Uneasy Lies the Crown Read online

  “The day before yesterday,” she said and then pressed her lips together. “The shop was to be closed yesterday, on account of the queen’s funeral, and Edmund went to the pub with his mates the night before. I wanted to see the procession, but he had no interest in it and stayed out all night. I set off quite early in the morning to get a good place near Paddington so that I might pay my respects to Her Majesty. Edmund hadn’t returned home by the time I left.”

  “Was it unusual for him to stay out all night?”

  “Yes,” she said. “This was only the third night since our wedding that he wasn’t home. The other two were after we lost our little girl.” Her eyes went to the photograph on the mantel and filled with tears. “I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to come home then, not to a wife who let his daughter die.”

  “I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Grummidge.” I hated to press her when she had suffered such dreadful losses and paused, giving her time to regain her composure. “Do you know where he went after the pub closed?”

  “Most likely he stayed with Jimmy Weston,” she said. “They’ve been friends for ages and stay up half the night talking whenever they’re together. He knew I was planning to rise early and wouldn’t have wanted to disturb me by coming in late. He’s always considerate that way, Edmund, more considerate than any wife could deserve.” She tugged at the black lace edging on the sleeve of her dress as she spoke, pulling it down over her wrist and covering a dark bruise.

  “How very thoughtful,” I said, watching her. She was perfectly put together, not a hair out of place. Her complexion was like alabaster, smooth and pale, except for one small spot on her left cheek, where I could see she had applied pearl powder that did not successfully disguise the fading bruise beneath it.

  “The most thoughtful of men.” She gave a wan smile and met my eyes. I recognized something in her, akin to the relief I had felt when I heard the news of my first husband’s death, more than a decade ago. I had not mourned him because I had not known him. Perhaps I was misjudging Mrs. Grummidge; the shock of the news she had received might not have yet sunk in. Perhaps she did not feel comfortable expressing tender emotions in front of a stranger. But my intuition told me otherwise. My intuition along with the way she kept pulling her sleeves over her wrists.

  I thanked her for the tea and complimented her on the excellent lemon biscuits she served with it. When I rose to take my leave, Mrs. Grummidge herself escorted me to the door. Just as I stepped onto the stoop, she reached for my arm and grabbed it tightly.

  “Find the person did this to him, please, Lady Emily. I must look into the eyes of whoever took his life.”

  * * *

  I could not call on Jimmy Weston after I left Mrs. Grummidge, as she did not know where he lived, so instead I went home, where I found Colin in his study, bent over one of his many chessboards.

  “Mate in two, my dear. Can you see any way forward?”

  I picked up the white queen, moved it, then countered with the black rook, leaving an unsuspecting white pawn in the unusual position of being the ultimate threat to his opponent’s king. Colin’s dark eyes danced and he pulled me close, giving me a kiss.

  “Most impressive,” he said.

  I kissed him back and flopped into a chair. “Have you discovered any leads in our case?”

  “No. I spent half the day going through threats against the king. None stood out, just the usual sort of ranting.” He ran a hand through his curls. “The palace is most concerned. We’ve put extra men on Bertie’s—His Majesty’s—protection detail.”

  “What have you learned about Edmund Grummidge?” I asked.

  “He was a respectable greengrocer with a handful of close friends. Much beloved by his neighbors, lauded by his vicar. The usual sort of thing. Spent the night before he died at the home of his best mate, Jimmy Weston, who had nothing of use to offer. Insists that when he woke up, Grummidge had already gone home.”

  I knew all of this information would have come from the police conducting interviews. I also knew better than to take any of it at face value. People are loath to speak ill of the dead. “Did no one mention that he beat his wife?”

  “What exactly have you been up to today, my dear?”

  “I called on Mrs. Grummidge, who is the perfect picture of the wife of your respectable grocer. Except that the pearl powder she used to cover a fading bruise on her cheek wasn’t quite effective, nor were her efforts to hide the fresher marks on her wrists. The manner in which she praised her husband while criticizing herself confirmed my suspicions. Not that any of it was blatant, mind you, but—”

  “Your intuition convinced you,” he finished for me, smiling. There was a time, years ago, when we had frequent disagreements about my faith in intuition, but Colin had come to respect—grudgingly at first—my skills in this department. “Do you think she killed him?”

  “She might have.” I could picture the scene: Mr. Grummidge home late from the pub, having had too much to drink, berates his wife for some perceived slight. He drags her out of bed, flings her against the wall, and beats her savagely. She, desperate to escape, picks up the only instrument of defense she can find: her grandfather’s sword, which hangs conveniently above the mantel. He laughs, goading her, and she lunges forward, not realizing just how sharp the blade is until it slices through his chest, piercing his heart. “Imagine, if you will—”

  “No, stop there, Emily. I know exactly what you’re thinking. This is the time for facts, my dear, not fancy.”

  I sighed. “It is not inconceivable that she killed him in an attempt to defend herself. It is impossible, however, that she could have moved the body and staged it at the Tower without assistance. Perhaps she has a lover or a devoted brother—yes, I prefer the latter—who—”

  “No.” Colin’s voice was stern, but his dancing eyes betrayed his amusement. “I don’t need fiction, but I do need you to find out what you can about the Grummidges, will you? I don’t believe Scotland Yard and the palace are approaching this in the correct manner.”

  My eyes widened. “I’ve never heard you so openly critical of your colleagues.”

  “I may be wrong, but my own intuition tells me that they are too focused on the theoretical threat against the king,” he said. “Not, mind you, that I am suggesting we ought not consider it a most serious situation. We must protect his majesty, but to find the person behind the threats, we have to figure out why the murderer chose Grummidge as his victim. The connection could prove critical to unraveling the larger problem.”

  “Colin Hargreaves, trusted agent of the Crown, relying on his intuition. Truly, I am shocked. So shocked that I may be incapable of coherent thought, let alone useful action.”

  “Your mind is agile enough,” he said, a smile creeping onto his face. “And it is unlikely in the extreme that anyone or anything could keep you from useful action, particularly when there is a murder to be solved. There’s one more thing. The coroner found what appears to be river water in Grummidge’s lungs and the guard who first discovered the body said that the hair was damp.”

  “Traitors’ Gate may be bricked up, but perhaps there is another way into the Tower via the river,” I said. “Our murderer might have an ally inside, someone who—”

  “Facts, my dear, facts.” He tilted his head. “You might help me with one more thing, though. I’ve been considering the message slipped into the letterbox—the one that included the map of the Tower. I had initially assumed this was meant to refer to the spot where the murderer left Grummidge’s body, but I’m wondering if it’s something else altogether. What if the map is a clue directing me to the lance drawn on the note? Her Majesty thought I would view the message she gave me as an instruction, which didn’t appear to make sense. But if the second letter is meant to be similar in nature, the map, combined with the drawing, could be viewed as a sort of direction. There is a large collection of weapons and armor on display at the Tower, including a not insignificant number of lances. Your comment
s about river access make me suspect you plan to make another trip there?”

  “You know me too well,” I said. “It would be a disgrace not to investigate the possibility of the murderer bringing the body in via an entrance we have overlooked.”

  “I shan’t try to persuade you otherwise. My feelings on futile endeavors are well-known. While you are there, will you look for any sort of hidden clue among the lances on display? I would go myself if I could get away from Marlborough House for long enough, but I don’t see that happening in the immediate future.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” I said.

  “I am most grateful.” He pulled me to my feet and held my gaze as he kissed my hands. “And while you are seeking out your mysterious water entrance to the Tower, please resist the urge to leap to conclusions. And do be careful about accusing the guards of treason. They don’t react well to such things. I shouldn’t enjoy seeing you fed to the ravens.”

  1415

  6

  Those first weeks in Sussex were all but intolerable. Adeline had given Cecily one of the pokiest rooms in the castle, with a fireplace too small to provide adequate heat, but she considered it a refuge rather than an insult. It was the only place she knew she would never see Adeline. Lord Esterby was a generous husband, indulging his wife’s every whim, and their household rang with laughter, singing, and much dancing. Minstrels performed every evening, and a troubadour from Milan was expected before the end of the month, but Cecily did not find their merriment contagious. She preferred the privacy of her cold and barren chamber.

  Every morning, she heard mass in the chapel. The baron’s priest was a severe, humorless man whose sermons rained with fire and brimstone. A part of her craved chastisement, for she felt it cleansed some of the sin of her role in her mother’s death. She felt lighter after mass and wondered if someday, far in the future, she would be altogether free of that burden of guilt.

  The rolling hills in the countryside surrounding the castle provided endless hours of amusement, whether on horseback, when picnicking, or if one craved a meandering stroll. Cecily, who had never before liked needlework, found herself newly inspired by the flowers that filled the meadows: violet knapweed, deeper purple round-headed rampion, bright yellow wort, crisp white saxifrage, and flashing scarlet pimpernels. Her embroidery improved, and soon she found herself taking on more and more difficult projects, designing complicated patterns of entwined flowers and vines.

  In the evening, she retired to her room, where she would open the wooden diptych, William’s wedding gift to her, and fall to her knees to pray. Only when she could no longer stand the hardness of the stone floor—the room boasted no carpet—would she cross herself and rise. The pain felt more cleansing even than mass. Then she would open her book and read rather than cavort with the rest of the household. She did not feel right dancing when William was away, and even though there had been as yet no news from France, she could not help but worry. The words of Christine de Pizan always brought her comfort.

  Adeline hardly spoke to her, except to chide her for being too serious, but this did not trouble Cecily. She liked solitude. It was only when the much-anticipated troubadour arrived that she began to spend her evenings downstairs with the others. Dario Gabrieli, born into a noble Milanese family, came with minstrels of his own, and when he sang, the purity of his voice intoxicated all who heard him, Cecily included. His soulful good looks—dark hair and melting brown eyes—enhanced his work. His rendition of the tragic story of Tristan and Iseult brought all the ladies to tears.

  Lord Esterby enjoyed the songs as much as anyone, and invited Gabrieli to stay at the castle through the winter. Cecily wondered if she would still be here, or if William would have returned from France by then. No one knew how long the invasion would take.

  * * *

  William’s first view of the French coast underwhelmed him. Perhaps it was anticlimactic, following the army’s glorious departure from England, when the soldiers spotted an eagle flying above the king’s ship. An omen of good fortune; no one could doubt that. Nothing so spectacular occurred as their ships dropped anchor beyond the salt marshes on the shore. The city of Harfleur awaited them, behind a moat and miles of thick stone wall that surrounded both town and harbor. The enemy expected them and had spared no expense preparing. Huge Dutch guns as well as ammunition, food, and other supplies had poured into Harfleur. The city was ready for a siege.

  The Duke of Clarence and a large force of men approached Harfleur in the dark, cutting off French reinforcements and setting themselves up in a position of strength on a hill across from the rest of the English army. King Henry’s navy blockaded the port, separating the citizens of Harfleur from the support of their countrymen.

  Soon they would hear the deafening sound of the guns, for the French were not the only ones with artillery. The pounding would begin, relentless and brutal, its deadly rain destroying everything upon which it fell.

  And when the guns went silent, William would be ready to fight.

  First, though, King Henry sent a final message offering peace.

  1901

  7

  It was categorically essential to determine why the murderer had chosen Mr. Grummidge as his victim. Although I wished to speak with his widow again, it would not serve my purpose to call on her too soon, so the following day I went in search of other leads, starting at her late husband’s shop. The two men employed at the greengrocery, Bob Hayner and Gareth Jones, had agreed to stay on at Mrs. Grummidge’s request. She needed the income her husband could no longer provide himself.

  Mr. Jones explained, in a (naturally) heavy Welsh accent, that he had been at the store for more than five years and insisted there could be no better employer than Mr. Grummidge. Mr. Hayner concurred, although with somewhat less enthusiasm. When pressed, he admitted to resenting being paid less than Mr. Jones, whom he believed did not have a thorough understanding of produce. This started a bitter argument, much of which I did not try to follow. Regardless of the veracity of the accusations against Mr. Jones, there could be no question that I, at least, lacked a thorough understanding of produce.

  I left the shop frustrated. After managing to calm the clerks down enough that I could question them, neither told me anything of use. They knew of no one who would wish to harm their employer, they sang the praises of Mrs. Grummidge, who brought dinner to her husband most afternoons, and could offer no insight into the character of the slain man beyond that he was a fair and successful businessman.

  After equally fruitless conversations with nearby shopkeepers, I decided there was nothing more to be done in the East End, where the victim’s acquaintances had taken to heart the adage de mortuis nil nisi bonum. Feeling deflated only for a moment, I set off for the second of my planned destinations, the Tower. Sleet started to fall as my carriage crossed the steel gray river, and I insisted that my driver wait for me in a nearby pub so that he would stay warm. He objected at first and was obviously distressed that a lady would make such a suggestion, but I pressed some coins into his hand and told him not to disobey me.

  I tightened my scarf around my neck and then buried my hands in my muff as I joined the short queue for tickets at Lion Gate. Sadly, there were not many tourists willing to brave the weather for a glimpse of our nation’s glorious history. Once inside the grounds, I proceeded to Traitors’ Gate, where a Beefeater was regaling a small tour group with tales of the Tower’s famous prisoners. I stopped, pretending to listen, and inspected the area. Given the coroner found river water in Mr. Grummidge’s lungs and given that he had not been killed where his body was found, I considered that he might have been stabbed in a boat, and perhaps fallen out as he struggled for his life, inhaling water before succumbing to his wounds. Once he had stopped flailing, his murderer could have brought him here, somehow gaining entrance to the ancient fortress. But how?

  I hadn’t noticed the yeoman warder had finished his story, nor that the paltry collection of tourists was continuing
on to the next stop on their tour. The guard, however, noticed me.

  “Have you a special interest in Traitors’ Gate, madam?” he asked. “Remembering Queen Anne Boleyn, perhaps?”

  “It’s such a shame it’s bricked up now,” I said. “Quite ruins the romance of the place, don’t you think?”

  “Well, I suppose so, if you’re inclined to find traitors romantic. Of course, you wouldn’t be the first lady to succumb to the charms of Sir Walter Raleigh. Queen Bess herself was quite taken with the man. Do you know the story?”

  “I do. He was too good for her if you ask me.” I bestowed on him my most charming smile. “Is there no longer any way into the Tower from the river?”

  “No, madam. The water you see on this side of the gate comes either from rain or when we flood the moat, but one can no longer pass through from the river.”

  I thanked him and continued on my way, climbing the stairs to the battlements that joined the fortress’s medieval towers, hoping to gain a vantage point suitable for discovering how Mr. Grummidge’s body might have been brought into Wakefield Tower. The sleet was falling harder now, and my coat was nearly soaked through. St. Thomas’s Tower, directly above Traitors’ Gate, loomed in front of me, its thick walls menacing. This was a place that held on to its secrets. I turned away from the river and looked back beyond Wakefield Tower toward William the Conqueror’s White Tower. It was time to look for Colin’s lance.

  The Council Chamber in the White Tower, the very room in which Richard II had abdicated his throne, now served to display armor and weapons. I climbed down from the walls and marched across slick cobbles to the ancient structure, where, once inside, I began examining every lance I could find. The long, sleek weapons did not hide another clue, so I turned my attention to the walls and cases around them. There, tucked into a space in the mortar behind a rack holding fifteenth-century examples, I saw an envelope. The map—albeit in vague terms—had, in fact, led to a clue. The smooth paper bore no name or address, only a coat of arms: that of the Hargreaves family. I debated opening it. Was I not, after all, a Hargreaves? In the end, however, I knew I should take it to Colin. With a little sigh of resignation, I slid it into my reticule and set off to find my driver.