle? Try to comfort him with good memories of Lady Mary?”

  Richard gave a rueful laugh. “If you dare, Mistress Haywood. I doubt he will even open his door, though. I shall see you again soon.”

  Kate nodded and watched him hurry away to greet his friend. She was most puzzled as to why Master St. Long would confide in her about so grave a worry concerning his cousin, but his tidbits of information were undoubtedly most interesting. How long could the fact that Henry Everley was no longer at court be concealed? What did Master St. Long and his uncle know that they were not saying? Who was the “stinking old lecher” to whom Mary had been betrothed?

  And how long would she have to discover the answers before Henry’s departure was known to everyone, and a general search destroyed every fragile clue?

  Wrapping her cloak tighter around her against the wind, Kate hurried into the palace. She nearly collided with the young Duchess of Norfolk, who was rushing past, dressed as if for riding in a fur-edged velvet doublet and veiled cap. Her ladies and young friends tumbled after her amid laughter.

  Except for old Lady Gertrude Howard, who followed slowly, leaning on her walking stick. Though her movements were careful, the dark eyes in her wrinkled face were bright. She caught sight of Kate and raised her hand in a trembling gesture.

  “Eleanor!” she called. “Why don’t you come to see me any longer?”

  Just as it had on the day of the procession, the sound of her mother’s name squeezed at Kate’s heart. “Nay, I am Kate . . . ,” she cried to the old lady, but the duchess was already hurrying her forward.

  “Come along, Auntie Gertrude,” she said impatiently. “The barge waits, and we cannot miss the tide or it will be too dangerous to brave the river beneath the bridge.”

  Then Lady Gertrude and the others were gone, but Kate could still hear that word lingering in her ears. Eleanor. Had Lady Gertrude really known her mother? What could she tell Kate about her? Kate ached to know, to hear any small tales of Eleanor Haywood. But she feared that would have to wait for another day.

  She had to pay a visit to Lord Everley. If he would open his chamber door.

  • • •

  Lord Everley’s rooms were not the grandest in a palace crowded with courtiers jostling for every inch of space, but neither were they the meanest. They were at the end of one of the seemingly eternal twists of branching corridors, and Kate was lost more than once before she found them.

  The door was ajar, left open by two footmen who ran past Kate bearing boxes. She peered carefully inside the chamber to find a scene of chaos.

  With Lord Everley’s daughter so newly dead, Kate would have expected silent mourning, black crepe draped over looking glasses, subdued movements. Yet the room was filled with open chests and stacks of papers, clothes sca
ttered about on the floor. One of the carved trunks she recognized as Mary’s, brought from the ladies’ chamber. A maidservant was sorting through the fine silken gowns, the embroidered smocks and ribbon-tied sleeves.

  Lord Everley himself sat by the fire, wrapped in a heavy cloak despite the heat of the flames. He was tossing papers into the grate, muttering to himself as if no one else were there. The servants only scurried about on their errands.

  Kate knocked on the open door, but no one paid her any more attention than they did the muttering earl. She strode into the middle of the room and said loudly, “Lord Everley! Her Majesty has bid me speak to you.”

  That caught Lord Everley’s attention. He glanced back at her. She could see that once he must have been handsome, in the healthy, hearty, fair, countryman way Lord Henry was, a man of swagger and loud laughter. Now, though, he seemed to have sunk in on himself overnight. His cheeks were creased, his eyes bloodshot and circled by purple rings. His gray hair was uncombed and greasy, and fell over his heavy brow.

  “Her Majesty is rather late with her bidding,” he said. “I have no time now. My son has already departed for Everley Court, and I must follow soon. Today.”

  “Departed?” Kate said. So it was true—he had run already, the cowardly knave, with his own sister not yet cold in her grave! “But, my lord, your daughter has been murdered! Surely you and your son must stay in London until her foul killer is found.”

  “My daughter!” Lord Everley shouted. His face looked like that of a wild animal, spittle flecked at the corners of his lips. “Mary was no good daughter of mine. I told her that coming to court was our last chance to redeem our rightful place in the world, to make our lost fortune again. I told her that her foolish, romantical fancies had to cease. We spent coin we could ill afford to give her those gowns over there, to make her fit to serve a Boleyn of all things. An Everley should never have to do such things.”

  “Lord Everley . . . ,” Kate began, bewildered by his strange state.

  He cut her off, swinging back abruptly to the fire. “Once we would never have had to lower ourselves. But Mary was careless of her honor, of her family! After all I did for them, my children. It got her killed, as I told her all wickedness would be repaid. Now we must make our fortune another way. So I sent Henry home to court an heiress whose estate neighbors ours. He should not have had to do it. Her family are merchants, raised too high. But Henry must marry her. This time he will obey me!”

  “Master St. Long said he did not know where Lord Henry has gone. But if you know, you must fetch him back to court,” Kate argued. “The queen will wish to speak to him at once.”

  “Must!” Lord Everley roared. He threw something at her head, a small, heavy wooden box, and Kate ducked out of his way. “I must do nothing for such a queen! She could not even protect my own daughter who served her. My family is ruined! And she sends a mere slip of a girl to command me! Richard should know better than to gossip with the likes of you.”

  Kate felt a small hand grasp her arm and pull her away before Lord Everley could throw something else. She glanced down to see it was the maidservant who had been sorting through Mary’s clothes. The girl looked terrified, but Kate felt strangely numb.

  “Come, mistress, you should be away,” the maid whispered. “When he gets in a temper like this . . .”

  Kate saw that Lord Everley had broken into sobs, hunched in his chair, and she knew he would tell her nothing. Perhaps he could tell her nothing. His daughter was dead, his son fled, his nephew nowhere to be seen. She would have to find out what had happened for herself.

  She nodded and let the maid lead her away. On top of a trunk by the door, she glimpsed a pile of velvet doublets, elaborately embroidered as Lord Henry’s garments always were. On top was a small miniature portrait of Lord Henry, the fair young man grinning horribly from the image. On impulse, she scooped it up and tucked it hastily into the pouch at her waist. Maybe someone in Southwark would recognize him, and help her connect him to Nell. And thence to Mary . . .

  CHAPTER 15

  Durham House was one of the grand mansions built like a string of sparkling jewels along the thoroughfare known as the Strand, marching in an ever more elaborate row behind large gatehouses down to the river. Somerset House and Seymour House, once owned by the executed Seymour brothers; the remains of the old Savoy Palace; Arundel House. But Durham House was one of the most splendid, and one of the oldest.

  Most visitors approached the house from the river, landing at the foot of its stone water steps and walking through a maze of lawns and gardens. But Kate rode there on a borrowed horse, her lute strapped behind her as she held nervously to the reins. Despite having lived in the countryside, she’d seldom had the chance to ride and didn’t entirely trust horses.

  She was distracted from being sure she would fall into the icy gutter at any moment when they passed through Durham House’s splendidly carved gatehouse into a cobbled courtyard. Facing her was the wing holding the great hall and the chapel, where it was said many secret Catholics slipped in to hear Mass. The four stories of mullioned windows glittered with fractured golden light, a beacon against the darkening winter sky. The wings to either side, which Kate had been told held the private apartments of the Spanish ambassador and his staff, were dim and silent.

  As Kate scrambled down from the horse, thankful for the solid stones under her feet again, she studied the house and remembered the tales she heard of its long, twisting history.

  Originally the palace of the powerful bishops of Durham, it was seized by Henry VIII and passed as a plum between his courtiers and relations until it landed with Princess Elizabeth for a time, only to be snatched away by Queen Mary and given back to the bishops. For a while, under King Edward, John Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland, had lived there and had hosted the wedding of his son Guildford to Lady Jane Grey in its great hall. It was said that was one of the most lavish weddings ever seen in England, swathed in acres of cloth of gold and silver, ropes of pearls and diamonds. And a most sad bride.

  The bridegroom and many guests were then laid low by a case of food poisoning, which should have been seen as some kind of omen. But Northumberland’s power went on for a time.

  After those glittering days the house had gone dark for a while. Now it housed the Spanish embassy, since Queen Elizabeth refused to give them lodgings at court. Kate heard it said the Ambassador de Feria complained bitterly about being thus exiled, but it seemed a gilded exile.

  Kate took up her lute and followed a footman through the open doors. They made their way through a maze of winding corridors, moving so quickly she could barely take in the tapestries hung on the dark-paneled walls, the gleam of silver and alabaster ornaments in the shadows. Down another corridor she had a quick glimpse of the infamous chapel, a flashing impression of a jeweled crucifix, a gilded remonstrance.

  At last they reached the door to the great hall. The murmur of voices and clink of fine plates flowed out to the corridor, much more subdued than the abandoned laughter of the queen’s banquets.

  A silver-bearded majordomo stepped forward holding his baton of office, scowling down at her from above a stiff, high lace collar.

  “Who is this?” he demanded in Spanish. “The servants’ door . . .”

  Before the footman who was her guide could answer, Kate said in her own halting Spanish, “I am a musician to Queen Elizabeth. Her Majesty sent me to entertain the count and his esteemed guests as a special favor.”

  The man’s lips pinched together, and he looked very much as if he would like to dismiss her immediately. But even a strict Spanish functionary would not insult the queen by turning away her gift.

  “What is this, Senor de Alvara?” The Count de Feria himself emerged from the hall, clad in black satin trimmed in fine purple velvet. His dark hair was brushed back from the handsome, harsh planes of his face, and his eyes were narrowed. Around his neck wa
s a large amethyst cross.

  “This person is a musician sent by Her Majesty,” the majordomo said.

  The count carefully studied Kate. She held tight to her lute and met his gaze in return, refusing to fidget no matter how much she itched to. She had to remember her lessons from Rob in the art of playacting.

  “Ah, yes. Mistress Haywood,” the count said in English. “I remember you from the queen’s court. Your music is most delightful.”

  Kate was surprised he remembered her at all. She hoped it was not from his visit to Brocket Hall last year. “Her Majesty has sent me to entertain your illustrious guests, Count, if it pleases you. I do know some of the newest Spanish songs.”

  “It pleases me very much. The musicians I have brought from Madrid have much to learn about English style, I think. If you would care to be shown to the gallery . . .”

  Kate curtsied once more to the count, and followed the footman up a narrow, winding staircase to one of the musicians’ galleries looking down on the great hall. On the way she glimpsed several narrow hallways branching off from the stairs, hidden ways for the servants to get around the enormous house.

  She left her cloak with the boy, glad she had worn one of her new gowns of dark blue silk with silver sleeves and embroidered silver ribbon trim. Fine enough for Durham House, but subdued enough not to draw attention.

  Kate was happy to find herself alone in the small gallery, the Spanish musicians nowhere to be seen. From there she had a good view of the hall and its inhabitants.

  It was a lavish room indeed, marble pillars soaring up to an arched, painted ceiling and three vast fireplaces chasing the January chill away. As she tuned up her lute and launched into one of the Spanish tunes she knew, she studied the people dining at the white-damask-draped tables below.

  She didn’t know all of them. Few of the “new courtiers” who frequented Elizabeth’s court were there. It seemed to be mostly Catholics cast out of their monasteries and convents by Elizabeth and sheltering with the Spanish, and old families disgruntled by their new places. Though the food and wine looked to be almost as lavish as that at court, the talk was quieter. More tense, more secretive, as if a rope held taut around them all and would break at any moment, sending them into chaos.