[Damian Seeker 05] - The House of Lamentations
Page 14
‘Kill an old woman for her money, perhaps?’
Seeker had already asked himself the same question. ‘Perhaps. There was a time I’d have said not, but now, I don’t know. He might come in handy for us, at some point, all the same. His companions don’t know about his past service to us, and I don’t think he’d want them finding out.’
‘So you’ll just leave him there, dangling like a worm on a hook, until you’re ready.’
‘If you like,’ said Seeker, musing on the image a moment before returning to the point. ‘So, you’ve got the measure of our Cavalier friends then. And you tell me Evan Glenroe already has his eye on you.’
George nodded. ‘He “invited” me to join him this afternoon, that he might show me the town. Show me to the town, more like, and everyone else.’
‘Oh?’
‘He asked me first if I’d ever shot a bow . . .’
‘Which no doubt you have.’
George smiled, self-deprecating almost. ‘From as soon as I was old enough to lift one. Before that even. My father would take me out to the butts at Beaumont Manor, and I grew up listening to my grandmother’s tales of the tournament they had had there, when old Queen Bess had visited Beaumont, how Her Majesty had won, of course. My grandmother was fond of lamenting that the kingdom would go to the dogs, if young men did not practise at their bow. There were the hunts, too, of course: my mother always said we had the finest park in Leicestershire. She wasn’t wrong. I spent most of my youth ranging over it; hunting an animal, bringing down a doe with my bow.’ He smiled. ‘No meat tastes better than that you kill yourself, does it, Seeker?’ As he spoke, he brought the toe of his boot down on a beetle Seeker had noticed scuttling around. There was a slight crunch as Beaumont, smiling, ground the life out of the creature.
Seeker averted his face. But he remembered the excitement and the fear of poaching for game with his father and brothers across the moors and through the woods of Yorkshire, the ever-present fear of being caught by the gamekeepers, hauled to the landowner’s justice.
‘I daresay you and I had a different experience of the chase, Beaumont. But I hope you didn’t tell Glenroe all that – remember you’re supposed to be from a hard-pressed family of little account.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said George. ‘I told him I’d maybe shot the odd coney, or pigeon perhaps. Said my father’s was not a great estate and the park not well kept.’
‘And Glenroe was happy enough with that?’
‘Oh, he was still very keen that we should test my prowess. Specifically, that I should accompany him to the shooting range up at the Schuttersgilde Sint-Sebastiaan where we could ‘get some air and test our mettle’. He said there’d been some strange happenings of late at the Bouchoute House and when I asked if he intended to shoot intruders with a crossbow he commented that a crossbow would deal with unwanted visitors as well as a pistol shot.’
‘You think this might have been a warning to yourself?’
Beaumont shrugged. ‘Why warn me? No, I think he just wanted an excuse to keep me close for a few hours, find out what he could about me, see if my face registered with anyone else. On our journey up to the Schuttersgilde, Glenroe grilled me about every battle I’d been in, every commander I’d served under. Each time, I reversed the truth, put myself in the camp of the opponent I’d fought on any particular day, told what I knew of the opposing commander.’
‘Good,’ said Seeker. ‘Anything else?’
‘Oh yes.’ Beaumont swallowed down the last of his beer and wiped his mouth. ‘He seemed particularly keen that I should steer clear of the Engels Klooster.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘He tried to make a joke of it, made play of having a terror of nuns, that sort of thing. But he wasn’t joking about it. He was warning me off, I’m certain of it.’
‘What exactly did he say?’ said Seeker.
Beaumont took a moment, seemed to hesitate as he tried to recall the Irishman’s exact words, and then said, ‘“The last Englishman I took up here went looking for his sister there. Next I heard of him he was fished up like a flounder on the Spaanse Loskaai, dead as old Queen Bess.”’ Beaumont sat back and looked directly at Seeker. ‘Now what’s that all about, Captain? What do you know of this? Are Englishmen in Bruges being murdered by the nuns of the Engels Klooster?’
Seeker took a moment before answering. ‘I don’t know, Beaumont. But there’s something going on up there, and if Glenroe’s trying to warn you off, I’d say that means he’s up to his neck in it. He didn’t stop there himself when you were with him?’
‘No, went right on past it, to the Schuttersgilde at the top of the street, but he did make a point of speaking to a couple of nuns we encountered back out in the town later in the day.’
‘Oh, did he now?’ said Seeker. ‘Well, we’ll get to that later. Tell me first what happened at the Schuttersgilde. I’ve never been in the place.’
‘I didn’t get to go up the watchtower, more’s the pity. I’d say you could shoot at anything from there, see into practically anywhere from there to Sint-Gillis to the south and all around the polder to the north. Probably see right into the grounds of the Engels Klooster too.’
‘Like I say, I’ve never been in it,’ said Seeker. ‘They don’t let the likes of me in. Charles Stuart and his younger brother idled away a good part of their time in Bruges there. I think he liked the deference. The pretence that he was King of something.’
‘I expect it’s like that for him in most places around these parts.’
‘Do you?’ Seeker was unable to keep a hint of derision out of his voice. ‘I can easily see you haven’t been on the continent long. A pauper’s a pauper, and if Charles Stuart is anything in the Spanish dominions, or anywhere else for that matter, it’s a pauper. Anyway, what happened once you were in there?’
‘Oh, Glenroe took some time over the selection of our weapons. He took a longbow and handed me a crossbow. It was an exquisitely crafted weapon. The tiller was inlaid with beautiful ivory plaques sporting the crests of the city and of the Schuttersgilde itself. The balance was perfect, as if it had been made expressly for my arm.’
‘If you could get to the point . . .’
Beaumont smiled and shook his head a little, as if storing the memory away. ‘Well, once we were set with our weapons, Glenroe took me outside. The heat of the day had started to abate slightly, and there seemed to be a good few prosperous-looking burghers and a collection of straggling Spanish and English officers out on the lawns or at the ranges. Glenroe had a word for everyone we passed, and a word about them after they were out of earshot. A litany of every vice and failing you might expect to find in the moral quagmire the Stuarts and their kind inhabit. I did my best to laugh, as at a farce, although in truth my stomach churned, but I believe he was testing me.’
‘Who was there?’ asked Seeker.
Beaumont named a few Royalists whose history was well-enough known to Seeker. ‘He was putting you on show, testing whether anyone recognised you.’
Beaumont nodded slowly. ‘I only had one close shave. A Scottish officer of Newburgh’s regiment – the one I’d told Glenroe I fought in at the Dunes. Fortunately, the fellow was more concerned with getting money he said Glenroe owed than with looking too closely at me. All he had to say to me was that I shouldn’t trust the Irishman an inch.’
‘And do you think that Irishman had come to trust you by the end of your afternoon together?’
Beaumont took a moment before replying. ‘I’m not convinced of it. But at least his parading of me amongst the other exiles up there will make it easier for me to go back to the Schuttersgilde myself, should that become expedient.’
Seeker looked at the officer sitting opposite him. He had no doubts – had heard it given as fact – that George Beaumont was fearless and tireless, ruthless even, on the battlefield, but he was not cert
ain he wanted him becoming too deeply involved in the role of agent. ‘Best, I think,’ he said at last, ‘that while you’re in Bruges, you let me decide what’s expedient. Speaking of which, you’d better tell me now about those nuns.’
‘Well, after we left the Schuttersgilde, Glenroe appeared to have little in mind than to have me trail around Bruges in his wake, giving the impression that he had a retainer, and to keep me away from the others in the Bouchoute House. Whenever we met one of his acquaintances, he’d don his genial, roguish persona then drop it like an old cloak whenever the acquaintance was out of sight. I’ve seen it before – men who’ve been fighting so long they can scarcely remember the life they started out fighting for. I think he’s questioning what he’s doing here, what the struggle is about. I think he’s losing his grip on things. Particularly after our encounter with the nuns, he was uncommunicative and morose, and I was able to get very little of use out of him.’
‘The nuns,’ repeated Seeker. ‘Tell me what happened with the nuns.’
‘We were coming up Spanjaardstraat when Glenroe spotted them outside the Poortersloge; a short, fat sort of a woman, with a younger companion. Sister Janet he called the older one. He seemed particularly wary of her.’
‘Aye, well, he’s not wrong to be wary of that one.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know for certain, but she’s up to something she doesn’t want anyone to know about. I’ve had my eye on her a while.’
George nodded. ‘There was something in the way they talked with one another, sparred with one another, that was false, as if they were really talking about something else. I don’t know if it’s to do with the girl perhaps, whose brother went to the convent looking for her.’
Seeker was surprised. ‘I should think any tension between Glenroe and Sister Janet would be more likely to do with your mother being shot whilst under his protection, on the way from Sister Janet’s convent to Damme, don’t you? Anyway,’ he continued, ‘what do you know about that – the fellow going to the convent looking for his sister? Where did you hear about it?’
Beaumont looked slightly taken aback, as if unused to having to explain himself. ‘It was just what Glenroe said today. The brother’s name was Bartlett Jones.’
‘Aye, well, I hope he gave Sister Janet pause for thought.’
‘You hold her responsible for the boy’s death?’
‘I think she had her part to play in it, whether she meant to or not. Like I said, Glenroe’s right to be wary of her.’
‘You don’t trust her?’
‘About as much as I’d trust a starving dog with a mutton chop. Two people, your mother and Bartlett Jones – both English, mind – went to that convent for help of some sort in the last week, and they were dead within twenty-four hours of each other. I don’t know much about the boy, but the old termagant had no love for your mother, for all they hadn’t seen each other in fifty years. You’ll need to go carefully though – I wouldn’t put it past her to notice your likeness. She didn’t appear to recognise you?’
‘A glance, that’s all. I’m not sure about the other one though.’
Seeker hadn’t considered the other nun might be of relevance. ‘What about her?’
‘I caught her looking at me once or twice, for all she made a show of keeping her eyes lowered. I’m pretty sure she was paying close attention to what was being said between Glenroe and Janet too.’
‘Describe her,’ said Seeker. He listened a while, and didn’t much like what he heard. ‘I’m in and out of that place a lot, and I haven’t come across one that fits that description. Your mother had a maid about that age and height with her though, who disappeared during the ambush.’
Beaumont was interested. ‘You think it’s her?’
‘I think there’s a good chance it might be.’
Twelve
Encounter
Anne Winter couldn’t help but marvel at the effect: her nun’s habit, the wimple and veil, were like a shroud masking her from curious eyes. The townspeople she’d passed on the streets saw what she was and didn’t waste any time wondering who she was. ‘Nobody ever asks you,’ Sister Janet had told her, ‘who you have been. They make up their own stories for what brought you here.’
And yet, the events of the afternoon had reminded Anne that even in a nun’s habit she was not entirely invisible. They had set out from the convent together on Sister Janet’s ‘errands’ about town. As they meandered through the streets to the Markt, Janet pronounced on the various churches and religious houses they passed along the way. The churches were categorised as too large, too small, too ostentatious or too plain. All were decreed to be too cold. Neither was there a religious foundation, other than her own, that met with Sister Janet’s approval. This one was too lax, that too strict, the brothers of that order were drunks while those of another were frequenters of brothels. As Anne absorbed the information with mounting amazement, it was clear to her that the old woman was thoroughly enjoying herself.
As they passed the Poortersloge Anne saw two men coming towards them from Sint-Jansplein. The taller, slimmer man with the pale complexion reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t place him. She tried to think if she had seen him around the Bouchoute House, for he was evidently connected there. He caught her looking at him and she turned away too late, inwardly chastising herself for being so careless. It was his companion she should be paying most attention to, for it was the Irishman who, along with Thomas Faithly, had formed Lady Hildred’s escort from Bruges to Damme. She had taken great care that neither he nor Sir Thomas saw her face properly, but still she felt a tingling of apprehension at the sight of him. She bent her head down, quickened her pace slightly, and hoped Sister Janet would be willing just to pass on by. Her hope was in vain.
‘Well, you Irish rogue,’ said the old nun, ‘much good as an escort you were. I’d have been better to take Hildred Beaumont to Damme myself, on the back of my old donkey, than entrust her safety to you.’
‘Ah, but there’s wickedness outside the walls of your convent that you could hardly begin to imagine, Sister.’
‘Oh, could I not?’ she said. ‘And what are you doing about apprehending the culprit in this heinous business?’
‘Ellis and Dunt have begun to search property between here and Damme, in the hope of coming across someone who gave the fellow shelter or sustenance or saw him ride by.’
‘A terrifying duo to confront any malefactor, I am sure,’ said Sister Janet. ‘Surely Thomas Faithly would be the better choice for that – he did see the assassin, after all, did he not?’
‘Not exactly, Sister. Not enough that he’d recognise the fellow again. He did get a decent look at the horse though. He’s going round every livery and stable in Bruges to try to find it.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ said Sister Janet.
‘That’s Thomas’s view at any rate. Find the horse and you’ll find the man.’
‘Well, it’s not the most stupid idea I’ve ever heard,’ said Sister Janet. ‘So much for Sir Thomas, Marchmont Ellis and the idiot Daunt. What about you, Glenroe?’
‘Me, Sister?’ Glenroe feigned surprise. ‘I am the thinker amongst us. Now, I know that Ellis is given out to be a great scholar, and he would obviously be a boon to any counting house, or the ornament of some dusty high table in a college no one has ever heard of, but he lacks the necessary cunning for this type of business.’
‘Well, we can rest assured that you do, I’d warrant.’
‘Oh, yes, Sister, you may absolutely rest assured on that front.’
Lady Anne was not sure if she was observing some performance, a good-natured sparring between adversaries of old, or an elaborate game of strategy between two practised foes bent on outwitting each other. Whichever was the case, the man accompanying the Irish Cavalier was observing the exchange just as closely as she was.
‘Ah,’ said Sir Evan, ‘now that is the question. I would not like to speculate as to who he might be, but he claims to be George Barton, gentleman. He has fetched up in Bruges, I daresay, because we all do eventually.’
The man called George Barton appeared to take the Irishman’s barbed comments in good spirit.
Sister Janet wrinkled her face. ‘Barton? Never heard of them. New gentry, no doubt.’
Glenroe leaned in to whisper very audibly in the new Englishman’s ear, ‘Sister Janet here is of an age when a lineage of less than five hundred years consigns a man to the yeomanry, at best. Fortunately,’ he said, ‘that cannot be applied to the True Irish.’
‘Perhaps not, but there is much that can. I would warn you, young man,’ the old nun said, giving her attention once more to George Barton, ‘this fellow will cheat you at cards, drink you senseless, and inveigle you into the company of wicked women.’
Glenroe laughed. ‘Ah, you need have no fears there, Sister, I’ve already warned him away from your convent.’
Anne was not sure she believed her ears. The old woman’s cheeks went a dangerous shade of crimson. ‘Evan Glenroe, you go too far!’
Glenroe’s face now became more serious. ‘A little humour, Sister, that’s all. But these are dangerous days in Bruges. What with the business of Lady Hildred, and then that young chap looking for his sister, Bartlett Jones, he said his name was, that I showed up to your convent turning up dead the very next day. You couldn’t be careful enough who you let within your gates, or who you talk to.’
Anne had the impression that Glenroe was giving Sister Janet more than just friendly advice to be careful about newcomers to the city. This impression only grew stronger as Glenroe, who had removed his hat on greeting them, now put it back on. ‘I’ll bid you good day, Sisters. But remember: take especial care to lock all your doors and be wary of strangers.’ The man Barton gave the women an awkward smile as he also tipped his hat to them before following Glenroe away up the street.