A Traitor's Tears (18 page)

Gladys always kept a supply of ingredients for her various potions and after a brief look at Harry, I sent her to make a fever-reducing drink for him. I coaxed him to take it, though he didn't like the taste and spluttered and made faces. As Tessie had said, he was fretful and feverish. When I took his hand, it felt alarmingly hot.

‘I'll stay with him,' I said. ‘I'll have my supper here. Sybil, perhaps you would take over from me for two or three hours after that. I'll get some rest then, and after that I'll spend the night here. Tessie, you can have a good night's sleep in my bed; then you can be with him for most of tomorrow. If we can get him to eat, he'd better have something soft for supper; bread in hot milk with a little honey, perhaps.'

It was a long, worrying night. I sat by Harry all through the hours of darkness, watching by the light of an oil lamp. It wasn't a good enough light to let me keep awake by doing embroidery but I had a book of verse, printed in a strong black ink, and read some of that from time to time. Every now and then, I got up to give Harry a drink of milk. He was restless, but he had been able to swallow a little supper and he did sleep intermittently. In the morning, however, he was still feverish and as soon as there was enough daylight to let me see properly, I realized that he had a rash.

It was all over his face, small pink spots. He kept rubbing them and whimpering.

‘I think they itch,' I said to Tessie and Sybil when they came to relieve me and bring Harry some more bread and milk with honey. ‘Ask Gladys for something to soothe that. What is it, do you think? Is it measles?' Children had to have these things, I thought, and remembered hearing that children sometimes recovered faster than adults, and that one couldn't catch measles twice.

I also knew that children didn't always recover. Measles didn't often kill, but it could happen.

Sybil had sat down by the bed and was spooning the bread mixture into Harry's mouth. ‘I don't know what it is, but I don't think he's dangerously feverish. I had an illness like this when I was about ten. My mother called it the Little Measles. It's a mild kind, too mild to stop you from getting the other sort of measles, but my mother said it wasn't serious. If this is the same, then he'll be better in a few days.'

The day passed. Harry continued to take small quantities of food and Gladys duly made an ointment that seemed to soothe the discomfort of the rash which had started to spread over his body. But he was miserable and we kept watch over him constantly. I stayed with him again that night, but this time got some sleep on Tessie's small bed.

It was a broken sleep, but not because of Harry, who this time was peacefully in dreamland, breathing evenly. The nursery rooms were on the top floor, and were above the courtyard. What roused me was the sound of Sandy barking. He stopped after a few moments, however, and I dropped back into unconsciousness, only to be woken up again a little later, because he was now whining, as though in pain and I could hear Simon's voice, talking to him. Evidently Simon had been awakened as well, and had got up to see what was amiss. Well, he would deal with whatever it was. Once more, I settled down.

In the morning, Harry was definitely less feverish and the rash on his face seemed to be drying up, which was encouraging. But when Sybil came with Harry's breakfast, her face was grave.

‘Simon came to the kitchen while I was there and told me some sorry news. Sandy's dead. He fell ill during the night. He started crying and Simon went to him, and found him lying down, whining and dribbling from his mouth. He died a few minutes later.

‘Oh, poor Sandy! He was still hardly more than a puppy!' I was truly saddened. I had liked the young animal very much. He had all the makings of a reliable but not vicious guard dog. ‘What about Hero?'

‘Hero's all right but she's had years to learn sense. Simon says that Sandy was a young dog and greedy and would gobble up anything even vaguely edible. Arthur Watts took the dogs out into the woods yesterday and let them run; very likely, Sandy ate something he shouldn't. Christina did say that he'd eat anything.'

‘Tell Simon to bury him, somewhere in the grounds.
Poor
Sandy!' He had been calling for help when he woke me the first time, by barking. The second time, he had just been crying in distress, as dogs will.

‘It seems,' I said to Sybil, ‘that troubles never come on their own; they always arrive in a downpour. What next, I wonder?'

We didn't have to wait long to find out. It came the very next night. Harry was much better, and although I had meant once more to spend the night in the nursery, Tessie said that I was surely tired and that she would be happy to stay with him instead, sleeping on her usual bed while I returned to mine. So at the last minute, I went down to my own room, which was on the floor below the nursery, next to the bedchamber used by Dale and Brockley, who were already abed by the time I reached my room. Sybil slept in the one on the other side of me. Gladys, Wilder and the other servants were on the same floor, though some distance away, above the kitchen regions, and on the far side of the main staircase.

It was a beautiful night; clear and lit by a full moon, bright enough to drown the stars close to it. It silvered the garden and shone into the bedchambers. Some people believe that to sleep in the moonlight can cause madness but Hugh and I liked it and on moonlit nights we often had the bed curtains open and the windows unshuttered. Brockley and Dale, over the years, had adopted the same habit. Dale was a little nervous of it at first, I knew, but Hugh's continued sanity and mine finally convinced her that there was no danger.

That night was warm, and I pushed my window open, to let in air, and the sweet scents of the rose garden outside. Then I lay down and Tessie had been right to say that I was tired for I fell asleep immediately. But some time in the small hours, I was summoned back to wakefulness, by bumps and bangs in the Brockleys' room, accompanied by terrified screams from Dale, and Brockley's voice, cursing.

I hurled myself out of bed. In the past, I had heard Dale and Brockley quarrel, but screams and crashes had never occurred before. I rushed barefoot from the room, slinging a dressing robe round me as I went and shouting to know what the matter was.

The Brockleys' door was shut, but I thrust it open without ceremony and then froze on the threshold. The moonlight, streaming through the open window, showed me the room clearly, without colour, but with ample detail. The bed had been thrust askew and one of its curtains hung at a haphazard angle, partly torn from its rings. Dale was sitting up in the bed, clutching the sheet to her and still screaming in fright while Brockley, in his nightshirt, was up, flourishing a sword and in the act of flinging himself towards the window, where, for one fleeting second, I glimpsed something moving, as though something or someone had scrambled out through the casement and was just letting go of the sill as they made their escape.

‘Brockley!' I shouted. Ignoring me, he reached the window and leant out of it, bellowing imprecations. ‘
Brockley!
' I shouted again.

This time he turned and at once made towards me. ‘Where did you spring from, madam? I thought you were still upstairs! Fran, be quiet!' Dale's screams sank down and melted into sobs. ‘Madam, let me by! The window was open and a man got through and he had a knife. He's fled the same way but I'm going after him!'

‘No, don't! He might kill you!' Dale shrieked. Brockley, unheeding, thrust me out of his way, but pulled up short as a crowd of people surged towards the door. Sybil had rushed from her room, while Wilder, John Hawthorn, the maid Phoebe and the two Floods, in various states of undress, had all come pelting from their quarters, clutching candles and wide-eyed with alarm.

‘Our window was open. We heard shouts and screams …' The Floods were not young, and Joan's candle was wobbling wildly because her hand was shaking. At her side, her husband Ben was not much better.

‘I looked out – there's a ladder up to your room, Brockley!' That was Hawthorn.

‘There's been an intruder!' Brockley shouted. ‘Get out of my way!'

‘An intruder?' Wilder said. ‘He'll be well away by now if he got out by the window and down that ladder.'

‘He had a knife!' said Brockley furiously, ‘and we've got to get after him! Wilder, Hawthorn, come on!'

‘Barefoot and in nightshirts?' protested Sybil.

‘There's no point,' I said. ‘Wilder's right, he'll have made good his escape by now. He'll be a mile off before you get out there – had a horse nearby, as like as not. Let's just be thankful no one's hurt.'

Brockley muttered something under his breath, but there were too many people blocking his path and he abandoned the chase, though unwillingly. I looked at the sword, which he was still holding. ‘Do you always sleep with a blade to hand?'

‘Life in your service has sometimes been perilous, madam,' said Brockley dryly. He went towards the bed, picked up the scabbard which was lying on the floor, sheathed the sword and laid it on a chair.

We had all now crowded into the room. Sybil had gone to Dale and was comforting her and my massively built chief cook was looking curiously at Brockley's weapon. ‘You need a meat cleaver rather than that,' John Hawthorn remarked. ‘Something you wouldn't have to waste time unsheathing in an emergency. And could use easily at close quarters. I've got a spare; you can have it if you like.'

‘I prefer the sword. It kept him at arm's length tonight,' said Brockley.

‘A cleaver's heavy and if it's crude, well, it don't need much skill to kill with it. Believe me …'

‘Will you two stop arguing about weaponry!' shrieked Dale. ‘Have men no sense?'

‘Brockley, just what happened?' I said.

The answer told us little. A sound had awoken both Brockley and Dale, and they had opened their eyes to see a man climbing through the window, which they had left open for coolness, just as I had done. ‘He had a knife in his teeth,' Dale said, her voice shaking. ‘The moon shone on the blade. He had something dark over his face.'

‘So I sprang out of bed and the sword was on the chair where I always leave it. I snatched it up,' said Brockley, ‘and drew it and went for him. He dodged and the sword caught in a bed curtain and when I wrenched it free, I dragged half the curtain off its rings. He threw the knife at me … where is it?'

‘I've just kicked something,' said Phoebe. She peered at the floor, holding her candle low. ‘Yes! It's here!'

Hawthorn picked it up and handed it to Brockley. ‘Yes,' Brockley said. ‘He threw it at me, I flung myself aside – I crashed against the bed and knocked it sideways, and the knife fell on the floor. And then the fellow, whoever he was, lost his nerve and bolted for it. He was up on the window seat and slithering over the sill and out of the window in a trice and then you came in …'

‘Did you recognize him?' I said. ‘The moon's bright enough.'

‘He was masked. That's the something dark that Fran saw.'

Hawthorn said, ‘We all need something to steady our nerves. Where's Gladys?'

‘Slept through it, I fancy,' I said. ‘But a serving of wine will do. Wilder?'

‘At once, madam.' Wilder disappeared, taking Phoebe with him. I, seized suddenly by a new fear, called to Sybil to let Brockley look after Dale, and we went in haste, up to the nursery to make sure that Harry was safe. But the nursery was peaceful. If any sounds had carried there, they hadn't woken Harry or Tessie, who were both sleeping quietly. Once assured that they were unharmed, we crept away and went back to the others.

Reaction had set in. People had sat wearily down wherever they could; on the wide window seat, on the bed, on the stool in front of Dale's mirror. Wilder and Phoebe had brought the wine. We all had some and then I sent most of my household back to their rooms. But Brockley and Hawthorn and I stayed up for the rest of the night, while Dale, reassured by our company, once more fell asleep.

In the morning, we were all tired and jaded, but after breakfast, Brockley asked for a private, serious word with me.

‘I was going to say the same to you,' I told him. ‘Come outside. We will walk round the garden and hope the fresh air will wake us up properly.'

‘I want to say,' said Brockley as we walked among Hugh's roses, ‘that I don't think now that Sandy died because he ate something unhealthy in the woods. I think someone poisoned him. So that he wouldn't bark and warn us of an intruder. Hero wasn't poisoned. What do you make of that?'

I was slow-witted with tiredness. ‘What is there to make of it? I don't understand what you're trying to say, Brockley. Perhaps she wouldn't eat the meat because she smelt that something was wrong with it. If there ever was any poisoned meat.'

‘Perhaps. But it's my opinion,' said Brockley, ‘that Sandy was poisoned because whoever did it, meant to return to attack someone here and knew that Sandy would give the alarm, but Hero wouldn't. Which means that whoever came through my window last night was someone Hero knew. You know she only gives a little
wuff
if the person smells familiar.'

‘But …' Inside myself, I had begun to shake. ‘Who …? And who was meant to be murdered? Suppose whoever it was came in through the wrong window? Suppose he was really looking for me? Could this be anything to do with Jane Cobbold?'

‘I'm inclined to think so. It would be a wild coincidence if it were otherwise, don't you think, madam?'

‘But …'

‘The intended victim could have been me, of course,' Brockley said. ‘If someone wanted me to be blamed for murdering Mistress Cobbold and was afraid, when I was released, that after all, the finger was going to be pointed elsewhere – at him, perhaps! Maybe I was to be found, dead by my own hand because I was truly guilty and had despaired of escaping the gallows or else was riddled with remorse. Perhaps I would be discovered with my fingers clasped round the hilt of the knife that had been driven into my heart while I slept.'