Queen Without a Crown

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  For a moment she almost baulked again, but it came out eventually. ‘Only, I’d got to say it was Easton I saw, not Bowman. It wouldn’t be hard, he said. It scarcely meant lying, even, because he and Easton didn’t look that different from each other. They were both short and dark with parroty noses.’

  ‘Parroty noses?’ I was puzzled.

  ‘Master Bowman’s got a nose like a popinjay’s beak,’ said Susannah. ‘Only, those eyeglass things he wears hide it a bit.’

  ‘I never noticed it,’ I said blankly.

  ‘All I’d have to say that wasn’t true was the name. Easton instead of Bowman,’ Susannah said. ‘And if I didn’t, he’d see that I was . . . that I was . . .’

  ‘Arrested for theft,’ said Dale. ‘You know, you’ve no sense. I can’t abide people with no sense. You’re as scared of being caught as a child is scared of ghosts, yet you go on stealing. From Bowman—’

  ‘I was only looking!’

  ‘Phooey!’ said Dale rudely. ‘From Bowman, from the Medlands and I’d wager there were others.’

  ‘You don’t know!’ said Susannah, suddenly angry. ‘Look at you, settled with a husband! You’re married to him, aren’t you?’ She jerked her head at Brockley. I had introduced Dale as Brockley’s wife. ‘If you were out in the world on your own, never paid enough, always ordered about and pushed here and there and overworked, maybe you’d take chances when they came your way.’

  ‘In my employment,’ I said, ‘Dale has had to take long exhausting journeys, which she hates; and she and her husband have both been put in danger of their lives. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘It all hangs together now,’ Brockley said. Susannah blenched at the word hangs.

  I nodded. ‘Yes, it confirms what I’ve slowly been coming to suspect, though the idea didn’t take firm shape until just lately. All of a sudden, I realized that Bowman was there, in the cast of the masque, as it were. He was the man who eventually married Judith Easton. He’d already admitted that he thought her beautiful, even before her husband died. Maybe his feelings were stronger than that – much stronger. And then I remembered that he did his embroidery left-handed.’

  ‘So he terrified you into pointing the finger at Gervase Easton,’ said Brockley to Susannah, getting back to the point. ‘And once you’d done that, you were a party to his crime and he knew you wouldn’t dare to talk – until now, when we’ve left you precious little choice. Well, well.’ He turned to me. ‘What now, madam?’

  I explained to Susannah how Gervase Easton’s name needed to be cleared to give his son the chance to marry as he wished. ‘We don’t particularly wish to bring Bowman to justice,’ I said. Brockley looked at me in surprise. ‘It was twenty-three years ago,’ I said, as much to him as to anyone. ‘Bowman’s an old man now. It’s Mark and Jane who matter. Susannah, we’ll protect you from prosecution too, if we can. But you must come with us to confront Bowman with your testimony. We will require him to give us a signed confession for Master Easton to use as proof of his father’s innocence.’

  ‘He’ll never do that!’ Susannah rocked back and forth in misery.

  ‘In that case,’ I said in a hard voice, ‘we will take our information to the authorities, all of it, including the thefts while you were with the Medlands. You and Bowman will have to take your chance.’

  Susannah set up a wail, and I raised my voice to be heard above her. ‘Given that we get the confession,’ I told her, ‘we can put it together with other signed and sworn statements which I hope we can obtain from other people – one is Madge, who can swear that the man she saw tampering with Hoxton’s tray was left-handed, and another is an artist who will, I think, testify that Gervase Easton was not. Then, perhaps, Gervase’s son will have evidence enough to smooth his path to marriage. That’s all we want.’

  It was far too much for Susannah, who became hysterical, but I told her relentlessly that if she refused, we would insist that Medland bring a charge of theft against her. (‘How did you propose to make him, madam?’ Brockley asked me afterwards. ‘I probably couldn’t,’ I said, ‘but Susannah wasn’t to know that.’)

  In the end, we prevailed.

  A vague message was given to the bewildered servants in the kitchen, to the effect that Mistress Lamb had been called away on urgent business but would no doubt be back in a few days, and then we bundled her out, hired a boat – luckily, we found one quickly – and were on our way downstream towards Windsor within the hour.

  It was a chilly, windy journey, and Susannah cried all the way, which disturbed me. I had thought, once, that I was going to see Gladys hang. It had been a near thing. She had come to the very foot of the gallows, and I had seen her terror. I didn’t want to do that to Susannah. She was repulsive, but her fear and her misery only made her more pitiable.

  But she was still obnoxious company, and I still hated her.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Face to Face

  We reached Windsor as dusk was falling, having stopped once on the way to change the crew and take refreshment at a riverside inn.

  ‘Straight to Bowman’s,’ I said, ‘let’s get it over,’ and we set off along the riverside path, until we reached the end of the lane that led up past Bowman’s cottage. Halfway up, Susannah became crimson in the face and started to gasp. We had to let her rest before we went on. Part of it was obviously fear, but the breathlessness was real enough.

  We had started off again, pushing her up the last few yards of path, when to our surprise we were accosted – indeed, almost ambushed – as a wizened figure in a brown cloak appeared on top of the bank to our left and waved at us.

  ‘Gladys!’ I said. ‘Gladys? What are you doing here?’

  Gladys gave us one of her fanged grins. ‘Saw you coming along the river in that boat, I did. Saw you’d got her with you; at least, I supposed it was her. Couldn’t think who else it would be.’

  ‘Who’s this?’ gasped Susannah.

  ‘This is Gladys Morgan. She helps in Mistress Stannard’s household. She sews and makes medicines,’ said Brockley repressively.

  ‘She’s your servant?’ Susannah said to me, staring at Gladys with dislike. ‘Doesn’t she even say ma’am when she speaks to you?’ Susannah, however light-fingered, evidently kept to a few conventions.

  ‘Not often. Gladys doesn’t go in for terms of respect,’ I said. ‘Did you come to meet us, Gladys? How did you know we wouldn’t go straight up to the castle?’

  ‘Didn’t know. Saw you take this path, that’s all. I was out and about, looking for a few plants I wanted. There’re some you can gather at any time of year. Looks like you’re going to Bowman’s. Are you?’

  ‘Yes. What makes you so sure?’ Ryder said.

  ‘I’ve good reason. I’ve something to tell you.’ Gladys grinned. ‘I reckoned that a bit of snooping was wanted. There was you, working yourself to death, trying to get at the heart of it all. I kept thinking: how can I help? What can I do that might come in useful?’ Her dark eyes, still bright despite her years, suddenly lost their usual malicious gleam and looked into mine with such a naked gratitude that it took me aback.

  ‘Dead I’d be, long since, but for you and him.’ She pointed at Brockley. ‘I were nearly done for, as a witch, twice back at Vetch Castle, and then again, in London. Every time, you or him stepped in and rescued me. You think I don’t care? I wanted to help, and I got a notion.’

  It was more than gratitude. It was an emotion so deep that there were tears in her eyes. I laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Gladys, we were glad to have saved you. Go on. Tell us what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘You remember that Catherine Mildmay that you went to see?’

  ‘Catherine Mildmay? Yes, of course!’ Dale, listening to all this, was startled. ‘But if ever there was a decent, honest woman—’

  Gladys, her usual nature reasserting itself, made an impolite noise. ‘Told us all about her, you did, after seeing her,’ she said to me, ‘and I didn’t believ
e a word of it. Sounded as if she’d got a halo and wings – bah! I don’t trust folk like that. I bin wondering about her ever since. You said she lived in Moor Street. So I asked Master Stannard for some money, and he said what for, and I said to help me find out who killed Hoxton. He give it me, but said to be careful. And I was. I dragged my old bones down your bloody stairs again and out through the town, and I found my way to the Mildmay woman and I told her such a tarradiddle. I’m an ignorant old woman, I am. Don’t know nothing about herbs and things—’

  ‘Gladys, what on earth are you talking about?’ I said. Susannah looked from one of us to the other in confusion. The others, knowing Gladys better, were silent, waiting for her to get to the point.

  ‘Told her I’d got a nursling,’ said Gladys with a leer. ‘A dear sweet wench that I’d cared for since she was a little baby. But now she’s a grown lass and she’s in trouble. No, no, it’s all right, Mistress Stannard, I didn’t name any names. If you’re thinking I said it was Meg, well, I didn’t.’

  ‘I should hope not!’ I exploded.

  Gladys merely chuckled. ‘I just begged and pleaded with Mistress Mildmay to help. I said someone like her, with so much knowledge of herbs and whatnot, would surely know what to do. I couldn’t believe she couldn’t help. If only she would . . .’

  ‘And?’ said Ryder sharply.

  ‘She wouldn’t help. Oh no. Her hands have to stay clean. Her garden’s as pure as Eden afore the serpent got into it. But she gave me a name. He might advise, she said. Only, getting the name would cost me. Three gold angels, that’s what it would cost, and never, never, was I to tell anyone she’d told me. If I did, and the law got her, she’d see it got me too. Just asking where to get medicine to destroy an unborn child was a crime. So I swore to keep the secret, and I paid – said my young mistress had given me the money. And guess what was the name she gave me!’

  ‘Bowman?’ said Brockley.

  ‘Aye. Bowman. Well, well, I said, I know him, though he never let on that he was in the potions business. So I come here to see Bowman and told my tale again, and said the Mildmay woman had sent me – and here it is. Another four gold angels it cost me.’

  She put a hand into her skirts and, from a pocket, pulled out a phial. ‘This’ll be what that girl that died at Christmas used, I’d reckon. As for seeing what plants he’s got in his garden, you can see better from his parlour window than the path. I’d never been inside his cottage before. Talked to him, I have, a good few times, but always in the garden, not indoors. But I was indoors this time, and while he fetched this –’ she waved the phial – ‘I stared out at the garden, and from the parlour I could see it plain enough. Not much wrong with my eyes, old as they are. He’s got nightshade there all right, and yew. Got hemlock, too – what’s called poison parsley. Wouldn’t like to think what he’s growing all those for.’

  ‘He’s growing them?’ Ryder asked. ‘They’re not just weeds?’

  ‘No, they’re not. Growing them a’purpose is what he’s been doing. Neat and tidy in tended beds, in a quiet corner, they are. Well, what if he were growing them behind his shop when he had his business in the town? Straightaway, I thought: well, here’s someone in Windsor knows their poisons and was here at the time, and he married the woman Hoxton wanted, didn’t he? And got rid of her husband too, I reckoned. I was sure, the second I saw them nice tidy poison plants, that it was him did for Hoxton.’

  ‘Gladys, you’re a marvel,’ I told her.

  She gave me another of her unlovely grins. ‘You told us all what Madge said about the man who put the pie on the tray being left-handed, too. Well, Bowman’s left-handed. I’ve noticed. Watched him pruning some bush or other with a sickle in his left hand. Got me thinking straightaway, Madge’s tale did.’

  I looked at Brockley, and he at me. Gladys, it seemed, had been a step ahead of us all.

  ‘I hardly needed to go after that portrait,’ I said. ‘I should have left it all to you, Gladys! Except that I had to go north anyway on the queen’s business.’ Beside me, I felt the check in Brockley’s mind, and though he did not speak, I knew that he was remembering Trelawny, who would still have been alive had we never gone to Ramsfold. I looked towards the cottage. ‘There’s smoke coming from Bowman’s chimney. He must be at home. Come along.’

  We made our way all together through the gate of the cottage. Gladys pointed to something in a corner of the garden, and I went to look. Coming back, I said: ‘There’s a plant there with a few black berries still on it. The leaves are kite-shaped. Is that nightshade?’

  ‘Aye. Birds don’t go for the berries; they’ve got more sense. Rabbits eat nightshade, though. Don’t know whether it doesn’t do anything to them or they like the wild visions. Wonder what rabbits have visions about?’ said Gladys, with a lascivious leer.

  Ryder laughed, but Susannah was snivelling and dragging her feet as we approached the cottage. Ryder gave her a sharp push forward.

  The door opened as we reached it, and Bowman appeared in the entrance, a lamp in his hand. He said nothing, but moved back in a silent invitation for us to enter. We trooped inside, also in silence, and with an abrupt gesture he signalled us into his parlour.

  It was as untidy as I remembered, though the fire was better this time and there was candlelight. Bowman was much the same, though: lined, wire-haired and – yes, now that I looked at him carefully – possessed of a nose like a parrot’s beak. It was hardly Gervase’s aristocratic eagle nose, but yes, it was curved. Bowman seemed to have aged suddenly. His skin was papery and pale, except for a flush over his cheekbones. He was the first to speak. He did so in one syllable. ‘Well?’

  ‘We’re here,’ I said, ‘once more, to talk about the death of Peter Hoxton.’

  ‘Are you, now?’

  ‘You’ve got all the necessary in your garden,’ said Gladys, never one to approach a subject with anything like finesse. ‘Mistress Stannard here looked for herself just now. Pretty little bed of trouble you’ve got there, Master Bowman. Nightshade, yew, poison parsley. Everything you want for a witch’s brew. How long’ve you been growing things of that kind, and what for?’

  Bowman cast a glance of loathing at her but didn’t deign to reply. Instead, he said to me: ‘I wondered. I saw you coming from an upstairs window. I remembered what you were after when you came here first, and I recognized her.’ His eyes flashed angrily at Susannah. ‘And her.’ He jerked his head at Gladys. ‘The dear old soul who sometimes passed the time of day with me at my gate, and then came wanting help for her sweet nursling. How is the poor girl, may I ask?’

  ‘’Fraid she don’t exist,’ said Gladys with her most eldritch cackle. ‘She was an excuse, that’s all.’

  ‘I see. Yes, I do see. A pretty tale you spun, to me and to Mistress Mildmay. Let’s not play the fool. You think I did for Hoxton, don’t you?’

  ‘We know you did,’ said Ryder.

  ‘Sure of yourself, aren’t you? Well, since you’ve been talking to Susannah, yes, I suppose you do know. I hope you’ll leave Catherine Mildmay alone, at least. If she helps me to help a few desperate girls, well, there’s more than one way to look at that, and we don’t all roll our eyes piously to heaven when we hear of a lass falling in love and being let down and not wanting her life wrecked because of it. We don’t all say: ooh, how shocking, and bleat clichés about making beds and lying in them. And there’s other things you can use nightshade for, besides killing. Easing pain, that’s one. And lotions to brighten lasses’ eyes. Belladonna, that’s its other name. It means Pretty Woman. Oh, sit down, all of you, now you’re here.’

  We did so. Bowman glared at us. ‘Hoxton!’ His voice was full of scorn. ‘It’s twenty-three years next autumn,’ he said. ‘Pity that after being dead that long, he can’t lie quiet in his grave.’

  Bowman himself had taken the same settle as before: near the fire and beside the shelf of flagons and the elegant salt which had been part of his first wife’s dowry. The flush on his face was expl
ained now, for a half-full glass of dark red wine was on the floor by his stool. He picked it up and took a long swig. It occurred to me that without the flush, he would be very pale indeed. We were looking at a man who was both old and ill.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what are you here for, exactly? Come to seize me and march me to the constable? Why didn’t you bring the constable with you?’

  ‘Let Master Bowman be quite clear about how much we know,’ said Ryder. ‘Susannah, repeat now, before us all, what you told us in Oxford. Beginning from where you were caught examining a bag of his money.’

  Susannah glowered. She had taken a window seat. It was draughty, and she was sitting with her cloak drawn tightly round her. Her heavy, tear-stained face had acquired an obstinate expression. ‘He said I was going to steal some money, but it wasn’t true.’ Her voice was monotonous, probably because she was repeating her denial for what no doubt felt like the thousandth time. ‘I was just looking.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘You were just looking, and you were misunderstood.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t,’ said Bowman. ‘I’d missed money before. Lightfingers, that’s the nickname I gave her, privately, so to speak.’

  ‘That’s rude,’ said Susannah, attempting to be haughty and wiping away a few more tears.

  ‘And true,’ said Bowman.

  ‘Never mind all that,’ said Ryder, annoyed. ‘Susannah, go on with the story. You know what will happen if you refuse.’

  Reluctantly, between scowls and sniffs, Susannah repeated the dismal tale of how Bowman had suborned her to bear false witness against Gervase Easton.

  Bowman listened in silence, sipping his wine as he did so. When his glass was empty, he took a flagon from the shelf beside him, poured himself a refill and added ground cinnamon from one of the trays in the salt. ‘So,’ he said, when the story was over. He dusted a little cinnamon off his fingers. ‘What if I say that this woman is lying?’