The Queen's Spy

by Clare Marchant

  Tom nodded for the final time and bowing low, he waited for them to disappear in the direction from which they’d come. Breathing in the cool night air he held it in his lungs as long as possible, before slowly letting it out again. This was not what he had come to England for but it had been made very obvious to him that he had no choice, not if he wanted to stay alive. But as he walked slowly back to the kitchen to see what scraps were left from upstairs for his dinner, he kept coming back to Sir Francis Walsingham’s final sentence. That his lack of hearing and speech was a skill. Not a hindrance nor weakness, but a talent. Something worthwhile. Slowly he began to smile a little as he pulled his shoulders back, and walked a little taller.

  Chapter Thirteen

  April 1584

  The plants Tom had brought with him continued to thrive, although his precious vanilla plants were not growing as well as the others, despite the frame he had built. One of them was coming into flower and every morning he lifted the piece of glass off, before replacing it at night. He was hopeful it would produce some pods and more importantly seeds with which he could continue to propagate more. He’d been despatched to the warehouses along the river front again to try and procure more of the vanilla but with limited success. They were having to eke out the supplies they did have, only using it for the Queen. If they could grow their own they wouldn’t be dependent on it being brought from overseas.

  One afternoon as he worked in the stillroom, Tom had a visitor. Adding anise and pepper to a honey tisane for one of the courtiers’ children who had suspected putrid throat, a movement at the door made him look up. Standing in the doorway was a lady. She was slender, little more than a child in size although he could tell from her features that she was older, perhaps in her thirties. Her gown was a pale yellow and her hair caught up in a net at the nape of her neck was as dark as the ravens at the tower Hugh had shown him as they came down the river to the palace on that first day. Immediately, he stopped what he was doing, bowing low.

  When he looked up again her face was alight with the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, dimples creasing the sides of her mouth. Her eyes were the soft lilac colour of saffron flowers. He realised she was speaking to him so he concentrated on her face to try and read what she was saying. He’d been so busy admiring her figure he’d missed the first part of what she’d said. As she finished and stopped he grabbed the tablet he and Hugh used to communicate with and asked her to repeat herself. He was cross and embarrassed that unlike a normal man, he couldn’t always understand what someone was saying.

  Thankfully she didn’t seem to mind and nodding she repeated the words slowly, giving him the opportunity to watch her mouth, the pink lips glossy where she had licked them nervously before she started speaking again. She introduced herself as Lady Isabel Downes, and this time he understood perfectly as she described a headache she kept getting across her forehead. He indicated a chair beside the door before abandoning the tisane he was working on and starting to prepare one for her. He wanted to explain that her head probably hurt because of the tight hoods the ladies wore but he knew drawing attention to any part of her attire was not gentlemanly, so instead he dropped a pinch of sage with the coriander and feverfew he was grinding together and poured the powder into a twist of paper. He demonstrated how she should add it to hot water and indicated that there was enough for two cups, if required.

  Then, before she could get up to leave, he quickly wrote ‘Tom Lutton’ on the tablet and pointed to himself. She smiled and nodded and his heart melted, just a little. He watched her lips as she mouthed ‘goodbye Tom Lutton’ and with a quick grin and the briefest of curtseys, she was gone. He hadn’t even had time to bow in return.

  Sitting down in the chair she’d just vacated, the warmth her body had left seeped up through his hose. He couldn’t suppress the huge smile spreading across his face. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and his mind raced as he tried to think of a reason to see her again. But he knew in all sense, it was impossible. With a dress of the finest wool and matching silk slippers she had to be one of the Queen’s ladies; the highest-ranking people in the kingdom. Whereas he was an assistant apothecary who slept in a tiny closet-like room at the back of the palace: he had no place in her world. There had been a time when his adoptive father was a courtier and he stood a good chance of following in his footsteps even with his lack of hearing, but all that was lost decades ago when his father was tortured to death and they escaped to France.

  Tom carried a candle through to his room. Despite being no more than an enlarged cupboard he was nevertheless very pleased to have it, a tiny piece of privacy which he found to be invaluable. He lit the other two beeswax stumps on the chest. He’d become adept at swiftly removing any that were discarded from sconces upstairs and that could be used by the servants. These were far superior to the tallow candles he otherwise had access to and didn’t produce the harsh acrid smoke which made his eyes sting and water.

  From the chest at the end of his bed he retrieved the triptych he’d carried with him whilst travelling across Europe. It was bulky and quite heavy, and he’d lived in dread of someone deciding they wanted it for themselves, but thankfully his broad muscular frame prevented people from trying to start a fight with him. As long as nobody detected his deafness, he was mostly left to his own devices but as soon as his disability came to light it was a different story. Everyone was wary of someone who was different; suspicions and fear rose to the surface all too easily. That was always the point at which he moved on. Here at the palace though, he hoped to make a home.

  Laying the triptych out across his bed he knelt on the floor holding a candle close in order to see it better. Every scene on the now completed left-hand panel showed his life before he returned to England. His early memories of warm days and fields of lilac coloured saffron flowers shimmering in the early morning sunlight. Of the night when he’d helped his mother with the heart-breaking task of hiding her tiny stillborn baby in a priest hole beneath the floor, before they fled their home, travelling through the freezing winter weather to France where they could be safe. The small house in a village close to Lyon where, finding shelter, once again his mother had grown and sold her saffron, helped by her ever-present companion Joan. Building a comfortable life and living in a community close to the monks, as she had done as a child. Now, the smell of it, its honey warmth and sharp spice always made him think of her. She too was an accomplished apothecary and he’d learned so much working with her as she painstakingly drew pictures of every plant and spice they used, writing its name in Latin beneath.

  If it weren’t for her he’d be nowhere. Her exemplary skills had ensured she’d led a long life. He knew she’d forever miss his father, but as always, she’d accepted what life threw at her and had learned to be happy. Content with her quiet routine and the love of those around her. She’d told him he always needed to keep breathing and to have hope that things would turn out all right.

  Eventually he’d made his way across Europe, painting little scenes to remind him of all he’d seen and done. Especially when he’d had the chance to view the incredible triptych in the palace in Brussels which inspired him to start painting his own. And now having finished painting his journey to England – a small boat and view of the magnificent white cliffs as they arrived in Dover – it was time to start on the centre panel, to record his life at court. The sights, the smells, and the people: all that this new life may bring.

  Chapter Fourteen

  June 2021

  Finding Rachel in the living room, Mathilde showed her the locket and chain, explaining how she’d found it wedged at the back of the drawer.

  ‘How odd,’ Rachel took it and held it up watching it slowly spinning round on the end of its chain, ‘I’ve never seen this before. I wonder where it came from?’

  ‘Do you think it’s what we saw painted on the wall in the chapel?’ Mathilde reminded her, ‘we thought it was a snake but maybe it’s a necklace? I’d like to take a
closer look at those wooden panels and maybe try and take one off to see what’s behind?’ Her interest was piqued. She’d be careful to ensure she didn’t do anything to upset any souls lodging there: people who’d never moved on. She had a strong suspicion that was who – or what – she’d seen in the garden.

  ‘I don’t think you should remove them,’ Rachel said sharply, her voice revealing her concern, ‘supposing they really were put up to stop the wall coming down?’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ she promised, ‘I won’t do anything dangerous.’

  ‘Well I’m not having Fleur anywhere near it just in case, so you’re on your own.’

  Mathilde was unprepared for the disappointment she felt that her sister didn’t want to accompany her. She wanted to share the investigation; they were both invested in this. As Rachel handed the locket back to her she pressed it against her palm and felt a warm, soft pulse. She couldn’t decide if it was her own heart beating or the object she was clutching.

  She quickly filled a watering can from the butt on her way to the chapel, pouring the contents over her herbs. The vanilla plants were fragile and really needed to be in a greenhouse; the summer warmth wasn’t reliable enough in England. There was only one greenhouse in the garden and it had more broken panes than complete ones, the floor inside covered in vicious shards of glass. Rachel had already fixed a chain and padlock around the door to prevent Fleur wandering in. Mathilde promised herself she’d drive back into Fakenham to the DIY store and see about something temporary, or some glass to make a propagator. Now she was staying for the summer it was worth constructing something more permanent.

  Taking her tools from the back of her van she walked across to the chapel, the key in her pocket digging into her thigh.

  The pigeons were in the trees again calling to each other, their soft cooing carrying on the wind, but she ignored them as she opened the door and stepped inside. Now the space was a little more familiar it didn’t feel quite so eerie but it was intensely cold and the awful dead smell still hung in the air. Rubbing her fingers over the painting it now seemed obvious that it was a locket and chain twisting across the board, and now she was certain she was supposed to find the pendant; it was a sign that she needed to carry on investigating. Something was encouraging her, waiting for her. Placing her bag on a pew she removed the claw hammer. Its wooden handle was worn smooth but it was the only one she possessed and had belonged to her mother before her.

  Going to the wall and examining it closely she could see there were two separate panels, each of them in a frame. She gave a tentative push to see if either would conveniently give way but they were both stuck fast. Carefully she slipped the claws of the hammer between the frame and panel, levering it back as far as it would go, wincing as the sound of splintering wood echoed around the empty space.

  Her first attempt only lifted it an inch but it was enough space to give some leverage and the rest came away more easily. At one point she had to drag a pew over so she could stand on it to pull at the top of the board but finally with a loud crack she pulled it from the wall.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, just more of the stonework similar to the opposite wall but possibly crumbling down. She drew her breath in sharply as she gazed at what the panel had revealed. On the wall in front of her was a wide, heavy, gilt edged frame and set within was a triptych – three narrow paintings, the centre one wider than the two either side. It was covered in dust and she could just about make out dozens of tiny people dotted about it. It was astonishing; why on earth had someone boarded over it?

  Excited to see if there was another work of art behind the second panel, she picked up her hammer and, standing on tiptoe, started on that one. Smaller than the first it came away easily but to her disappointment there was no picture, just a memorial stone plaque which she couldn’t read. She realised with a jolt that the locket chain snaking across the larger panel appeared to have been pointing to this one.

  Taking her mobile from her back pocket she snapped several photos of each. Stepping backwards she stood with her head on one side, staring silently at the strange painting in its flamboyant frame. Her heart was thumping in her chest and she could hear the blood pulsing through her ears. Something – or someone – had led her here, if only she could understand what they were trying to tell her. She had no idea.

  Rachel and Fleur were in the kitchen finishing lunch when Mathilde burst in through the back door insisting her sister come immediately to see the discovery. Rachel quickly pushed the rest of her sandwich into her mouth whilst Mathilde flitted around the kitchen tidying items on the worktop, unable to stand still.

  It felt like hours but was less than five minutes before they were back at the chapel, the door left ajar where Mathilde had run out. Fleur waited on the grass outside with a bag of crisps as Rachel followed Mathilde in.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Rachel murmured the moment she saw what Mathilde had been so excited about. ‘What on earth is it doing here hidden behind that piece of wood? Why would anyone want to conceal something so beautiful? It looks old. I mean really old. We need to brush the dust off the front to see it more clearly but it’s probably better if we don’t. It needs to be professionally cleaned to avoid any damage. But look at all these little people all over it involved in tiny scenes, they’re incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. And look, on this panel there’re flames.’

  ‘Yes, les feux de l’enfer. Fires of …’ Mathilde searched for the right word.

  ‘Hell?’ Rachel suggested.

  ‘Yes, that is it, hell. On religious triptychs the third panel shows people going to hell. To frighten les pécheurs,’ she paused again, ‘bad people?’

  ‘Sinners? Blimey, you know a lot, have you been researching?’

  ‘No, but I grew up in France. A Catholic country. I’ve seen these in churches many times. How can we find someone to tell us more?’

  ‘I’m not sure but I’ll make some enquiries; I can start with a museum or the art department of a university and go from there. There’s bound to be someone on the end of a phoneline or video call. I think we need to take it off this wall if we can and then bring it inside the house where it’ll be safer. We don’t want it to be damaged by any falling masonry that might have been disturbed taking the panels off. It’s going to take both of us to carry it; I don’t mind going backwards.’

  Mathilde took several more photos of the picture in situ before they began to ease it from the wall. It required the use of her hammer again but they managed to remove it without inflicting any damage.

  Walking very gingerly they stopped several times to lay it on the ground and rub their fingers where the ornate frame dug in. Back at the house, at Rachel’s suggestion, they took a dust cover from a sofa in the formal drawing room and leaned it up against the back.

  ‘It’s out of the way of inquisitive hands in here,’ she said, nodding towards Fleur waiting at the door as instructed as she said ‘inquisitive’. Mathilde took a few steps backwards as she tilted her head to one side, before moving closer again and investigating the top of the frame.

  ‘There is a shield here,’ she pointed, ‘like a family … badge? Do you recognise it?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘It’s a coat of arms. Dad never said we had one,’ she said, ‘and he certainly didn’t use it. Another thing we’ll have to wait to ask the experts. Let’s go and make a coffee and see if we can find anyone locally. Otherwise, I suspect we’ll be dragging it to London and I don’t fancy trying to manhandle this on the tube.’

  As Rachel went to start her search for the specialist they needed, Mathilde held back for a moment screwing up her eyes to scrutinise the left-hand panel. Despite the dust on it she could clearly make out several small scenes of people in what appeared to be extremely old-fashioned clothing. The very first image in the top corner attracted her attention as she leant forward. What initially just looked like a swirl of black showed itself to be a tunnel – or perhaps a hole –
with a tiny face at the other end. It looked so bleak, so sorrowful. A cold aura wrapped her in a cloak of desolation and with a shudder she pulled her eyes away and followed Rachel out of the room. The painting disturbed her; she could feel it trying to tell her something, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  June 2021

  ‘It may well take us weeks to find someone who can help,’ Rachel warned as she typed and clicked her way through numerous websites. ‘It would probably save time to actually speak to someone but I’ve no idea where to start.’ Mathilde shrugged in response. She was depending on her sister to discover someone who could explain why a triptych that was making the hairs on her arms stand up was hidden away in a tiny family chapel in the middle of Norfolk. She was sure it was connected to the strange atmosphere in the house and garden, and the dark shadows that shifted just out of her field of vision when she was alone.

  ‘Remember I’m only here for a couple of months, then I’ll be on my way again,’ she reminded her sister, although it was as much for herself as for Rachel. Already there were threads from the past threatening to bind her to the hall. She felt them tighten the moment she pulled the panel from the chapel wall.

  ‘I know,’ Rachel replied in a small voice, ‘I’m trying not to think about you going again so soon.’ Mathilde felt a pang of discomfort.

  ‘I was thinking though, as I’m going to be here a couple of months, maybe I’ll move back into my bedroom if that’s okay with you?’ she suggested.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’d like that, to have you closer,’ she was rewarded with a shaky smile, ‘and I think Dad would have liked that too.’