He had decided to speak openly in front of no one but Martin and had hoped to share his thoughts on the murder weapon, on the possibilities opened by Martin’s references to King Henry’s butchered queens. He pictured the parade of headless figures as he clambered up the stairs. Before he reached the first floor, he had left them behind. Instead he began cursing the palace’s towers. The way the staircases in each of the wound in circles was disorientating. When one finally emerged at any floor, it took time to work out the direction. The whole place was a big, golden puzzle.
The door to the first floor opened onto a short corridor, the doors to the great hall on the right and the kitchen on the left. The great hall doors were closed, but the latter stood open, the smell of fish strong, a sourer tang undercutting it. Stepping in was like stepping into an inferno, choking heat gusting outwards as though trying to escape.
The kitchen was surprisingly small, a rectangular room dominated by a thick, weather-beaten table. It looked, to Danforth, almost like carved waves, the wood warped and cracking. Leaning on it on his elbow was a tall, stout bald man. ‘Master cook,’ he asked. Already beads of sweat were bursting on his forehead, his armpits beginning to feel damp and warm.
‘Aye?’
‘I am Mr Danforth, secretary to the lord cardinal.’
‘Oh aye? The cardinal’s no’ free is he? Is he here?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that. I have some questions.’
‘We can give you something to eat, but you’re better taking dinner with the rest at the right time or it’s just bread and cheese.’
‘Bread and cheese would be welcome.’ The thought of another dinner was anathema. Martin’s injury was a good reason for them to eat in their rooms, avoiding pointless chatter and the mockery of fools. ‘But that is not why I come.’
‘Oh? Well, come in then, out of the cold. Leave the door.’ The cook stepped from round behind the desk. His white clothes were clean. Danforth had expected powdery arms, splashes of sauce. Perhaps the job of a master cook was more instructive than participatory. As he moved towards Danforth, the cook stepped around something. Danforth moved to see what it was and was surprised to see two boys lying on the floor on their stomachs, stripped to the waist. Propped on their elbows, they were rolling dice between one another. Beside them the huge fireplace blazed. ‘Mind yourselves, you lazy whelps,’ snapped the cook. ‘You’re supposed to be practising your lines for the dowager. Do you wish to make bloody fools of yerselves? Sorry, sir. My boys haven’t enough to do during Lent. No spit, no meats.’ He wiped his hands on his shirt front and held one out to Danforth. ‘I’m Marshall. What’s the matter?’
‘You know of my colleague’s death?’
‘That Fraser fella? Aye. Servants’ gossip,’ he shrugged. ‘A bad business.’
‘It was that.’
‘But what’s it to do with me?’
‘I seek a weapon. Something that might be used to cleave.’
‘We’ve no weapons here. You want the armoury. Downstairs. In the guardhouse.’
‘I think not.’ Danforth opened his robe, loosening his collar. It was difficult to breathe. How anyone could work in the tiny smokehouse was a mystery in itself. ‘Have you any blades in the kitchen, any stout blades.’ He mimed the swing of an axe. ‘For cutting meat.’
‘Aye. Look here.’ The cook stepped back over the lounging spit-boys, Danforth following him. Against the far wall, a huge wooden cabinet sat against the yellowed plaster. In one gesture, Marshall threw it open. Inside, on a series of hooks, were blades and cleavers of all sizes. ‘Plenty. All accounted for.’ The cabinet was arranged so that the tools each fit neatly, the smallest at the bottom and the biggest at the top. On either side of the resultant triangle were smaller knives and ladles.
‘And none has been taken? None was unaccounted for on the night of Mr Fraser’s death?’
‘None. All there. Although …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, the day he was found – the day everyone was talking of it. I thought this yin was a wee thing clatty. Probably nothing. One of the domestics probably hadn’t cleaned it right, ye ken? Shiftless lot, with most of the court no’ here.’
Danforth sensed some frenzied whispering at his heels, the voices pitched just below the crackling grumble of the fire. He trained his ears to it. ‘Naw, shhh’; ‘he’ll fun’ oot’; ‘haud yer clack, ‘sake.’ He wheeled, as much as the small space would allow.
‘Your spit-boys,’ said Danforth, ‘have something for us, I think. What are you saying? Tell me or I shall instruct Mr Marshall here to have it from you by surer means.’
‘I’ll no’ lay a hand on my boys,’ said Marshall. ‘But tell me, lads. What is it?’
The two boys got to their feet, nudging one another and hissing oaths under their breaths. Their ribs showed, but their upper arms and chests were grotesquely muscular. One had a sallow brown tan down the left side of his face and body; the other, paler, was burnt red and flaking down his right.
‘Cease muttering,’ snapped Danforth. They stopped speaking but continued to fidget. ‘What do you know of this blade?’
‘Ghost took it!’ spat the reddened boy. His fellow elbowed him in the ribs and he turned. ‘Go tae the devil!’
‘Clype,’ spat the tawny boy. ‘I’m tellin’ everyone you’re a clype.’
‘Enough,’ said Marshall. ‘What is this nonsense?’
‘Go on,’ urged Danforth. ‘What is this about a ghost?’
Sighing theatrically, the first boy spoke again. ‘The other night. Ghost went intae the cupboard. Took it and then put it back.’
‘Which night?’ asked Danforth. As he spoke, his stomach audibly revolted at the thought of the bloodied cleaver being used to prepare food. Thank God, he thought, for Lent. ‘Describe this ghost.’
‘It was St Andrew his’ sel’. Frae the stories. All in blue, hidin’ his face. At night. We were scared stiff. We couldnae stop him.’
‘When? When was this?’
‘The night before the old man died.’
‘Mr Fraser? You mean the night before he was discovered.’
The boy shrugged. His friend had lapsed into sullen silence, arms crossed against his strong chest and eyes downcast.
‘Why,’ barked Marshall, ‘did you not tell me of this?’
‘We were gonnae, we were gonnae! But he brought it back. So we thought it was a’right.’
‘I have told you and told you, you whelps tell me of everything that goes on in this kitchen.’ He turned to Danforth. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I let the lads sleep on the floor in here at night rather than in the old nether kitchen wi’ the rest. For the heat. Only when it’s cold.’
‘And where do you sleep, sir?’
‘In my pantry.’ Marshall gestured to a tiny doorway that led into the wall by the fire. ‘It’s warm in behind the fireplace, but not too warm, you know? But I never saw any ghost. A lot of nonsense. They’ve been listening to daft stories from the servants’ weans.’
‘Describe this spirit to me,’ said Danforth, his gaze still on the boys. He focused as much consternation into his voice as he could manage. Children, he supposed, would respond only to discipline. Mr Marshall was a soft master.
‘He was all in blue, like I said, sir. Like St Andrew in the stories.’
‘He floated,’ offered the angrier boy. His expression had muted, softening to awe. ‘He had no feet.’
‘I saw feet,’ said the first.
‘Naw ye didnae. He floated.’
‘He had hooves,’ answered the red-boy, not to be outdone. ‘And claws for hands.’ He folded his own fingers. ‘And his eyes were bright red, sir, they glowed. I saw them frae underneath the hood.’
‘Enough of this,’ said Danforth. ‘You little fools have had your minds turned to fancy. I think you saw only a man in blue. Nothing more.’
‘It’s their age, sir,’ said Marshall. ‘And this not havin’ enough to do. It breeds strange fancies in the mind.’
‘But we saw him,’ said the half-sallow boy, seemingly now fully committed. He took the blade and made it disappear, just like that.’ He snapped a finger. ‘Over there.’ His finger pointed over the table, at the far wall. ‘We were both scared, and wondering whether Tom–’
‘Mr Marshall,’ said the cook, looking at Danforth.
‘Mr Marshall, sorry. Whether he’d have words in the mornin’ when he saw it was away.’
‘But then it came back. The creature came back with it, put it away, so we thought it was all just some trick.’
Danforth turned his back on the boys and wound his way around the cook, past the cabinet, to where the boy had said the blade disappeared. On the wall was a wooden hatch, the black paint on its iron handle worn away in places. ‘What is this, Mr Marshall?’ But before he could answer, Danforth realised. From around the edges, a foul smell felt its way into the kitchen. ‘A refuse hatch,’ he said under his breath.
‘Don’t open that, sir,’ said Marshall. ‘Please. It’s a double hatch, but the smell still gets through.’
Danforth ignored the cook, who had appeared at his shoulder. Instead he quickly calculatedly where he was facing: the west of the building. On the day he had visited the place were Fraser’s body was found, he had passed the great, stinking rubbish pile. Our man, he thought, likes to cast objects through ports.
He turned on his heel. ‘Thank you, Mr Marshall. This has been instructive. I recommend you take greater care of these boys. More discipline. Skelp them if need be. Perhaps they can find needful employment in carrying light dinners down to my chamber, for my injured colleague and myself. And,’ he added, ‘pray see that is carefully prepared. You lads, let no one else touch anything that reaches our lips.’
‘Aye,’ said Marshall, frowning. ‘Aye, mebbe they can do just that. Here, I’ll fetch you some food.’
***
Fifteen minutes later, Danforth and Martin were standing at the edge of the rubbish pile, armed with long sticks. They took turns watching the woods a short distance away, and the windows of the palace, alert to the glimmer of metal that might indicate a gun trained on them.
Martin prodded gingerly using his good arm. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I can’t even bury my nose in my elbow. What are we even looking for?’
‘It will do your body good to be in action,’ said Danforth. ‘It shall help it heal the quicker.’ Despite the cold, the pool of sludge seemed to cast up a hot, clinging stink. It had corrupted the ground. The gardeners had not even attempted to grow bushes here.
‘But you said the blade was back in its place,’ protested Martin. ‘Here, look!’
‘What? You have something?’
‘No, look at this gallus fellow. Get away from me!’
Martin brandished his stick like it was a rapier, attempting to dislodge an enormous seagull that had landed on the rubbish pile and was inching ever closer. It stopped, flapped its wings without rising, and then squawked. ‘Away with you!’ shrieked Martin. The gull cocked its head and then flew a few feet away, sending some magpies crying into the air. ‘There’s nothing here but birds and shit,’ said Martin, wrinkling his nose and throwing away his stick. ‘I wasn’t made to wade through shit looking for the Holy Grail. There’s nothing here, Simon.’
‘No,’ said Danforth. He looked at his own stick and then tossed it. ‘No. In truth, I wanted to see where the hatch let out.’
‘You could see that from above. Without touching it.’
‘Perhaps. I wanted to see how one might recover something.’
‘Very easily, if it had just been thrown. Not many days later when a week of filth has rained on it.’
‘Hmm. Yet I think I see how this was done, if not why.’
‘Go on.’
‘It might be this way,’ said Danforth, stepping away from the filth. Martin skipped after him. The birds who had been chased off began to regroup. ‘Mr Fraser, we know was drugged. He was lured outside or went. Probably he was lured. Our killer, not content with drugging him, but keen to make a spectacle of his death, donned a disguise to frighten the spit-boys. At night. When he knew they were alone. That tells us that he is someone who knows the order of this place – who sleeps where.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Martin. ‘Perhaps he reasoned his disguise would frighten off anyone. Or if he knew who slept where, he might’ve learned it from one who knows.’
‘Well, whatever,’ said Danforth, shrugging in irritation. ‘He took a blade from the cabinet upstairs, threw it out the little window, and retrieved it later. Then he cut apart Mr Fraser and put the blade back. It would be safer to do so later, safer to carry it on his person when his gory deed was done. When the household would assuredly be in bed.’
‘But that blade didn’t shoot me,’ said Martin, raising his arm in its sling.
‘No. No, that was a crossbow.’ He chanced another look around. It was clear. ‘Arnaud, I think I saw a crossbow on the floor of Forrest’s chamber earlier.’
‘You sure?’ Martin’s eyes widened.
‘Pretty sure. Though I could not swear to it. What do you make of him?’
‘I dunno,’ said Martin, looking downhill towards the loch. ‘Does the dowager trust him?’
‘I think so. Most assuredly.’
‘He might have one in there for any reason. He is depute of the guard.’
‘And a blasted heretic, I fancy. I heard him speak against the pope, under his breath. And tell me, have you ever heard of a Knox? A John Knox? Calls himself a priest and a schoolmaster.’
‘I don’t think so. Knox … I think there are Knoxes serve the Hepburn Earl of Bothwell.’ He shrugged, wincing. ‘I think. Should I have? Who is he?’
‘I do not know, as yet. Only I spied a man coming out of the stable with Gibb and Forrest. He took Forrest by the hand. I did not like the look they shared. It had the look of secrecy. And the fellow’s eyes. They were … dark.’
‘It’s no crime to have dark eyes.’
‘I am not saying it is,’ said Danforth tartly. ‘Only I did not like the look of the thing. Gibb told me the man was a priest, but I cannot be sure of it until we speak to the cardinal.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Perhaps he is. Perhaps he isn’t. But their secret counsel looked to me like the meetings the hot reformers used to have in London. In taverns, in hidden rooms, in stables and other such filthy places. They kept their heresies hidden. But still they would meet, hopeful of sharing their madness, opening their minds to one another. My … my father always said that the true Church was too big to fail. We none of us foresaw a king who was bigger still, who would lend an ear to the cringing madmen in their privy places.’
‘Well … with this parliament giving them hope that Arran might push reform,’ said Martin, kicking at the ground, ‘perhaps that is what was happening. Who’s to say? Perhaps they’re just friends. Maybe their interest was in horses.’
‘And perhaps not. You know, we have been looking at all this madness as though it was done under the cloak of politics. But what if it was of a religious nature.’
‘I …’ began Martin, looking doubtful. ‘I suppose … I mean, the hidden reforming men would gain from the baby queen’s death, I guess. Kill a Catholic heir, give support to a reformist governor – make him the new king. But … I mean, who in their right mind would put their faith in Arran? Everyone knows that having his loyalty and friendship is like having an eel by the tail.’
‘Pfft,’ snorted Danforth. ‘The heretics have no faith, and their minds are never right.’
‘Should we suggest this to the dowager? About Forrest and that?’
Danforth took a deep breath, blew it out. It swirled in the cold air. ‘No. Not yet. Not if she might stick fast by Forrest. We must stick to what we find for sure, not what we might suspect. I have told you before about dead alleys.’ Danforth was determined not to let religious conviction cloud his judgement. That was the kind of thing a zealot might do, a
blind fool like Guthrie. ‘Still, I do not like it. Secret meetings with strangers in stables. Does her Grace know about those, I wonder? Does she know about his whispered curses against the true faith?’
‘If he’s a heretic, I’m sure she does. Perhaps she doesn’t much care, if he’s loyal. Perhaps she’s tolerant.’
‘Bah,’ said Danforth. ‘Womanish frailty, tolerance.’ He jabbed a finger savagely at the pool of waste. ‘That is where I should put heretics. That is the stinking pile that should house these reforming men. Why, if I had one finger tainted by heresy I’d cut off my own hand. I’d sooner tolerate a fox troubling my chickens.’
‘You keep chickens? Perhaps you and old Guthrie should start a feu-farm to raise them. You’re sounding like him.’
‘No, of course not. Do not try and jest.’ Danforth did not care at all for the comparison. Unlike Guthrie, he fancied, his stance on religion was firm, but low-key. Respectable. He did not flaunt his medals like a goodwife on a Sunday. ‘Yet I think I might draw out his opinions.’
‘Whose, Guthrie’s? I’ve had a gutful of those.’
‘Forrest’s, you young fool. I shall draw them out. By subtle acts, Arnaud,’ said Danforth, a slight smile touching his lips. ‘I fancy I am developing a talent for them.’
‘Well, let me know if you do. I don’t like it though, bringing Forrest into this. He’s in charge of all our safety in there.’
‘He may be wholly innocent. In which case, the real murderer would save his honour.’
‘Or real murderers,’ said Martin. ‘What if there is more than one person in this thing?’
‘No,’ said Danforth, shaking his head. ‘No, we must not chase notions. We have found the weapon – one of them, at any rate. One hand held it. Find whose hand it was and the rest will become clear.’ He brushed aside Martin’s suggestion. He needed the weapon to be significant. His mind fixed on it like a starving dog on a haunch. It was something – a hard, physical something. It was proof that the killer had breathed amongst them, was amongst them still, tangible and catchable. It was proof that he wasn’t useless, that he might prove the value of his mind to the dowager.
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