Uneasy Lies the Crown

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Myriad thanks to …

  Charles Spicer, a top-notch editor with a talent for making every book he touches better.

  My spectacular team at Minotaur: Andy Martin, Paul Hochman, Sarah Melnyk, April Osborn, Danielle Prielipp, and David Rostein.

  Anne Hawkins, Tom Robinson, and Annie Kronenberg: best secret weapons ever.

  Anne Easter Smith, an uber-talented writer who was generous enough to share her title with me. When her Uneasy Lies the Crown comes out, you won’t want to miss it!

  Friends I could not do without: Brett Battles, Rob Browne, Bill Cameron, Christina Chen, Jon Clinch, Jamie Freveletti, Chris Gortner, Jane Grant, Nick Hawkins, Robert Hicks, Elizabeth Letts, Carrie Medders, Missy Rightley, Renee Rosen, and Lauren Willig.

  Xander, Katie, and Jess.

  My parents, stalwart supporters of all my creative schemes.

  Andrew: everything, always.

  For my son, Alexander, full of grace and fair regard

  No matter where—of comfort no man speak:

  Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;

  Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes

  Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth;

  Let’s choose executors and talk of wills.

  And yet not so—for what can we bequeath

  Save our deposed bodies to the ground?

  Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke’s,

  And nothing can we call our own but death;

  And that small model of the barren earth

  Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.

  For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground

  And tell sad stories of the death of kings:

  How some have been depos’d, some slain in war,

  Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d,

  Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill’d;

  All murder’d: for within the hollow crown

  That rounds the mortal temples of a king

  Keeps Death his court, and there the antick sits,

  Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp;

  Allowing him a breath, a little scene,

  To monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with looks,

  Infusing him with self and vain conceit

  As if this flesh which walls about our life

  Were brass impregnable; and humour’d thus

  Comes at the last, and with a little pin

  Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

  —RICHARD II, ACT 3, SCENE 2, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  17 January 1901

  Osborne House, Isle of Wight

  The stench of death already clung to the salmon pink walls of Queen Victoria’s bedroom; it assaulted Colin Hargreaves the moment the footman opened the massive oak doors. Not death, he corrected himself, but dying, when musty decay had not quite given way to the cloying foul rot soon to come. He hesitated for a moment, not because of shock at seeing how small Her Majesty looked, as if a child had been placed in a formidable marriage bed, but because the odor sent him reeling as he remembered the first time he had smelled it, on a snowy afternoon at Anglemore Park. He was home for Christmas during his first year at Eton and had found his grandfather in the library. The old man, sitting in his favorite high-backed leather chair, read aloud from Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur until Nanny came to fetch him for supper. Colin had noticed the odd scent, but didn’t think anything of it until the next morning, when his father delivered the news that Grandfather had died overnight. He smelled it again when he was summoned home from Cambridge to his father’s sickbed. Then, too, for just an instant, he had felt like a schoolboy stunned by his first loss.

  He shook off the feeling and approached the queen. Her enormous bed faced windows with a sweeping view of the countryside, a stark contrast to the paintings on the walls, nearly all of which depicted religious subjects. She was sitting, propped up by pillows, beneath a favorite portrait of her long-dead husband and a memorial wreath. Her eyes, dull, stared ahead, and he wondered if she knew he had entered the room.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice low as he bowed. “You asked to see me.”

  She managed a half smile and nodded. “There are things I would like to settle, but I fear I shall not be given enough time to accomplish them all.” She coughed, cleared her throat, and motioned for him to give her the glass of water sitting on her bedside table. He held it to her lips as she drank, swallowing with difficulty. “One never knows, does one, what shall happen in the end? My dear Albert…”

  Sir James Reid, her physician, standing on the other side of the canopied bed, met Colin’s eyes and shook his head, exhaustion and worry writ on his face.

  “How can I assist, ma’am?” Colin asked.

  “So much, so much to be done,” she said. “And the dogs … I do not see them. Are they here?”

  “No, ma’am, they are not,” Sir James said. “Shall I have them brought to you?”

  “Why are you here?” Her voice, though weak, grated with a tone of scathing disapproval. “We are not in need of your services. I must speak to Mr. Hargreaves privately. Disperse.” Sir James shot Colin a pointed look and left the room. When she heard the doors close, the queen pushed herself up on the mountain of pillows. “It is too much to be borne. The loss of Lady Churchill…” Her voice faded and she stared out the windows. A lady of the bedchamber for nearly fifty years, Lady Jane had long been one of the queen’s closest confidantes. Keenly aware that learning of her death, on Christmas Day less than a month ago, would come as a tragic blow to the already ailing monarch, Sir James had done his best to deliver the news gradually, trying to shield Her Majesty from suffering the shock all at once.

  “It was devastating to lose her,” Colin said. “I know she was a dear friend—”

  “That is of no significance now,” she said. “No death matters but that of Albert.” Her eyes clouded. She raised a hand, its skin yellowing and dry. “Nothing has been right since then, and now I am left to summon you and demand a service that only you can provide.”

  “Of course, ma’am, whatever you need.” He shifted on his feet, wishing he had been able to speak to the doctor before seeing the queen so that he might better understand her condition.

  “Take this and do as it says.” She pulled an envelope from under her pillow and handed it to him. “All will be clear in time. We need you for this. There can be no one else. I had five others during my reign, but he will need no one save you. He’s never been so strong as I.” She dropped back onto the pillows, the effort of holding up her head too much. “I shall not see you again, Mr. Hargreaves, but I have always valued your service above all others and thank you for your devotion to the Crown.” She lifted her hand again, holding it up as if to be kissed, but lowered it almost at once. “Tell no one of this meeting, of what we have discussed. Discretion is
of the upmost importance, as you shall know when you read my note. Albert would concur, and will, I am sure. Have you seen him of late? He is such a fine gentleman.”

  “The finest, ma’am,” Colin said, seeing no reason to acknowledge her confusion.

  “That is all,” she said, her voice so low he could hardly make out her words. “Disperse, Mr. Hargreaves, with our thanks.”

  He did as ordered and found Sir James waiting in the corridor outside. “She has been struggling since December and is growing more muddled by the day,” the doctor said. “I fear she does not have long. No one but the family and the household here knows of her illness yet. I trust I can rely on you to keep what you have seen to yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  “Soon enough we shall have to notify the press,” he continued, “but I should like to delay that while I can.”

  “Understood,” Colin said. “If I can be of any further service, you need only ask.” He took his leave from the physician and retired to an empty sitting room, where he opened the queen’s envelope, ready to follow her instructions, but the words scrawled on heavy linen paper inside did nothing to illuminate her desires:

  Une sanz pluis.

  Sapere aude.

  One and no more.

  Dare to know.

  1901

  1

  The death of Queen Victoria stunned the nation, myself included, although I cannot claim to have suffered a personal blow from the loss. My mother, who had served Her Majesty as a lady-in-waiting, mourned and keened (more than strictly necessary, I suspect, but she wanted no one in doubt of her close relationship with the monarch), while I sat shocked as my husband, Colin Hargreaves, delivered the news. He had seen her at Osborne House only five days before her demise, and although I had surmised her to be ill, it had never occurred to me that she might be near death. Colin, always the soul of discretion, had revealed nothing about the meeting. The truth is, because she had been queen for so long, was such a formidable personality, and had survived eight assassination attempts, part of me believed she would never quit the mortal world.

  But she did, as we all must, and I sat with my parents on a special train from London to Windsor, en route to the funeral service. Colin, who would be walking in the procession to St. George’s Chapel, was on another train altogether. My mother, her eyes red behind her crêpe veil, would accept no words of consolation, so my father, long immune to the glares of his spouse, dedicated himself to rereading Mr. Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities until we were ushered off the train into flower-filled waiting rooms at Windsor Station to await the carriages that would carry us to the castle. The crush of people in the small town was like nothing I had ever seen. Boys climbed fences and lampposts to get a glimpse of the gun carriage pulling the royal coffin, draped in a white pall, with the Imperial Crown, Orb, Sceptre, and the Collar of the Order of the Garter on top of it. Crowds, ominously silent, lined the streets, every person dressed in black, all the men wearing wide crêpe armbands. The only sounds were those of the horses’ hooves clattering and their harnesses jingling.

  We reached the grounds of the castle, and hence the chapel, long before the procession, which wound slowly through town. Inside, we mourners sat, not speaking, all but afraid to move and disturb the sanctity of the place. For a while, at least. There was so little heat that before long we were all too focused on keeping our teeth from chattering to think about anything else. By the time Colin slipped into the seat next to me, I was half-frozen. It seemed that an eternity passed before the pallbearers carried the coffin to the choir and the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Winchester presided over a thankfully short service. After the final notes of Beethoven’s Funeral March rang from the organ, we joined no fewer than six hundred other guests for lunch in St. George’s Hall. The somber occasion had left everyone preternaturally quiet, but we were not dining with the royal family or those closest to the queen, and by the time the second course arrived, conversation had returned to normal. Only a handful of people in the room could remember a monarch other than Queen Victoria; all of us would have trouble getting used to King Edward VII.

  I had just leaned over to my husband to ask him what he thought of the profligate Bertie now having such a grand title, when a member of the Household Cavalry approached, bent down, and whispered something to him. Colin’s face grew serious, his dark eyes flashed.

  “There’s been a murder in the Tower,” he said, folding his napkin neatly and placing it next to his plate. “I must return to London at once.”

  * * *

  A murder in the Tower of London! I must confess the idea sent a thrilling little shiver down my spine. The Tower loomed large in the imaginations of every child growing up in England, and as the young (my own three boys included) are inexplicably drawn to hideous and ghastly tales of ghosts and violence, there was no place that could better satisfy their cravings for such things. I thought of the poor little princes, sons of Edward IV, who went into the Tower never to return. Had their uncle Richard III murdered them? Personally, I suspect not, but that is a topic for another day. When we took our boys to the Tower for the first time, Henry insisted that he could hear the ghost of Margaret de la Pole shrieking as we approached the site of the scaffold where she had been executed. And who has not heard it said that a hooded figure, missing her head, is often seen wandering in the chapel where Anne Boleyn is buried? I could not help but succumb to a touch of juvenile titillation at the thought of a new murder at the Tower. Would this incident enter into the lexicon of legend?

  My husband and I are no strangers to violent crime. He, as an agent of the Crown (and a particular favorite of the late queen’s), was called upon to serve in countless investigations that, as he often said, required more than a modicum of discretion. I had proven myself a capable detective on numerous occasions, and whenever possible, we worked together. When he was acting in his official capacity, it was more difficult for me to contribute, but I am never deterred by an arduous path. And an arduous path was precisely what I faced that afternoon.

  To start, Colin murmured that there was no need for me to accompany him to London, but as I knew he would never be so gauche as to argue at a funeral luncheon, I insisted on boarding the train with him. A lively discussion ensued until we reached Paddington Station, by which point he admitted defeat and abandoned all attempts to dissuade me from going to the Tower. I cannot credit my powers of persuasion for his decision; more likely it resulted from exhaustion. He hadn’t slept more than ten hours total since the queen’s death and was nodding off for much of our journey, becoming fully alert only as we alighted at the medieval fortress.

  Like all the flags in the country, those at the Tower flew at half-mast. We approached the sturdy outer wall and met a yeoman warder who ushered us in through Lion Gate, devoid of its usual swarms of tourists as the site was closed due to the queen’s funeral. Once inside, he led us past the Bell Tower, with its oddly placed small white turret at the top, containing, appropriately, a bell. My attention then turned to the stark face of Traitors’ Gate and I felt the skin on my neck prickle, the sensation disappearing only as we approached Wakefield Tower. Built by Henry III in the thirteenth century, its thick stone walls—the second tallest in the fortress—were designed to safely house the king and his family. No longer a royal residence, it now held the Crown Jewels. Had the murderer’s victim been slain in an attempt to steal them?

  Yes, once again, the romance of the Tower was getting the best of me. But who could resist? The timing was almost perfect for such an audacious heist; the royal funeral had distracted all of Britain. Yet an ambitious thief would be unwilling to miss the prizes of the collection, particularly the Imperial Crown, currently sitting atop the queen’s coffin. I was about to voice this to Colin when I realized we were going not to the room that held the jewels, but instead to the modest chantry chapel originally intended as a private place of worship for medieval kings.

  There, on the ancient brown tile
s covering the floor, knelt a man dressed in black tights, a black tunic with white trim, and a matching hat. His hands were folded as if in prayer, his legs neatly together behind him, but his position was at odds with the expression on his face. His gray eyes were open wide and his mouth gaped in what looked like a silent, terror-filled scream.

  He was dead, of that there could be no question. A sword stuck in his chest, penetrating all the way through his back, but no blood pooled around his body. That he remained upright rather than sprawled on the ground seemed inconceivable until my husband revealed thin wooden posts constructed to form a sort of frame and hidden by the tunic and tights. Fishing line held his arms and hands in place.

  Colin crouched to examine the sword. “It’s in the style of late fifteenth century. The sort we’re led to believe would have been used to kill Henry VI—”

  “Who was stabbed to death in this very room,” I finished for him. “And our victim is dressed in an outfit nearly identical to that the king is depicted wearing in the painting at the National Portrait Gallery.”

  “Yes.” He rose and paced the perimeter of the chapel. “I recall the hat in particular.”

  “Do we have any idea who he is?”

  “Not as yet,” Colin said. “The police are checking missing person reports.”

  I nodded. How awful that his family had no idea that their loved one was kneeling here, dead. “There’s too little blood for the crime to have been committed here,” I said.

  “And we’ve found none elsewhere,” the yeoman warder said. “Madam, I must warn you that when Scotland Yard arrive they’ll insist you leave. I shouldn’t have allowed you to enter in the first place. The inspector is rather touchy.”

  “I am all too aware of the limitations of Scotland Yard,” I said, “but thank you for the warning.” I smiled at him. One never knows when an individual may prove helpful in an investigation, particularly in those from which one is—theoretically—banned from participating. Colin glanced at me, raised an eyebrow, and then turned back to the guard, inquiring as to whether he or his colleagues had noticed anything unusual during the course of the day. The yeoman warder admitted that they had all been affected by the queen’s death, but was adamant that no one had been derelict in his duties. The warden had increased surveillance of Wakefield Tower as a precaution against anyone viewing the occasion of the funeral as an opportunity to make off with the Crown Jewels.