Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 9

  “I’ve missed you very much, Mama.”

  I pulled him close and embraced him. “And I, you.”

  “You’ll wish you were missing me after I’ve taken you prisoner!” Henry shouted as he leapt on top of my desk. He was brandishing a stick that he had tried to fashion into a bow with a piece of dingy string. I wondered where he had hidden it, as I hadn’t spotted any sign of it when Nanny was present.

  “I shouldn’t draw that bow and point it at your mother,” Colin said, entering the room. “Her fighting skills are not to be sneered at and I doubt you’d want so formidable an enemy.”

  “Papa!” the boys shouted almost in unison and raced toward him. He grinned at me and gathered them in his arms.

  “Can she really fight, Papa?” Henry asked. “Really?”

  “You’d have no better soldier at your side,” Colin said, lifting him down from my desk.

  I rolled my eyes. “You shouldn’t encourage him.”

  “I’m a Red Indian and require no encouragement,” Henry said. “I cannot be stopped.”

  “You’ve been at Montagu Manor again, haven’t you?” Colin asked. It was the house nearest to ours in Derbyshire, occupied by dear friends. The fact that Lord Montagu employed a Red Indian as his valet had solidified Henry’s unshakable admiration for the man, although it was clear the boy held the valet in higher esteem than he did the marquess.

  “I want a tent like his, Papa, please.”

  “You’d be too cold in the winter, but we can discuss it again in the summer, when the weather is better.”

  Davis arrived with the tea trolley and soon we were happily nestled in a scene of domestic bliss. Richard peppered Colin with questions about the medieval kings—apparently, he had not been put off by the academic nature of the history on his father’s desk—and Tom, who always behaved like a perfect gentleman, inquired after our health and engaged us in delightful conversation about the pleasures of country life. Henry, who I’d had to stop from stabbing his tea sandwiches—he was wielding a butter knife as if it were a spear—was sitting quietly now, having eaten enough to feed seven boys of good appetite.

  Tea finished, Colin rang for Davis. “I hate to send you upstairs, but Nanny will have my hide if I make you late for your baths,” he said.

  “Baths?” Henry balked. “We never bathe until at least—”

  “It’s the perfect time for a bath,” I said. “Go upstairs, all of you. We’ll see you again before bed.” It was not like Colin to ever send the boys to the nursery, and even more unlikely for him to suggest they would take baths in the middle of the afternoon. Delighted as he had been to see them when he arrived home, I had not missed the look of strain in his eyes.

  “Have Scotland Yard uncovered any new information?” I asked him, handing him a glass of whisky.

  “No,” he said. “They’ve no leads pertaining to either murder. You?”

  I updated him on my discoveries. “Revenge is the obvious motive for Casby’s murder. He was the worst sort of man and Lizzie the kind of girl who would have inspired any honorable man to defend—or avenge—her.”

  “Have we any reason to believe she had an acquaintance with any honorable men?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “I feel so bloody useless—forgive me, my dear.” He had risen from his seat and started to pace. “We have every reason to expect two more murders, and I’ve no way to stop them.”

  “Let’s consider the scene of the first. I am still at a loss to understand how anyone could bring a body into the Tower of London without someone seeing something. Have the police interviewed everyone there? The wives of the guards? The ticket-takers? The—”

  “The ticket-takers weren’t there that day. The Tower was closed, remember. As for the wives, I saw no mention in the reports of anyone other than the guards themselves being questioned.”

  “That’s where we need to go next, then,” I said. “They live in the Tower, but they don’t work there. The guards are each charged with particular tasks and duties; their wives, having no such occupation, are free to notice anything.”

  We called for the carriage and pulled on our coats. While I will privately admit that the carriage provided a more comfortable ride than Jeremy’s Daimler, I still preferred the thrill of the motorcar. Yet this was not the appropriate time to broach the subject of purchasing one. Colin was in no mood for frivolous discussion. A cold rain had started by the time we reached the Tower, and the sun was slipping toward the horizon. The medieval fortress, squared next to the mighty Thames, was seen at its best advantage in this sort of weather. Lights from the windows flickered on the slick cobbles paving the streets, and one could almost imagine an armored knight inside William’s White Tower preparing for battle.

  Colin had a few quick words with the yeoman warder who greeted us as we breezed through Lion Gate. With a quick nod, he led us through the passage next to the Bloody Tower and onto Tower Green, where the Queen’s House (which I suppose we ought now refer to as the King’s House), built in the sixteenth century, stood across from the neatly trimmed grass. Render had long since covered its original half-timbered façade, and I regretted the change. It looked out of place amongst the sturdy, stone towers. The warder knocked on the door, and soon we were sitting in a pleasant parlor, accepting tea from the Lieutenant of the Tower’s wife, Lady Anna Stirling. She was a charming hostess and, after expressing horror at the murdered body that had been left in Wakefield Tower, offered to introduce us to any and all of the other wives. More families lived in the Tower than I realized, and it was clear that speaking to them would be an enormous undertaking. This was where Lady Anna proved a more than capable assistant.

  “My husband and I anticipated that someone among the Tower residents might have noticed something of use that day, so he asked those with information to come forward,” she said. “We have, of course, shared this with Scotland Yard, but they did not think any of it worth further investigation.”

  “Did you think any of it worth further investigation, Lady Anna?” I asked.

  “Yes, I did,” she replied. “One of the yeoman warder’s wives, Mrs. Rillington, noticed a boat near Traitors’ Gate early that morning, before the sun rose.”

  “But there is no access to the interior of the Tower from the river,” I said.

  “No, yet it is unusual to see someone at that time in that place. I would be delighted to take you to her.”

  St. Thomas’s Tower, built by Edward I and later named for the martyred Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, loomed above Traitors’ Gate. As I followed Lady Anna up the winding stone stairs that led to Mrs. Rillington’s home, I wondered what it would be like to live in such a structure. Darnley House, where I spent most of my youth, was comparatively modern, built mostly in the seventeenth century, and although Anglemore Park had sections that went back to the fifteenth century, it did not evoke history so strongly as the Tower of London. Imagine, if you will, looking out the window of your sitting room to see the Thames lapping up against the stones of Traitors’ Gate! Would you suspect every noise heard under cover of night to be the restless ghost of some unfortunate soul imprisoned in this place? The very thought gave me the most delicious chills.

  Mrs. Rillington, a pleasant middle-aged woman with bright eyes and hair styled in a manner popular during my childhood, greeted us warmly and welcomed us into her modest home. She might live in a castle, but tower rooms with no central heating and thick stone walls are far from cozy. She’d hung beautiful tapestries on either side of her windows, and a soft carpet underfoot gave the room a touch of color and warmth. It may seem incongruous to see a modern chintz divan in the middle of a medieval room, but what else is there to do? One must be comfortable at home. Lady Anna explained the reason for our visit, and Mrs. Rillington was happy to oblige.

  “It was quite odd, you see,” she began. “I hadn’t slept well that night. I suppose I had been affected by the queen’s death, as we all were. I had decided not to
try to see the funeral procession, as I knew the crush of people would be too much for me. Perhaps I was regretting that decision, or perhaps I was troubled by the loss of our monarch, but I sat up in bed at four o’clock in the morning, wide awake and unable to go back to sleep. Not wanting to disturb my husband, who hadn’t come off watch until nearly two o’clock, I slipped out of our room and made myself a cup of tea. I tried to read for a while, but couldn’t concentrate.”

  “Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?” Colin asked.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Hargreaves, that I wouldn’t know what sounds are ordinary at that time of the morning. Furthermore, one can’t hear much through these walls. They are far too thick! When the sun showed signs of rising, I decided to go for a little walk, just on the walls, you see.”

  “I can see the appeal,” I murmured and went to her narrow front window. Astonishing to have such a view, and eerie to think of Traitors’ Gate, just below.

  “I was about to get my coat when I noticed something, just from the corner of my eye,” she said. “It was a small vessel, an ordinary rowboat, with no distinguishing characteristics. I wondered who would be on the river so early—obviously, this wasn’t a fishing boat—and then noticed that no one was in it.”

  “You’re quite sure?” Colin asked.

  “There is no question of it,” she said. “It was most peculiar. I stood and watched for some time, but nothing else happened.”

  “Was the boat tied to anything?” I asked.

  “Not that I could see,” she said, “but the outer wall makes it difficult to tell.”

  “I want to be sure I’m clear,” Colin said. “The craft was floating beyond the outer wall, far enough away that you could see it in its entirety?”

  “Yes, just about,” Mrs. Rillington said. “It occasionally bobbed closer, compromising my view.”

  “But you never saw anyone or anything in it?” Colin asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  She sighed. “I’m afraid that’s where my story becomes anticlimactic. The boat had distracted me from taking a walk, and by then I had started to feel drowsy again. I fell asleep on the divan. When I woke up, the boat was gone.”

  “Do you recall what time it was when you first saw it? And then when you fell asleep and woke?” Colin asked.

  “I know the sun rose around half-seven,” she said. “But the sky would have started brightening before then. I suppose it could have been as early as half-six, but I’m not sure. I don’t know when I fell asleep, but I woke up a little before eight.”

  “I am most grateful that you took such careful notice of what was going on around you,” Colin said. “Have you seen anything else unusual over the course of the past few weeks? Anyone coming or going whom you did not recognize?”

  Mrs. Rillington shook her head. “No, life is quite ordinary in the Tower. More or less the same, day in and day out.”

  I found this statement a crushing disappointment, but I suppose one can get used to anything. “Have any of your neighbors or friends introduced you to new acquaintances? Someone who has, perhaps, started coming around to call on them recently?”

  “No, Lady Emily, I have not,” she said. “And at any rate, our visitors sign in and out at the gate. Not a good way to gain entrance to the Tower if one were bent on a nefarious errand.” Her eyes glimmered just a bit, and I wondered if she shared my fondness for sensational fiction.

  “What about secret passages?” I asked.

  “There seem to be an infinite number of them,” Lady Anna said. “Most aren’t so secret any longer, of course. Didn’t one of the other wives put together a little map of them?”

  Mrs. Rillington nodded. “It was several years ago, I believe, and her husband is not stationed here any longer. I didn’t pay much attention at the time, but if you’d like, Lady Emily, I can hunt down a copy and send it to you.”

  I thanked her profusely and we took our leave. Lady Anna reiterated her willingness to help us in any way possible and walked us back to Lion Gate. The rain had turned to sleet and then to snow and a vicious wind attacked us from the Thames. I expected Colin to bundle me into the carriage and take me home, but instead he took my hand and started for the embankment.

  “We need to find a boat.”

  1415

  16

  Cecily dressed for the evening meal with extra care that night, not because she was desirous of impressing Father Simon, but because she wanted him to look kindly on her and have something pleasant to report back to William. The priest’s arrival had distracted her from her concerns about Adeline, but only briefly, and before she went down to the hall to meet the others, she consulted the all-knowing Christine de Pizan for advice. She had debated consulting Father Simon. He was a priest, after all, who had offered his services as a confessor, and as he was one of William’s dearest friends, she knew him to be trustworthy. But section twenty-six of The Treasure of the City of Ladies, titled Of the young high-born lady who wants to plunge into a foolish love affair, and the instruction that Prudence gives to her chaperone, guided her otherwise:

  But she should not mention this situation for anything because of the perils and evils that could ensue from it. For whoever has a conscience and common sense ought indeed to dread making a report of such things to the husband or to friends or to anyone at all.

  Of course, Cecily was not Adeline’s chaperone. She was young and in a position that carried with it no power. Did this alter the situation significantly enough that she might reach out to someone else for aid and assistance? She closed the book and opened it again.

  The second cause that gives rise to slander is a wrong impression formed in something like the following manner: one person will have the idea that another is bad or at fault in something or in everything … on the flimsiest grounds she will misjudge and slander …

  Was this what she was doing? Misjudging Adeline, who, in the past few days, had begun to treat her with more kindness? Cecily had witnessed no sin in the forest. Adeline and Gabrieli were standing close, but not touching. It was Cecily who leapt to the conclusion—erroneous, she hoped—that there was some strong emotion between the two.

  But what of her prayer? Of the clear feeling that her divine purpose was to protect Adeline? Could she have misinterpreted that experience? Unsure of what to think, let alone what to do, she debated telling her friend a headache had come on and that she would not be down to dine. But she recognized the scheme for what it was: cowardice. She would go to the hall, she would eat, she might even dance, but she would not let down her guard. If she witnessed anything that might threaten Adeline’s reputation, she would intervene without hesitation. She would not, however, go looking for trouble.

  She took her seat at the high table, Father Simon between her and Adeline. Gabrieli was at a lower table, but nearby. He paid no attention to his host’s wife, and Cecily almost wondered if what she thought she had seen in the woods was nothing but a mirage. She had not, however, forgot the divine bargain she had made. She would keep Adeline on a righteous path, and God would protect her husband in France.

  * * *

  Thomas Morestede had not operated on the future king after he’d been wounded at Shrewsbury; his predecessor, John Bradmore, had that honor and more. He had developed the instrument necessary to remove the arrowhead buried in young Henry’s cheek. But Morestede was capable of performing the operation; as a young man, he had watched Bradmore at work, holding his breath with wonder and fear as he waited to see if the physician’s procedure would work. Never would he forget that miraculous day. Here, in France, he had tended to many battle wounds, but even more illness. He’d sent the king’s brother the Duke of Clarence back to England only a few days earlier, as His Grace was suffering terribly from the bloody flux. The patient lying before him now, William Hargrave, gave him the opportunity to serve the king in a manner that might bring about a satisfying result in a more expedient manner. I
f the operation succeeded. Morestede said a silent prayer for the man-at-arms upon whom he was about to operate.

  Hargrave’s injury, though in the same place as that the king had received, was not so deep. The knight’s recovery would be neither so agonizing nor so long as his sovereign’s. Morestede worked carefully, extracting the arrowhead using the tongs and screw of Bradmore’s invention. He cleansed the wound with wine and packed it with a mixture of flax soaked in a cleansing ointment, along with barley, bread, flour, and turpentine. The dressing would need to be changed regularly, but if infection didn’t set in, Hargrave would make a good recovery.

  But infection was rampant in a place like Harfleur, and the king’s physician wouldn’t be able to focus on one man’s treatment. There was hope, though, that Sir William Hargrave would be left with nothing more than a scar that mimicked his king’s and stories of the glorious battle that brought it.

  1901

  17

  Colin’s dash toward the embankment reminded me of the one I’d made previously, when I’d hired a ratty individual to take me out on the Thames during our first trip to the Tower. Sure enough, we were able to locate the same man with little effort. So far as I could tell, he had not moved from the spot on the dock where he’d tied his sad little boat when I’d last seen him. If he remembered me, he showed no sign of it.

  I had assumed Colin wanted to take the boat to the approximate location where Mrs. Rillington had seen one moored the morning of the murder, but now I realized that we also could be looking at the very boat used by the heinous killer. Could that explain why the man had balked when I had asked him to take me to Traitors’ Gate? Had he witnessed a gruesome scene that had haunted him ever since? Would he see we were trustworthy and that he could confide in us?

  The astute reader may wonder that I did not suspect the man himself of the crime. I could not imagine any scenario in which an individual who exhibited so little gumption and who so well emulated a sloth could be actively involved in such a violent death. Furthermore, even an idiot, after committing such an act, would know better than to remain at the scene of the crime day after day. Unless, of course, that was part of his cunning plan, designed to throw suspicion from him. Further scrutiny of the man confirmed my original judgment; cunning was not in his nature, and he was no murderer.