Uneasy Lies the Crown Read online

  I was too cold to argue. When Davis opened the door for me, he actually swayed on his feet. I’ve never seen him so discombobulated. He called for Colin, who, without a word, stripped off my wet coat and dropped it on the floor before scooping me into his arms and carrying me upstairs. He ran the bath, and while it filled, removed the rest of my soaking clothes before lowering me into the water. Davis sent a maid up with tea. Between that and the all but scalding water in the tub, my teeth had soon stopped chattering.

  “I would have gone with you myself if I’d thought you’d get into this much trouble,” he said. “All the details, please.”

  After recounting the story, I sent him to get the clippings from The Times, which I had thrust at Davis upon returning home. By the time Colin came back upstairs with them, I was warm and dry. Shortly thereafter, our butler brought a message from Jeremy. I tore it open.

  “The passage not only leads to Wakefield Tower,” I said, “but directly into the chapel where Grummidge’s body was left. We have found the murderer’s lair.”

  “So it seems,” Colin said.

  “The article about the mining disaster connects him, via Ned Traddles, to both Lizzie Hopman and Mrs. Grummidge.”

  “I recall reading about it when it happened,” he said, looking it over. “Dreadful business. Those poor men. No one should die like that. It’s diabolical, really. Safety standards have got to be improved—the miners complain about them constantly, as they should. This disaster proves that. I assume the second article is meant as a comparison—a place that is safe rather than one that is not.”

  “Most likely,” I said.

  “I shall ring Gale to update him and Scotland Yard with what you have learned. He will want to investigate the passage and the room, but I doubt he will find anything that escaped your notice.”

  “You must agree that none of this points to the murders having anything to do with the king.”

  He ran a hand through his tousled curls. “I will admit to giving serious consideration to your idea that they are not meant as a warning to the king. The content of the last note—I still haven’t located the chalice—has given me pause. Which is not to suggest that I, in any way, have warmed to your notion of a secret society.”

  That did not trouble me in the least. He would come around to that idea when I found further proof of it. We took tea in the nursery with the boys, after which Henry, who had tied a feather around the cat’s neck, recruited his father to play Red Indian alongside him. I went back to the library determined to pull down every volume I could find that might discuss secret societies. Unfortunately, I found only two: one, a history of architecture that included a section on markings of the Freemasons, the other Wilkie Collins’s spectacular novel The Woman in White.

  While the latter is one of my favorite books, even I could not help but draw the conclusion that I was unlikely to be able to adequately research secret societies in general or particular. This did not mean, however, that I had abandoned my suspicions about Colin’s messages. And should someone else turn up dead, with the letter T carved onto his arm as did the villainous Count Fosco in the novel … well, then I would be able to convince even my husband to reconsider his position.

  I turned back to the messages still spread out on Colin’s desk, but I could draw no precise conclusion from them. I opened a biography of Henry V, thinking that if I read it I might be in a better position to understand what the sender could be trying to communicate, but before I had reached the end of the first chapter, I closed the book and returned to my husband’s desk. I did not think I would find my answers in history.

  I reread the article about the mining disaster and was more convinced than ever that Ned Traddles was the key. I lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle. In the span of a few minutes, I was connected to the offices of The Times, and soon was speaking with the reporter who had written the article in question.

  He was eager to be helpful and provided a number of details not included in his report, but I could not see how any of them might relate to the murders. I asked him about the man who owned the mine, a Mr. Crofton, and he told me that he had never seen a businessman so aggrieved in the face of an industrial accident. He had provided each of the miners’ families with a generous bequest. A poor substitute for husbands and fathers, but better than nothing.

  The journalist remembered nothing about Ned Traddles, so I determined that I would find the man’s family. Mrs. Grummidge claimed to have had no contact with him in years, but perhaps Mrs. Bagstock would remember him. I told Colin of my plans, called for the carriage, and was soon knocking on her door.

  “Lady Emily!” she exclaimed. “This is not a fit place for you to be after dark.”

  “The sun sets so early these days I’m afraid I had no choice,” I said. “I’ve come on a matter of some importance. Do you recall a friend of Lizzie’s, a man called Ned Traddles?”

  “Ned? Oh, yes, an affable enough boy, but always in trouble,” she said. “You will take tea, won’t you?”

  “No, thank you, I mustn’t stay too long.”

  “Your handsome husband will worry, I suspect.” She sat in her rocker. “Ned was caught up with a bad lot, pickpockets, most of them. Not surprising, I suppose. He didn’t have many options, but still, that’s no excuse for crime. He managed well enough when he was small, but you know how it is when a pickpocket starts to grow. I believe he was nicked more than once and eventually thrown in jail, but I can’t say I remember the details. I rather hoped he wouldn’t come around when he was released, but he did, and Lizzie walked with him, saying he was reformed. He did go to Wales and work in that mine, so I suppose there was some truth to the claim. He still came to see her, once a month. Quite a distance to travel for a walk. It’s a pity he died, if he truly had changed his ways.”

  I rather felt it was a pity regardless of whether he’d changed his ways. “Do you know any of his family?” I asked.

  “No, I never met any of them. Had a pack of siblings—eight or so—and they lived somewhere near the docks. Can’t imagine any of their lives turned out well.”

  I thanked her for her help and ordered my driver to take me to Mrs. Grummidge’s, but she was not home. I was about to return to Park Lane, when an idea struck me. So far as I could tell, the wretched Inspector Gale was spending far more time at Marlborough House than Scotland Yard, and at this late hour, he was even less likely than usual to be in his office. I decided it was time for me to see what I could learn from the police.

  My name and courtesy title (there are benefits to being the daughter of an earl) gained me entrance to the redbrick building on the Victoria Embankment, but I did not expect a warm welcome at New Scotland Yard. After explaining what I was after, the dour constable to whom I spoke disappeared for several minutes and then, returning to where he had left me waiting, motioned for me to come behind the counter that separated him from what could only be described as a waiting room. I followed him through a maze of corridors until we came to a small office. Its occupant, a man of ordinary height with mouse brown hair that curled rather nicely and a pair of spectacles perched on his narrow nose, hovered in the door.

  “Thank you,” he said to his colleague. “I’ll take it from here.” He waited until his colleague was out of sight before offering me a chair across from the desk that nearly filled his room.

  “Fenimore Cooper Pickering is a most unusual name,” I said after he had introduced himself.

  “My mother is American, Lady Emily,” he said. He paused briefly, but before I could wonder if that was meant to be a complete explanation, he continued. “She was a great fan of the writer James Fenimore Cooper, particularly his Leatherstocking Tales, and was convinced that Nathaniel Bumppo is the greatest of all fictional characters. I’m grateful she didn’t try to call me Hawkeye.”

  “She sounds like the sort of lady I should very much like to meet,” I said.

  “I’m afraid we lost her years ago. But you have not come to d
iscuss my family history. I understand you are interested in the murders currently plaguing my colleague Inspector Gale. How can I help?”

  There was something in his voice—just a hint of sarcasm, perhaps, in the way he mentioned the wretched Inspector Gale—that caused me to warm to him. Could it be that I had finally encountered a police detective who might prove useful? I gave him a brief description of what I had learned about Ned Traddles, including his acquaintance with Lizzie Hopman and Mrs. Grummidge. I did not mention my expedition to the Tower. I had, after all, first learned of the mining accident in the offices of The Times. There was no need to share more information than strictly necessary when I had, as yet, no idea how trustworthy young Inspector Pickering would prove.

  “I can have his record pulled up in a matter of minutes,” he said when I’d finished. “Have you time to wait or would you prefer that I deliver a summary to your home?”

  Again, there was something in his voice. Was he suggesting it would be better for me to speak to him in the privacy of my home? The idea tantalized me, especially as I knew all too well from past experience that—until possibly now—no one in Scotland Yard had warmed to the idea of my assisting in any sort of investigation.

  “I am perfectly happy to wait, but would not like to put you in the awkward position of assisting me before you’ve finished any other work you have at hand. What is most convenient for you?”

  “I am rather involved in another matter at the moment,” he said. “Might I call on you in an hour or so?”

  “It would be a pleasure,” I said, and offered him my hand, which he grasped and shook firmly.

  “I look forward to it, Lady Emily. If I may be so bold, your reputation precedes you.”

  It was nearly eight o’clock when I reached home and Colin listened, his head cocked to the side, one of his eyebrows ever-so-slightly raised, as I recounted for him what I had achieved.

  “I have not met Inspector Pickering,” he said when I’d finished, “and can’t claim to know anything about him. Do you really believe he will come here, my dear? Is it not more likely that his knowledge of your reputation combined with a cleverness I admit we have not often encountered among his brethren inspired him to send you away in a manner that did not require an argument?”

  “In theory, yes, I would agree with that assessment, but there was something about him that makes me think he will prove trustworthy. If I’m wrong, so be it, and tomorrow you will have to get the records from Scotland Yard.”

  “You might have left it to me in the first place,” he said. “It would have been simpler.”

  Except that it would not, in fact, have proved simpler. Three-quarters of an hour after I arrived home, Davis knocked on the library door.

  “An Inspector Pickering to see you, madam. Shall I bring him here or would you prefer to receive him in the sitting room?”

  1415

  26

  When the baron and his compatriots returned—successful, of course—from their hunt, the atmosphere at the castle brightened at once. Lord Esterby’s mood had quite improved, and he had brought with him a newcomer, Hugh de Morland, another dear friend of Cecily’s husband. Adeline arranged for a feast to welcome them back, and the ladies were aglow at having another handsome gentleman to fawn over. If the troubadour regretted losing some of their attention, he did nothing to show it, and Adeline went out of her way to shower her husband with affection. She did, however, ask Gabrieli if he meant to finish the tale he had started before the hunters had left, that of Lancelot and Guinevere. He demurred to her request—for that was what he considered it—with a handsome smile.

  After the assembled company had stuffed themselves with roast pheasant, broiled venison with pepper sauce, and a great pie stuffed with chicken and rabbit, they turned their attention to sweets and then to spiced wine and cheese. Well-sated, the baron called to Gabrieli, inviting him to begin the entertainment.

  The troubadour gave Cecily a smile as he prepared his lute, but he did not keep his focus on her. Instead, he let his eyes linger on Adeline, but only for a moment, and then began to sing. As he performed, his rich voice filling the hall, he played to the entire crowd, never focusing on anyone for more than a short while. His behavior was altogether different than it had been before, when he had stared so blatantly at Cecily. She knew that she might be misguided, but she was convinced that his early ploy was meant as a distraction. Everyone had noticed him favoring her, and that was what they would remember, should anyone ask about his behavior.

  Now, though, he had found a willing partner in flirtation, which meant he had to be more careful. Cecily knew little of love, but she did recognize the warmth in Gabrieli’s eyes in those brief instants he looked at Adeline. William had gazed on her that way, on the day of their wedding. The realization made her miss her husband in a most unexpected way that made her heart beat too rapidly and her cheeks flush. This caught her unaware, and she hardly knew what to think. Surely a husband would not think of his wife in the way a lover did of the object of his affection? Cecily clenched her hands together as she realized that her fingers had started to tingle.

  “Are you well?” Hugh de Morland asked, coming to sit next to her on the bench near the fire. She had selected the spot as it gave her the best vantage point from which to simultaneously watch the troubadour and Adeline. “You’ve come away from your friends and look rather worried. In fact, I’ve never seen a countenance so clouded.”

  “That is not a fair charge,” she said, turning to him. “I’m not worried in the least. I can’t quite put my finger on the emotion coursing through me at the moment, but it must come from the sad story to which we are listening. Lancelot’s hopeless love, Guinevere’s betrayal of Arthur.”

  “You feel no sorrow for her?” he asked, his eyebrows shooting up nearly to his hairline. “She did not choose her husband. Do we blame Iseult in the same way when she forsakes King Mark for her Tristan?”

  “I cast no blame,” Cecily said. “But you cannot claim Guinevere’s actions brought happiness to anyone, herself included.”

  “Surely they brought her—and Lancelot—some measure of happiness, if only temporarily.”

  Cecily did not like the way he was studying her face, and she feared he was misinterpreting her words. “No lady would want that sort of happiness. Not ever, Master de Morland.”

  “You need not be so formal with me, Lady Hargrave.” There was no mistaking the emphasis he put on her title.

  “We have only just met,” Cecily said.

  “Yet we are bound to become the closest of friends. William would have it no other way.” Truly, his smile was charming and made his blue eyes shine. “Do you insist on having no sympathy for poor Queen Guinevere?”

  “None at all. Iseult did not marry King Mark, did she? Guinevere was Arthur’s wife.”

  “Guinevere had no choice in the matter. She was all but bartered as part of a political alliance. And Merlin warned Arthur that if he married her, she would fall in love with his best knight.”

  “How can a true knight, supposedly full of virtue, love his king’s wife?” Cecily asked.

  “It is true then,” de Morland said. “You have no sympathy for the lovers.”

  “No lady could.” Cecily looked straight ahead, unwilling to meet his eyes. When she could feel that he was no longer looking at her, she risked a glance in his direction. His lips curled in a half smile as he stared at the troubadour.

  After sitting quietly for some time, he turned to her again and spoke. “Yet Guinevere remained ever loyal to her Lancelot, did she not? Malory tells us she had a good end because she was a true lover.”

  “Malory saying it does not make it true,” Cecily said.

  To this, de Morland replied with a laugh. “Truly, you are young and your innocence is most fetching.” Spotting Father Simon not far away, he waved the priest over. “Come, Simon, and sit with us. William has got himself a fine wife.”

  * * *

  William
could hear the French all night. They called to their servants, they drank wine, and they conversed in tones that sounded, to him, full of arrogance. Not that he could pretend to make out the words. King Henry, unable to risk missing the first signs of attack, had commanded his army to observe a strict silence. William wondered what their enemy thought, what they made of the quiet across the line.

  The weather had taken a grievous toll on his armor. The march from Harfleur had provided little opportunity to rub away the rust that came after so much abuse, but as William bent his arms and knees, he could feel that it had not degraded to the point that it would inhibit his fighting. Unable to sleep, he wandered among the Duke of Gloucester’s men, up and down the line, ignoring the heavy rain pelting him that soaked his padded jerkin through the joins of his armor.

  His compatriots did their best to keep the king’s order of quiet, but they still whispered among themselves, careful to modulate their voices. William started when he heard someone behind him and turned to see one of the company’s priests.

  “Shall I hear your confession, Sir William Hargrave?” he asked.

  “I’ve already made it,” William replied. “What have any of us to fear, though, if our cause is just?”

  “And do you believe our cause is just?”

  William did not recognize this new voice, which came from behind the priest. Nor did he recognize the hooded figure, when it stepped toward him.

  “The king says it is, and I do not argue with the king,” William said.

  “That does not mean you believe he is right,” the man said.

  “It is not my place to draw any conclusions on the matter.” William pulled himself up to his full height. “He is my lord and I shall fight for him—and die for him, if that is what God wishes—as any Englishman would.”

  “You care so little about the fate of your soul?” the stranger asked. “If the king’s cause is not just, you will be condemned for your role in the bloodshed.”