Uneasy Lies the Crown Read online

  “I am a guest in your house, madam,” the troubadour said. “I could deny you no reasonable request.”

  Cecily felt strange watching them leave together, and from the look on de Morland’s face, he shared the sentiment. “They are close, are they not?” he asked.

  “Not in an inappropriate way, I’m sure,” Cecily said, nearly choking on the words.

  Her companion once again raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps now is not the best time to discuss Lancelot and Guinevere.”

  * * *

  By the time the sun brightened the horizon, the rain had stopped, leaving behind it a mess of thick mud nearly impossible to walk through. In the hazy light of dawn, William could make out the French taking up their positions, row after row after row of meticulously outfitted fighters, led by the flowers of their nation’s aristocracy. Their armor gleamed and their numbers seemed to go on forever.

  King Henry, who had already heard three masses that morning, also wore armor that gleamed, and he sat on a small, modest steed before his gathered men, helmet in his hands. This man, William’s sovereign, never tried to hide his identity on the battlefield. His bascinet, which he always wore with the visor up, was bejeweled and encircled with a crown, the Black Prince’s ruby taking pride of place in the center front. Henry’s bravery and confidence inspired all around him. And when he spoke that day, reminding his soldiers that his cause was just, and that, as always, he would fight with them, there was stirring amongst the men.

  “We fight for England and for all those things we hold dear,” the king said. “But you do not need me to remind you of that. Instead, recall that the French have threatened to cut off the bow fingers of every one of our archers. And recall what they did in Soissons. Today is the feast of two noble saints: Crispin and Crispinian, who suffered mightily at the hands of the Romans before their martyrdom at that very same Soissons. Can any of us doubt that on this holy day we will avenge the horrors of Soissons and show the French that they may not cut anything from the hands of our archers?”

  The soldiers’ voices united in a cry, low at first, but building in urgency and volume. The king waited, drinking in the enthusiasm of his men.

  “I am a man of honor,” he said, motioning for them to quiet. “So I will offer one last parley. If the French are reasonable”—his men all but howled—“they will meet our demands. If not, they face nothing but destruction on a battlefield of their own choosing.”

  The soldiers cheered again, shouting their wishes that Henry would live a long life and lead them to many victories. But no one doubted what would happen next. The French would reject all of the king’s demands and before the sun set, the field near Agincourt castle, above which the English army stood, would be soaked with blood.

  1901

  29

  I expected Colin to order me—not, mind you, that he would harbor even the slightest belief that I would obey—to stay home and wait for him to send word from the scene of this latest murder. Instead, his only direction was that I change into something more suitable than my lacy tea gown as quickly as possible so that I might accompany him. He had already hailed a hansom cab when I all but flew down our front steps, still buttoning my overcoat, my gloves nearly falling out of my pockets.

  We did not take the carriage because he did not like to make our driver wait indefinitely, and one never knew how long this sort of grim errand might take. Despite the fact that Society had abandoned the capital for the winter, the traffic was horrendous, as the bulk of London’s inhabitants did not have the luxury of retreating to the country. A mess of carriages, cabs, and the occasional motorcar entangled us for most of the way to the Savoy Chapel, just south of the Strand.

  A crowd had gathered around the modest church, but Colin pushed his way through, keeping me close. The constable guarding the entrance to the building opened his mouth, no doubt to protest my presence, but Colin shut down any objections before the man could speak.

  “Not a word from you,” he said. “I am in charge here.”

  The scene inside was not at all what I had expected. Richard II, after all, had died in the dungeon of Pontefract Castle in West Yorkshire, nowhere near a chapel of any sort, so far as I could tell. The Savoy Chapel, originally built as part of a hospital, was, perhaps, more modest than other places of worship, but nothing about the royal peculiar called to mind the dank prison in which the former king had been cruelly left to starve to death.

  The body lying on the tiled floor in front of the altar did not look emaciated in the least; quite the contrary. But no one could deny that Mr. Carson, the costume maker, had done an admirable job in constructing the outfit in which it was dressed. The clothing looked straight out of the portrait of Richard II in Westminster Abbey: a long robe, trimmed with ermine (rather, a good copy of it, as genuine ermine would have cost a pretty penny), over a medieval-style gown embroidered with gold thread. On the man’s head, fastened firmly in place, was a golden crown, and in his hands, plaster of Paris copies of the scepter and orb.

  “Look, here, Hargreaves, what do you mean by bringing her here?”

  I recognized the voice as it boomed through the chapel, so did not bother to turn around to see the wretched Inspector Gale.

  “Not another word from you, Gale,” Colin said, in a tone I had never before heard him use, the sort of tone from which strong men shrink and weak ones flee. “She’s here under my authority and with my permission. Need I embarrass you in front of your men by reminding you that I outrank you considerably? I don’t work for Scotland Yard, man, I work for the palace, and my orders will always take precedence over yours.”

  Apparently, the wretched Inspector Gale was a weak man rather than a strong one. I heard the thud of his boots as he made his way back up the aisle and out the door. Only when it banged shut—behind him, presumably—did I turn around.

  Colin raised a single finger. “Do not say a word.”

  I pressed my lips together. Smiling would have been inappropriate. When I looked at the body again, a hideous glimmer of recognition coursed through me.

  “I know that man,” I said. Obviously, when Colin had implored me not to speak, he meant about Gale, not the case in general. “Not personally, but from the newspaper. It’s Neville Crofton, the man who owned the mine in which Ned Traddles died.”

  “Yes, my dear, it is,” Colin said. “And that is precisely why I insisted on your presence here.”

  “Have we any clue as to the manner of death?” I asked.

  A constable, who was standing nearby, replied. “It’s a funny thing, ma’am. There’s no sign of injury on him. Not that we disturbed the body, sir, we left things just as we found them.”

  In the absence of an obvious wound, it would be impossible to ascertain how the man had died without removing his clothing. All we did know was that, like Mr. Grummidge and Mr. Casby, he, too, had been staged to appear as a dead king. But unlike Henry VI and Edward II, Richard II was not felled by a weapon.

  “We’ll need the autopsy report to determine cause of death,” Colin said. “I assume you organized a canvass of the area? Did you or the others find anyone with something useful to say?”

  “No, sir, we did not,” the constable said. “We secured the chapel first, of course, and then questioned everyone we could, but learned nothing of interest.”

  Colin and I began to walk the perimeter of the interior, taking note of each way in and out of the building. “This is a crowded part of the city. It would have been difficult to carry a dead man in without drawing anyone’s attention.”

  “Could Mr. Crofton have come in himself?” I asked. “Perhaps led by the murderer? They would have drawn no attention if he was dressed in an ordinary suit. If he’d been poisoned—”

  “He would have been unlikely to go anywhere voluntarily with the man who administered the poison,” Colin interrupted.

  “Assuming he knew the man’s intentions,” I said. Despite its location, the chapel, tucked into a small garden between t
he Victoria Embankment and the Strand, did not receive many visitors on any given day, increasing the odds that the murderer might have slipped in unnoticed. I recalled the last time I’d walked by here, seven years ago, in the midst of solving another crime. Like most passersby, all I’d noticed then was the lovely garden. “At any rate, it’s all irrelevant until the coroner can tell us the cause of death. What I don’t understand, though, is why this place? It has nothing to do with Richard II. Wasn’t the chapel originally built by Henry VII as part of the Hospital of St. William? That’s far too late to have any connection to the dead king in question.”

  “You are very nearly correct, my dear,” Colin said. “However, before the hospital’s construction, the Savoy Palace stood here. Edward I’s wife lived in it, and in the fourteenth century it was the London residence of John of Gaunt. John of Gaunt, of course—”

  “Was Henry Bolingbroke’s father,” I finished for him. “And when he returned from exile in France to inherit his dukedom—I can’t recall which one it was—”

  “He was the Duke of Lancaster, Emily. I should think you’d remember that.”

  “Yes, quite,” I said, scrunching my eyebrows together. From that time, Lancaster became the personal dukedom of the monarch, not linked to the possessions of the Crown. “A rather significant one, particularly in light of what happened next. But you know my expertise lies in history rather more ancient.”

  Colin smiled. “Henry threw Richard into the dungeon of his Yorkshire estate, Pontefract Castle, leaving the deposed monarch to starve to death. He took the crown for himself—”

  “And his son was Henry V.”

  “Yes, although I’m not certain that matters at the moment,” Colin said. “Right now, the significant connection is that this is the location in London that has the closest tie—slightly convoluted though it may be—to Henry Bolingbroke and the murder of Richard II.”

  We spent the next hour inspecting every inch of the church, but this task, as it had at the prior crime scenes, left us unsatisfied. Whoever had so carefully placed the body had been equally careful to leave behind no sign of his presence. This did not trouble me so much as it had in the past, because there were myriad other things to consider, most of all the identity of this latest victim and his connection to Ned Traddles. There could be no doubt of the ties between this group of East End friends and all three murders.

  Colin had the unhappy task of notifying Mr. Crofton’s wife, and I offered to accompany him, despite my dislike of delivering that sort of news. I had done it too many times in my life, but I knew that the presence of another lady might be a comfort to Mrs. Crofton. I steeled my nerves and climbed into a cab beside my husband.

  The Croftons lived in an ostentatiously large house not far from Belgrave Square. As I have already explained, most of Society fled London in the winter, making me wonder what had drawn the Croftons into town at this time of year. The glow of electric lights brightened the windows of their home, and, as always in such circumstances, I felt a pang in my stomach, knowing that the news we were about to deliver would forever divide Mrs. Crofton’s life.

  It could not be helped, though, and delay was no kindness. I took Colin’s hand and mounted the marble steps that led to their bright red front door. My husband rang the bell, and we waited. After a length of time Davis would have considered outrageously unacceptable, a butler in an ill-fitting suit opened the door. Colin gave our names, explained that we had come on behalf of the palace, and asked if we could see the lady of the house.

  “I shall see if she is at home,” the butler replied. He let us inside, but only just, abandoning us in the entrance hall without so much as offering to take our coats. He was gone long enough that I began to count—in Greek, as was my habit—the ticks of the tall cabinet clock that stood at the foot of the curved staircase. Nearly a quarter of an hour later, the butler returned.

  “Mrs. Crofton will receive you in the gold sitting room.”

  He opened the door to the chamber in question—it was not six feet from where we had been standing—and we stepped into a room that would have made Louis XIV faint dead in despair. It is quite common for rooms to be referred to by their color, and I had seen countless gold sitting rooms. In general, silk of that hue covered the walls, but in this case, they were covered with elaborate plaster panels, every inch of which was covered in unrelenting gold leaf. The effect was dizzying, as the twelve electric chandeliers hanging from the ceiling cast a glow that reflected again and again off the gilt surfaces. It was as if the Empress Elizabeth of Russia had more money than sense and had rejected the Amber Room for its tackier cousin.

  The furniture that filled the space—and I do mean filled; there was so much it hardly left room to walk—did not improve the ambience. Alongside a delicate suite of exquisite Louis XIV pieces stood hulking, chintz-covered chairs and sofas that looked as if they had been plucked out of a middle-class nightmare. Reclining on one of the sofas in a pose I can only imagine was meant to imitate a pre-Raphaelite painting was the amorphous form of a lady of indeterminate age, dressed in a cascade of ruffles and lace unlike anything I’d seen before.

  She did not rise as we entered, and I took no offense at this. Given her position, I would have been shocked to find she could move without spilling onto the floor. She lifted a white ostrich feather fan to her face so that all we could see were her eyes.

  “Lady Emily, Mr. Hargreaves, it is a pleasure. Do sit. May I offer you tea?”

  “No, Mrs. Crofton,” Colin said, lowering himself onto the sofa directly across from the one upon which she was sprawled. “I’m afraid we’ve come on official business—”

  “Yes, yes, I cannot say I’m surprised,” she said and started to squirm unattractively. I suspected that the arm attached to the elbow upon which she was leaning had fallen asleep. “It was only a matter of time before I was summoned. Alix and I have never been close, mind you, but I knew the moment I met her that we had a connection. Of course, I am happy to serve as a lady-in-waiting. It is an honor.”

  “Mrs. Crofton, I’m afraid you misunderstand,” Colin said. “We are not here on behalf of the queen. I’m more sorry than I can say to have to bring such dreadful news, but your husband has been found—”

  “Dead?” She managed to fling herself into an upright position.

  “Yes,” Colin replied. “Please accept my deepest condolences. He—”

  “Don’t say another word.” She threw her fan on the floor and covered her face with her hands. “I had a premonition something awful was going to happen today.”

  “Did anything in particular cause you to feel like that?” Colin asked.

  “I am a very sensitive soul,” she said. She reached up and tugged at the bell pull on the wall behind her. “I feel more than most.”

  “I am truly sorry for your loss,” I said. “Your husband—”

  “It is a blow from which I am unlikely ever to recover,” she said.

  A footman in red and gold livery opened the door. “You rang, madam?”

  “Yes, my fan is on the floor. Return it to me.”

  The man did as instructed and exited the room.

  Mrs. Crofton did not fool me. I noticed the way her lips trembled, ever so slightly, as she reopened the fan and then closed it and how her face, underneath the rouge on her cheeks, had gone pale.

  “Of course, you will want to know what happened,” I said. “Would you object to my sitting beside you as Mr. Hargreaves explains? I, too, am a sensitive soul, and don’t know that I can bear hearing the dreadful words.” She nodded. I crossed to her and took her hand.

  “We are not certain yet how this terrible thing came to pass,” Colin said. “Mr. Crofton’s body was discovered in the Savoy Chapel and it is certain that his death, if you will forgive me for speaking so bluntly, was the result of an attack on his person.”

  “He was murdered?” she asked. The fan, once again, was flung to the ground. I know one ought not give inanimate objects hum
an characteristics, but I swear it looked exhausted.

  “Yes,” Colin said. “I can give you as many or as few details as you would like—that is entirely up to you. Unfortunately, we will need someone to confirm his identity.”

  “Does that mean there is a chance it isn’t him?” Her voice sounded small now.

  I squeezed her hand. “No,” I said. “It’s a necessary formality. I myself recognized him from a picture I’d seen in the newspaper.”

  “Is there anyone I can fetch for you? Do you have children?”

  “No,” she said. “We were not blessed in that way. Why was he in a church?”

  Colin drew a deep breath and then, very gently, explained both the way her husband’s body had been posed and how his death fit with the previous two murders. When he finished, Mrs. Crofton pried her hand from mine.

  “So he died like a king? I suppose there are worse ways to go. We must take comfort where we can. Have I offered you tea?”

  * * *

  It was nearly two hours later when we managed to disentangle ourselves from Mrs. Crofton. As our cab pulled away, Colin took a last look at the façade of the house.

  “That dwelling, my dear, neatly encapsulates every reason your mother has for despising the nouveau riche.”

  “The interior is an absolute travesty,” I said, “but I find less fault with its occupant. Mrs. Crofton is an odd woman, of that there can be no doubt. Yet she was fond of her husband. She did, eventually, make that clear.”

  “Yes, by sobbing in your lap. The poor thing was in shock when we first told her.”

  “Which is no surprise. I expect Mr. Crofton was killed as a result of the mine accident, not because he mistreated his wife.”

  “Unless one could argue that everything about that house constitutes mistreatment,” Colin said.

  “De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” I said. But I could not argue that he made a fair point.