‘Sorry. We’re not the experts,’ Rachel explained, ‘so what he explains to us doesn’t need all the detail Oliver will expect. We only need a simplified version.’
Professor Thornton and Oliver arrived outside the hall at the same time, followed closely by the postman, who passed a bundle of letters through his van window before driving off again.
‘I’m being Postman Pat today,’ Oliver laughed as he put them down. He gave both women a brief kiss on the cheek before taking the professor across to the chapel, as promised.
Rachel shuffled through the envelopes. ‘Still getting post for Dad,’ she said in a small voice, ‘just when I think I’ve told everyone. Oh, this big envelope is for you, were you expecting something?’ Mathilde took it, wrapping her arms around it protectively.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing important,’ she shrugged, ‘shall we go and wait for the others?’
In the drawing room she perched on the arm of a chair and pushed her index finger under the flap of the envelope, removing the sheaf of paperwork.
‘What’s in your secret envelope then?’ She hadn’t realised her sister was right behind her, trying to peer over her shoulder. Quickly she shoved everything back in. ‘Bill of sale?’ Rachel’s voice began to rise. ‘A sale document? And from Mr Murray, I saw the letterhead. I thought you were waiting until the end of summer before you decided what to do. And no discussion with me, your sister? I know the hall is yours now but it’s still our family home!’ By this point her voice had risen and as Oliver and Professor Thornton walked into the room they both looked decidedly uncomfortable, moving to the table and gazing at the paperwork spread out before them with intense interest.
‘It is the end of summer,’ Mathilde hissed through clenched teeth flapping her hand, ‘I’ll tell you later. I want to listen.’ She was embarrassed it had taken her so long to arrange something she should have done weeks before and wasn’t looking forward to admitting her thoughtlessness to her sister.
‘Yes, we’ll talk later,’ Rachel agreed in a low voice as she looked away. Mathilde could feel the disappointment and dismay emanating from her as tears prickled at the back of her eyes.
Professor Thornton cleared his throat loudly and the gathered ensemble turned to face him.
‘So, I can now confirm this document is as we first suspected, one of a series of letters that travelled in 1586 between Mary Queen of Scots and those involved in the Babington plot. Except,’ his voice rose a little, his excitement at the events of history almost palpable, ‘it was intercepted at some point by a man called Thomas Phelippes who compiled codes to try and thwart the plotters. The letters from Mary, who was a prisoner at the time, were taken by double agents and subsequently copied out with additional assignations suggested, to draw the conspirators into the web that Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham was weaving. This is an important piece of the puzzle and absolutely fascinating. Especially because as well as being in code it was also written in shorthand, an extra layer of intelligence. We have very few examples of this work although we do know it was originally devised by a Doctor Bright, the Superintendent at St Bartholomew’s hospital. Over four hundred years ago, isn’t that incredible?’ By this point the professor’s enthusiasm was overflowing and everyone in the room was smiling with him.
‘What about the palimpsest, the words written in invisible ink between the lines of the letter?’ Oliver asked.
‘Ah, now that is a private document. It explains to us why it was hidden but it should be read by the family, it’s not for me to disclose.’ He placed a typed sheet in its document folder onto the table. ‘It’s all here,’ he said, ‘the original is still in our temperature controlled safe at the university, until we can come to an agreement as to where it is going to live on a more permanent basis. I’d like to talk to you at a later date,’ he turned to Oliver, ‘to discuss what you have discovered about the triptych in order to see how it reflects what we now know about the owner of both the painting and this house.’
Oliver nodded and with a shake of everyone’s hand Professor Thornton was gone, the sound of his car fading into the distance as the three adults stood in silence on the front step. Everything Mathilde had been waiting for, the explanation as to why the triptych was hidden in the chapel and the story of her ancestor, was there in that document on the table. Everything that the ghosts who’d followed her since she arrived couldn’t tell her.
Deep in thought, she hadn’t heard the sound of a car approaching along the drive until it pulled across the turning circle with a loud series of the horn beeping. Behind the wheel was Alice and beside her, Jack. He was clutching on to the dashboard, the scared look on his face demonstrating the speed and recklessness of his wife’s driving.
‘Just the person I wanted to see.’ Alice jumped out, and for the first time since Mathilde had met her she had a big smile on her face.
‘Aunt Alice, what on earth is the matter?’ Rachel stepped off the front step as if ready to intervene.
‘Matter? Nothing’s the matter,’ came the reply. ‘We’ve come straight over to thank our niece.’ At this point her bonhomie dissolved as did her face and it folded up like a sinking suet pudding as she burst into tears. Rachel hurried over but Alice put her hand up to stop her. Mathilde had taken a step backwards.
‘No, let me finish,’ Alice continued, ‘I can’t deny that I was bitterly disappointed when this girl turned up out of the blue after so many years. None of us expected her and I especially didn’t want her here. She threatened our lives, our home, and I was shocked and frightened. But that doesn’t excuse how I behaved, I was unkind and I was wrong. What would Peter have said? I can only apologise from the bottom of my heart for my dreadful actions.’ She advanced towards Mathilde who instinctively took another step away from her. ‘But today in the post we received a letter from Mr Murray informing us that she’s transferred the deeds of the old farmhouse to us. So, we don’t have to worry anymore about the roof over our heads. How can I ever thank you?’
This time Mathilde wasn’t quick enough to avoid her aunt who enveloped her in a perfumed hug which threatened to squeeze the breath out of her.
‘It was nothing. I should have done it earlier. I’m sorry that I didn’t.’ Her voice was gruff by the time she was eventually released. Over her aunt’s shoulder she could see both Oliver and her sister looking at each other, eyebrows raised.
Rachel gathered Alice and Jack up and took them into the kitchen to make a cup of tea; the panacea of all English problems, Mathilde thought. Oliver was still standing where he’d been during the spectacle that had just occurred.
‘Why didn’t you tell us that was what the documentation was?’ he asked, ‘we presumed you were selling the hall.’
‘I was ashamed,’ she confessed, ‘I should have done it when I first arrived. I, more than anyone, know how it feels to be worried about the roof over my head, but it took you and Rachel to point out what was right in front of me. I should have realised why Alice behaved as she did. I was stupid.’
‘No, you weren’t,’ he put his arm around her shoulder and held her to him, ‘why would you immediately think of that when you faced such a cold welcome when you first arrived? You’ve come such a long way since then even though it’s only been three months. Let’s go and join the rest of your family for a cup of tea, eh? Then you can read the letter your ancestor left for you.’
In the kitchen, Mathilde allowed Rachel to give her a big hug and whisper ‘sorry’ in her ear. She could feel the warm damp on her sister’s face where she’d been crying and she returned the hug.
‘Me too,’ she said quietly pulling her sister closer, before sitting down to join in the impromptu party around the table as Rachel produced glasses and a dusty bottle of cognac alongside the ubiquitous pot of tea.
‘Dad could always think of a reason to get out the brandy,’ she gave a watery smile and sniffed, ‘and I think now is a good time to continue his tradition.’
&
nbsp; ‘To family,’ Alice said, holding up her cup as they all clinked their various cups and glasses together, echoing the sentiment. Never had anything sounded sweeter, Mathilde thought to herself. Excusing herself she ran up to her bedroom to collect something she’d been waiting to give to Rachel, now feeling it was the right moment.
‘This is for you,’ she said gruffly as she handed it over. She didn’t tell her sister that originally she had thought to give it when she left. Now she knew in her heart that would never happen.
Pulling off the tissue wrapped around it, Rachel uncovered a framed photograph of Fleur, one of the images from the night Mathilde had taken her out to the marshes.
‘Oh, it’s perfect, thank you,’ Rachel breathed.
‘The final piece of my family jigsaw,’ Mathilde said, looking across to where Fleur was sitting with a glass of milk. She winked at the little girl who grinned back.
‘Shall we go and look at the secret letter then?’ Oliver asked, looking at Mathilde and Rachel who both nodded. Alice and Jack looked at the others questioningly but followed as the ensemble walked back through to the drawing room again. They waited silently as, her hand shaking slightly, Mathilda picked it up. The room felt calmer now, the confrontation from before dissipating in the air. Picking up the clear plastic folder containing the translation Mathilde began to read.
‘This is my story. Tom Lutton. I travelled across the seas in search of a home and safety. Not once, but twice. I served my Queen as apothecary, as spy, and through that I lost she who held my heart and my love. This triptych will in all eternity tell my story. I found all that I did seek and now I live out my days with our son in the flat lands from whence I started my journey.’
She lay it back down on the table, and turned to look at the triptych, still open beside her. Telling his story and telling her story. They were two sides of the same coin. The fabric of the house exhaled slowly, the spirits of centuries past slipping away, finally at ease.
Without a word she stepped around the others, walking back out through the front door and around the side of the house, collecting her spade as she went past. A robin perched on it followed her, hopping from branch to branch until they arrived in her corner of the garden. She needed to be in the place where she had always felt closest to him, the man that she now knew was Tom Lutton: her ancestor.
He’d loved this spot too, she was certain. No wonder she felt the draw to here, the calm and peace it gave her. Pushing her spade into the soil she began digging, methodical clump after clump of earth which quickly grew into a mound as she dug the ground where he’d found solace too.
The ring of her spade hitting something and stopping her going any deeper made her frown and pushing it into the ground beside where she was digging, she tried again. There were plenty of flints which had already caused difficulties. The same thing happened. Carefully she knelt down and began to lift out a clod of dirt, followed by another, and then another. Something was under the ground here close to where she’d made her herb bed and scrabbling with her hands, she continued to clear it away. Shadow lay on a patch of thyme watching her whilst basking in the warm sun.
It took almost two hours of hard work to finally unearth it. Rachel had come out at one point and placed a mug of tea on the ground but it grew cold, untouched. Eventually Mathilde stood up, her hands on her hips, legs balanced apart on the pile of mud she’d cleared. Before her lay a long stone slab, barely weathered after all the years of being buried. She brushed off the last of the dirt with her hands. Carved in the top it simply said ‘Tom Lutton, died 4 August 1607. A traveller, but now he is home.’
It was his gravestone, so close to where she’d been working for weeks. Her ancestor, and her father’s ancestor. Perhaps his child, the baby she’d dreamed of, had laid him here in the corner of the garden which he’d loved, as did she. It explained the peace and tranquillity enveloping that special space. Running her fingertips through the tall grass beside her, she let it slide softly against her skin. She had been a traveller too, but now, she was home.
Acknowledgements
So here it is – I wasn’t sure I could write this notoriously difficult second book, but then the words started to flow and Tom and Mathilde began to tell their stories.
I certainly couldn’t have reached this point without a lot of help, collaboration and handholding from some amazing people. Firstly, a huge thank you to my brilliant editor Molly Walker-Sharp who knocked this book into shape and is so encouraging which I really appreciate – you are a star! Also thank you to the marketing department and the entire team at Avon who do such a sterling job – I am incredibly grateful to you all.
My heartfelt thanks also go to my lovely agent Ella Kahn at Diamond Kahn and Woods. Your perception and suggestions are always so helpful and spot on, and I am extremely grateful that you’re at the other end of an email and you never mind how daft my questions are. Thank you for your continual support and enthusiasm and for always being on my team.
A very special mention must go to my virtual office colleague and beta reader Jenni Keer, who makes every day at the desk so much better. Thank you for living in my phone for the past year and for your constant cheerleading. Thanks must also go to my fellow members and very good friends at the Suffolk and Norfolk chapter of the RNA, especially Heidi Swain, Rosie Hendry, Claire Wade, Ian Wilfred and Kate Hardy, who are always ready and willing to wave pom-poms and are endlessly supportive. You guys rock!
I couldn’t have written this without some specialist help from certain quarters. First of all, thank you David Hollingworth for your assistance in checking my schoolgirl French; I shall be over to visit and test it out further at some point! Also thank you to Sarah Voysey for your inspirational camper van conversion which certainly helped when planning out Mathilde’s ambulance. And a very special mention for a fantastic bunch of people (you know who you are!), who are always ready to answer absolutely any question I can think of – what a mine of expertise you are. An extra special thanks to Sara, Lisa, Fiona, Catherine, Eleanor, Mary, Rhian and Rebecca for helping me out of a hole.
Of course, I wouldn’t have been able to sit down and write The Queen’s Spy without all the support and assistance I get at home so I owe a massive debt of gratitude to my husband Des, who very kindly plays golf at every opportunity to leave me in peace. Honestly, Des, words cannot express how thankful I am to have you! No, really. And also thank you as ever to my lovely children, your support is much appreciated and this book is for you cherubs.
And my final thanks must go to the wonderful readers who’ve been so incredibly supportive over the past year. I cannot begin to thank you enough for your enthusiasm; it’s been truly heart-warming. To hear how much people enjoy reading about my characters and then sharing those thoughts in their reviews is simply the very best accolade I could ask for – you all brighten my day, and I am hugely grateful. If anyone hasn’t yet found me on social media please come and say hello!
Twitter: @claremarchant1
Instagram: claremarchant1
Facebook: /ClareMarchantAuthor
Keep Reading …
Two women. Five centuries apart.
One life-changing secret about to be unearthed …
A gripping and enchanting historical fiction read about love and hope in dangerous times.
UK readers, click here to find out more.
US readers, click here to find out more.
About the Author
Growing up in Surrey, Clare always dreamed of being a writer. Instead, after gaining a degree in history and an MA in women’s studies she accidentally fell into a career in IT. After spending many years as a project manager in London, she moved to Norfolk for a quieter life and trained as a professional jeweller.
Now, finally writing full-time, she lives with her husband and the youngest two of her six children. Weekends are often spent satisfying her love of history, exploring local castles and monastic ruins with her miniature schnauzer Fred. The family also
make frequent visits to the beautiful Norfolk coast where they all, including Fred, eat (a lot) of ice cream.
You can follow her on Twitter here: @ClareMarchant1
By the same author:
The Secrets of Saffron Hall
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The Queen's Spy Page 31