The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “You saw Cuthbert?” She frowned. “About the attic? About the bodies?”

  “No,” he replied. “About you.”

  Jemima swallowed back rising anger. “But I hate the man. He’s loathsome and vile and he hates me too. What right had you to talk to him about me? Surely you don’t consider me a suspect in those murders?”

  His smile widened. “But a victim, possibly. I am in contact with your cousin’s lawyer. There are discrepancies. Not every detail of your father’s testament and your cousin’s claim is entirely accurate, it would seem.” Her mouth remained open. He leaned forward suddenly, reaching over the wine jug and cups which sat between them, and with one long cool finger firm beneath her chin, lifted it until her mouth snapped shut. “Such astonishment is unnecessary, mistress,” he continued. “Indeed, I believe you less innocent, less gullible, and far less simple than you have been taught to display. You understand perfectly well everything I tell you, and yet you keep your questions to the meek and mild. Did you know your cousin was a charlatan?”

  “Yes. No.” Although he now sat back, regarding her without expression as usual, she still tingled from the touch of his finger against her, and her own surprise at his action. She gulped, and said, “You mean I might be the rightful owner of Papa’s house after all.”

  “You might. There is no entail. But I have not yet proved it.”

  She fumbled for her wine cup, and drank down what little wine remained there. “That would be – wonderful – amazing – and I would be – so grateful – so happy.” She reached for the wine jug, poured its rich red juice into her empty cup, and drank that too. Richard was watching her calmly. She wished he would say something, but when he stayed silent she hurried on herself. “I can’t find words – gratitude – and my whole life would be saved.”

  “What diplomacy. What a shame,” he replied at once. “Your absurd diplomacy exceeds even that of The Spanish Chapuys. Say what you wish to say, madam.”

  Jemima blinked, stared, and said in a rush, “So you think I ought to say you’re rude and brusque and you poke at dead bodies and don’t care about the lives they lost or about my father’s life, nor how much I miss him. All you care about is whether he was a murderer, and talk about investigations when you really haven’t asked anything of my – the other women. You play with crime and misery just because you’re bored.”

  “How delightful.” His smile tilted the corners of his mouth wide and the lights in his eyes seemed as bright as the stars. “Now tell me the rest.”

  She lapsed with a hiccup. “I shouldn’t have said it and I didn’t mean it. Well, not really. And I think perhaps I should make a confession. I didn’t trust you. I said mean things. I lied to you about Peter.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “My half-brother?”

  She nodded vehemently. “About how I met him first. You see, it wasn’t all easy at the docks. There was a business partner of my father’s and he was being hanged. A pirate’s execution, down river beyond the Bridge, and three poor creatures strung up and the nooses swinging. I didn’t want to be there, but my father said poor Bernard needed company and comfort in his last hours. It seemed like hours too. Many hours. He was so pitiful. Just a little plump man with wide horrified eyes and his mouth all distorted and his tongue swollen and his eyes bleeding. He swung until the tide came in. The waters rose around his waist and he howled. He was nearly dead anyway, but I heard his choking and crying. The noose wasn’t tight enough to stifle every sound and he was in such pain. He didn’t just dangle. He kicked and fought and sobbed. But the Thames kept rising. The last thing I saw was his nose, dribbling and puffing frantically for air. The it filled with water and his eyes closed. The water went over his head and his hair floated a moment. I was sick. Terribly sick. Then I fainted. I was only a child. I’ve never forgotten it and that scene haunts my dreams.”

  Richard frowned. “It seems less than kind for your father to inflict that on his daughter.”

  “He wanted me acclimatised, you see. He told me afterwards. He thought one day he’d die the same way.”

  “And Peter?”

  “Peter was there too. He’d come to watch. I don’t know where his father was but Peter must have heard the cries and come to see what it was all about. I almost fainted on top of him and he caught me and was kind, even though he’s even younger than I am. His father came to look for him and met my father. So Peter and I became friends.”

  “How interesting.” Richard gazed at her, first in surprised silence. Then he said, “Perhaps Peter’s interests are not always so innocent as I had supposed.”

  “He was a small boy. Boys want adventure. That was all.”

  “Then it seems,” Richard continued, “that we have both surprised each other after all. What a shame that Socrates has missed such an unorthodox conversation.”

  Jemima sniffed back a giggle. “I’ll come back tomorrow night and tell him. You talk with my cousin about me. I shall discuss you with your owl.”

  And he laughed. She had never heard him laugh before and even his small secretive half-smiles had been rare. She stared at him. But he shook his head. “Perhaps you remind me of Socrates,” he said, still laughing. “I speak to you as if you sit wise and silent in my oak tree. And the fact that you are not silent is almost irrelevant.” His laughter turned so abruptly to frown, that Jemima hiccupped and stood. But he said only, “Do you object to being likened to an owl, mistress? He is a very handsome owl, after all. And it is generally presumed that their wisdom is as intense. But I promise not to call you Socrates. It might occasion suspicion. Nor do I expect you to fly through the night, or hunt for voles and rats.”

  She went to bed still giggling.

  Carefully folding Alba’s bedrobe, Jemima climbed into bed and cuddled down. She was startled to discover that Ysabel was not fully asleep.

  “Did he kiss you?” Ysabel demanded.

  Jemima sat up in shock. “He? Him? How did you know where I was? And no. Of course not. He wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t ever let him.”

  “Sad. Considering how you were brought up by your father’s six voluptuous whores, it seems you learned very little,’ Ysabel sighed, turning over, her back to Jemima.

  “True,” said Jemima, closing her eyes with a sigh. “Or perhaps I’m just not attractive enough.” Ysabel did not reply. She was asleep.

  Some considerable time stretched before Jemima slept. It was not her first sleepless night and would not, she thought dismally, be adding to her beauty if her cheeks were hollow and her eyes heavy lidded and discoloured.

  She wondered if Richard Wolfdon was sleeping easily, and whether he would be able to regain her home for her. But now she also wondered if she wanted it.

  Chapter Nine

  Many miles south, with the wind howling ashore from the open ocean and the smell of the brine hanging thick in the clouds, a wide shouldered man, coarsely dressed in dirty hession and old linen, stood gazing up as the gulls screeched and swooped. Two small sailing boats in the harbour rocked with the incoming tide, their masts creaking and the slop of the waves sluicing their decks.

  The man stood on the cliff edge, shouting to those hauling up the heavy packages from the pebbled cove below. “Move it, you buggers. We’ve only an hour left before dark, and I want the captives roped and hidden well before that.”

  “Bird shit and a gale fit to burst me guts,” complained one of those reluctantly obeying orders.

  Another called, “We’ll have the bastards under lock and key afore the moon’s up, Master Babbington. But them other sailors will be after us afore sunup, you’ll see.”

  “And t’weren’t Thripp’s ship what we plundered,” objected another an. “You gets angry with Thripp – all well and fair. But this is another bugger’s chattels and crew, what ain’t done us no harm nor knows who we is.”

  “They’ll know us soon enough,” the man Babbington said, grinning into the wind. “When we demands a good ransom for the return of the men, and mo
re for the return o’ their cargo.”

  “This bugger’s heavy. Reckon I’ll let him drop.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told.” Red Babbington turned. “I forget naught and forgive naught, and you remember it, pig-ears. And I’ll get my dues back from the bastard pirate Edward Thripp too, every bastard penny, I will.”

  “From the grave? From the bottom o’ the Narrow Sea?”

  Babbington glared. “From Thripp’s family. Has a daughter, if I remember right. Reckon I’ll find the girl, and have some fun with her. Get back what Thripp owes me, and get my revenge while I’m at it.”

  Edward Thripp’s daughter sat quietly at Wolfdon Palace, and listened half to the women around her, and half to her own sweetly meandering thoughts. Once again unattended by their unapologetic host, the eight women had draped themselves, swirling silks and lace trimmings, across the furniture in the smaller hall. Manners had faded with the contentment of feeling more at home, unwatched and uninhibited. There was little attempt to tuck ankles hidden beneath the velvet, or wrists hidden close beneath the falling sleeves. Corsets were left loose and breasts swelled pink from square necklines.

  Ysabel pushed an errant nipple back inside the scoop of breast spilling lace, and sighed. “Why I bother wearing my best clothes, I have no idea,” she complained, “since no one sees me and they pop out here and there like a weasel from a trap.”

  “We see you.”

  “You see too much of me. I might as well stay in my chemise and be done with finery.”

  Alba wore her own sweeping white bedrobe, falling improperly open at the ankles. “I wear what I wish. I do not burst from my clothes, being still young of body, and what I wear is both seductive and respectable. But you speak of Master Wolfdon. The wretched man is tired of us,” she yawned. “Yet he feeds us as though he wishes us stuffed like piglets for the Christmas table, bursting with mincemeats and nuts. Ready for the feast. I eat too much. I move too little.”

  “There’s all those stairs.”

  “If that’s not enough, go and dance in the rain.”

  “I told you he’s not worthy,” Jemima turned to Alba. She was, however, quite unaware of the vivid blush across both cheeks as she said, “He’s forgotten all about us.”

  “Then,” said Philippa, one eye to Jemima, “we shall solve these crimes ourselves.”

  “Master Wolfdon is more interested in visiting court and playing the courtier to the king and queen.”

  Katherine patted her hand. “Now, now, my dear. We’ve no way of knowing that.”

  Jemima carefully did not answer.

  Elisabeth was bright eyed. “The dreadful murders. Those poor young girls. Of course. And we will do a better job of it, since we know the house, the people, and the whole situation far better than can anyone else.”

  “Very well. But we must forget the dancing master,” Ruth decided. “He had too little opportunity. We gain nothing with too much suspicion of the innocent.”

  “And the French cook who insisted on calling himself a chef?”

  “Him too.”

  “So all the servants except perhaps the steward. No one else had the authority to go climbing into attics. Is he the murdering type, little dove?”

  Jemima grinned. There had been three stewards during her lifetime, and all had been staid, respectable and dour. She shook her head. “Definitely not.”

  “We’ve discussed the characters and opportunities of every single person we could think of,” Penelope sighed. “I have no idea why our host keeps us here. We must be costing him a fortune. And he has never made the slightest sign, not even a wink or a hint, that he wants me in his bed.”

  “Too old and haggard,” sniggered Philippa.

  “Him – or me?”

  “Obviously neither,” interrupted Jemima. “But now he’s interested in the vile Cuthbert. He seems to like investigating anything and everything. I might get my house back.”

  Every woman sat up straighter and gazed at her. “How is this? And how do you know?”

  “And we can all come and stay?” Alba looked up, delighted.

  “But I’d have no money to wine and feast you all,” Jemima sighed. “The bed would be freely offered, but little else.”

  “But what an excitement.”

  “Exciting? With no money? No food? No income? No clothes?”

  “So you speak to our extravagant Master Wolfdon without us present, my dearest? And he is still busy investigating? And so has not forgotten us after all?”

  “He talks to owls.”

  There was a small silence. “And the investigation into the murders?”

  “Nothing is positive yet. Not about the house or the crimes or us or anything else.” Jemima leaned back, pulling her old bedrobe around her. “But I suppose I have to confess, yes, I’ve seen him and talked to Richard. I’m a little ashamed of distrusting him so much. He’s – kind. He’s certainly interesting and he has odd ideas. Clever, Witty. But he’s horribly arrogant. I feel he sees right through me as if I was utterly transparent like glass.”

  “In that bedrobe, my love, - perhaps you are.”

  Ruth scowled. “One thing is clear. He’s rude and he ignores us all as if we’re fools and paupers.”

  “We are paupers.”

  “We’re not fools. But how would he know? He barely talks to the rest of us?”

  Philippa snorted. “He’s a hero. A saint. Not so friendly perhaps, but the high and mighty don’t have to be sweet to the likes of us. Tell us, Jemima, how is his investigation going?”

  She had no idea.

  “And does he try to seduce you?”

  “Of course he doesn’t.”

  “Well – he’s the fool.”

  It was early on a November morning, and the trees flounced in their first scarlet capes, with a smattering of raindrops on pale gold. Autumn’s emerging colours had taken courage. Across the great square of trampled earth and muddy grass borders, the market spread. Noise swept through like a wind. Chatter and rumour, the shouting of wares for sale and the buss of bargaining. Dogs barked, geese hissed, their keepers controlled them with a stick and a call, while the cheerful comparing and gossiping rose and fell like a sheet drying in the breeze.

  The market at the corner of Bishopsgate and Cornhill stretched just south of Crosby Place, the soaring wooden framed house once occupied by King Richard, the king who had lost his life to the rise of the Tudor dynasty. It was Sir Thomas More who had taken Crosby Place to himself, but now he had also lost his life.

  Richard Wolfdon strode past the bustle and colour, heading east. But it was a face he recognised in the crowd which slowed his pace and changed his direction.

  He grabbed Peter Hutton by the shoulder, turning him, smiling at his half-brother. “Buying flowers for a new mistress, little brother? Having a tooth pulled? Cabbages and turnips to summon your horse, or a whistle to summon your father?”

  The boy grinned. “There’s an impromptu dog fight over by the Aldgate entrance. They say it’s vicious. I’ve a bet on the big brindle. I’m off to watch the slaughter.”

  “I’ve an appointment to keep myself,” Richard nodded. “But mine can wait a few minutes and so can your bloody gutters. I need to talk to you, and I’ve questions.”

  “Oh, gracious, Dickon,” Peter complained. “Questions? Come on then, and buy me a beer.”

  They sat on the stools set outside the beer tent, ale served from the butt. The awning fluttered its red stripes as the clouds turned dark. The glowering threat of rain lingered, though a bitterly sharp wind blew the high clouds eastwards. Someone nearby was drunk and starting a brawl. The noise swelled. The thump of fist to nose and then the louder thump of something falling against the tent’s uprights vibrated until the awning flew and the ale rippled in their flagons. The selder marched outside and kicked the drunk from his tent while the crowd clapped, laughing and jeering.

  Richard entirely ignored the interruption. “Mistress Jemima Thripp. You know her.”
Richard leaned back and stretched his legs. “And you know she’s a guest at the hall. You also know why.”

  “You want to know about her, or about this crime that fascinates you so? Don’t tell me you’ve actually taken a liking to a female for once?” Peter sniggered. “Or is it the little shrivelled corpses you’ve taken a liking too.”

  “You’re so predictable, Peter.” Richard sighed. “I take no liking to anyone. Humanity is unutterably tedious. But mystery, possibilities, the delving of the imagination into the desires of others, that interests me. Who murders and hides his deeds over his own head?”

  “Probably old man Thripp. He was a violent fighter, you know.”

  “I don’t expect nor need you to answer the puzzles of the crime,” Richard interrupted. “You’d have neither the skill nor the time. It’s the girl I want answers on. Tell me about Mistress Jemima.”

  The cries of the venders echoed loud as the bustling feet faded and the rain began. “The dog fight will be done with. Let me collect my winnings and get off to a tavern somewhere in the dry.” Peter drained his cup and stood. “Hurry up, or we’ll be soaked.”

  There were no winnings to collect for the pale mastiff had killed the brindle. Peter slouched after Richard, his hand flat to his velvet cap, braced against the increasing wind. The tavern was already crowded and smelled of sweat and exhaustion.

  Stronger beer and a small table to rest their elbows. Richard said, “Now. She appears to have been your friend for some years. Why? What attracts a young man who takes little interest in anything but bloodshed, brutality, the scandals of a scandalous court, and the wealth his father amasses?”