Queen's Ransom (30 page)

“And I might take off into the blue with the booty and use it to trade with the Shah of Persia,” said Jenkinson, nodding wisely. “I quite understand.”

“Of course I don’t think that! Sir Thomas assured me—”

“So you took up my references? Quite right,” said Jenkinson bluntly. “You’d have been a fool not to. Gresham spoke the truth,” he said candidly. “I’m trustworthy, as it happens, but where gold is concerned, it’s wise to trust as few people as possible.”

“It has nothing to do with not trusting you, but I must come. You need me, and anyway, if I don’t come, I shall go frantic with worry, waiting for you to return.”

“Very well. I will say no more. We shall take all the care that we can. You may as well go and get dressed. But do make sure,” added Master Jenkinson, “that you put your breeches on the right way round. I mention it, because you seem to be trying to study the works of Thomas Wyatt and Henry Howard upside down.”

I laughed shakily, and realized that it was true. For half an hour, I had been staring at a page of print without even noticing that I couldn’t read it. I had been too busy thinking.

We had decided that I would be more comfortable in men’s clothes and our shopping had also included a shirt, a pair of dark brown breeches, and a matching doublet, in sizes to fit me. Dale, who always rode astride, wore breeches when traveling as a matter of course and more than once, during my adventures on behalf of Sir William Cecil, I had thought that they would serve me better than skirts. I had never tried them before, however. I was surprised at the sense of freedom they gave me. Movement was suddenly easy. Dressed like this, I could climb a fence or swarm up a tree, leap up and down steps or in and out of boats with no fear of catching a heel in a hem. I had already stitched a pocket quickly into the doublet and transferred the contents of my hidden skirt pocket to it. My key ring was among them.

We set out at last. Klara had gone to bed, but the others all gathered at the river entrance to wish us luck. “Have we got everything?” I asked, finding myself inclined to whisper. “Cloaks? Lanterns? Bag of tools?”

“It’s all aboard, mistress,” Longman assured me. “Master Jenkinson doesn’t forget things,” he added reprovingly.

“There’s another testimonial for you,” said Jenkinson gallantly, and handed me into my boat.

It was a cool night. There was light from a waxing moon and from flambeaux mounted on poles, though the buildings on the bank cast deep shadows. There were a number of dwellings on the banks of this particular stream. Now and then, we saw candlelit windows and sometimes music and laughter drifted out across the water. A number of small boats were about. Our two boats blended into this world. Rowing along, Jenkinson and myself ahead and Longman following, we were neither hindered nor remarkable.

I wondered if the warehouse doors would still look blue after dark, but as we drew near, I saw that one of the flambeaux on poles was just beside our destination and the flame, streaming in a light breeze, showed the blue paint clearly. “There it is,” I said.

Jenkinson peered back over his shoulder. “There’s a craft coming toward us. When it’s gone past, the oarsmen will be facing our way. We’d better get into the shadow on the opposite side and wait until it’s out of sight.”

My stomach was churning with impatience and fright. It was anguish to be so near, yet still have to linger. The other boat was crammed with people who must have been to a party. They were singing. They broke off to call raucous good nights to us as they went by and we shouted cordial good nights back. Then Jenkinson steered us into a patch of deep darkness opposite the warehouse. Longman, glancing back for guidance, followed. We found a landing stage, and looped both painters around a bollard while we waited for the partygoers to recede far enough for safety.

They seemed to take forever, and of course, as soon as they had gone, two more craft appeared, going the other way. As they passed through the pool of light under the flambeau, I read the name of one of them,
Anna,
painted on its side. We had to wait for what seemed like a further century, until they, too, were out of sight.

After that, we still didn’t move. “What are we waiting for?” I whispered.

“The watch,” said Jenkinson. “I can see his lantern coming along the walkway. The authorities keep an eye on the warehouses after dark. He’ll have dogs.”

Another century or two went past before the man with the lantern and the two leashed mastiffs had paced steadily along the walkway from the farther end and gone past us. “He’ll go the length of the walkway, and then come back by way of the street on the other side of the warehouses,” Jenkinson said. “Let him get a little farther.” Again, we waited. The lantern receded. “Now!” said Jenkinson, unlooping our painter.

We pulled out into the stream. Longman came after us with the second boat. We crossed the waterway and bumped gently into the wooden landing stage attached to the warehouse we wanted. “Best move round to the side of the stage away from the light,” Jenkinson said softly, and hauled us hand over hand into the shadow that lay between our wooden platform and the stone jetty of the next-door warehouse, only a few feet away.

With both boats safely moored in the gap and virtually invisible to any passing craft, we climbed out onto the stage. “The key,” whispered Jenkinson.

I brought out the key ring. I could scarcely see it, but the key of the warehouse was a massive iron object with decorative wards, and bigger than any of the other keys on my ring. I found it by feel. Advancing on the warehouse door brought me into the light again. I made doubly sure that the key was the right one, and then pushed it into the lock.

The gleam of fresh new metal around the keyhole should have warned me. The key refused to turn.

Somebody had changed the lock.

I let out a sigh. I had kept the secret of my unlikely profession so long and so carefully, but now I could keep it no longer. While Jenkinson was saying: “We’ll either have to break the lock or get the door off its hinges and either way, I’m afraid it’ll make a noise,” I was fishing again in my pocket and bringing out the lock picks that had traveled all the way from England with me and had come on this expedition in my doublet’s pocket.

“Just a moment,” I said, and slid the wires into the keyhole. It was a long time since I had had occasion to use this particular skill, but it came back to me at once. Closing my eyes, I tried to see with my fingers, as I had been taught to do by the unkempt locksmith, gambler, and probably petty criminal who had been hired by Cecil to instruct me. I moved, pressed, jiggled, pressed again, and felt the lock yield. I slid a second wire in and then came a satisfying click and the door was open.

“There we are,” I said.

Jenkinson said: “I can’t believe what I’ve just seen. Mistress Blanchard, who or what are you? Where did you learn how to . . . ?”

“This is not the time to discuss my life history,” I said. “I was hard up and hard put to it to support life at court and also support my little daughter. Sir William Cecil offered to employ me to—make inquiries for him. I accepted. Gresham knows. He will vouch for me, just as he vouched for you.”

“Sir William Cecil . . . ?”

“Yes! Look, we can’t stand here on the landing stage all night, or until someone sees us and warns the watch. Come on!”

“Lead the way, Mistress Blanchard! Longman, stay and guard the boats. Dear God. I never thought to see such a thing in my whole life! Do you carry lock picks with you all the time—a respectable young woman like you?”

“Yes. And a dagger as well. Brockley lives in a constant state of scandalized amazement.” I pushed the door open. Beyond it was impenetrable darkness. Professional agent or not, I found it frightening. I was glad that Jenkinson was with me. “My work enables me to pay Brockley’s wages,” I said airily, forcing myself to a pretense of sangfroid, “but he doesn’t approve of the way I earn my living, not in the least. Where are the things we need? The lanterns, the tool bag, and the rest?”

“Pass them up, Longman. But be careful. Keep in the shadows.”

Stealthily, Longman handed up what we required. One of the lanterns had been lit before we started and carried in the bottom of Longman’s boat. Arming himself with this, Jenkinson moved boldly ahead of me into that terrifying blackness. Nervously, I followed him, closing the door after us. There were bolts on the inside. I shot them before we set about lighting the rest of the lanterns from the candle in the first.

The light was a relief, driving back the shadows. It showed us that the ground level of the warehouse was big and open, supported by a few timber pillars, with stone walls all around. There was a door on the opposite side. “That gives on the street,” I whispered.

Jenkinson crossed to look at it. Here, too, there were heavy bolts on the inside, and these had been shot home. “All secure,” he said, coming back to me. “We’ve been lucky. The last person to leave here must have gone out through the landing-stage door. We’d have been in trouble if whoever it was had used the street door and bolted the one we’ve just come in by. All the lock picks on earth wouldn’t have got us through it then. Ah. The place
is
in use, but there isn’t much here, all the same, which is fortunate.”

He was right. There were racks of shelving along one wall, and some of the shelves held bales of cloth. But not many, and there were no racks or bales out on the floor.

The owner must have rented the place out again when he learned that Gerald was dead, but whoever had taken it on was either doing poor business, or going through a lull between consignments.

“We’ve been very lucky indeed,” I said, shaken by new and awful possibilities. “If those shelves were full of eastern brocades or unpolished diamonds, we might have had a welcome from a private army of watchmen, with a whole pack of guard dogs!”

“Where now?” Jenkinson asked.

“Here,” I said. “It’s on this level, under these very floorboards. I need to find Gerald’s mark.”

Jenkinson used his lantern to scan the floor. “What sort of mark was it?”

I managed a tremulous jest. “Well, he didn’t chalk
Here Be
Treasure
on the floor! It was very small, and not quite in the middle of the room. Let me look.”

Taking a lantern, I moved to and fro, stooping. I had watched Gerald make the mark, and he had told me what he was doing. “I’m drawing a triangle with the tip of a knife. A very small one, only an inch across. It won’t cause any comment if anyone notices it. Boards in timber yards get marked for all sorts of reasons—to identify the buyer, if he’s leaving the wood there to season, or even to set a trap if there’s been pilfering and someone is suspected. If the board is stolen, the suspect’s premises will be searched and a marked board can be recognized.”

But what if the mark was gone? What if some of the boards had gone rotten and been replaced? What if . . . ?

No. None of the floorboards were new and all the nailheads were brown with rust. Holding up the lantern, I saw that I had moved too far toward the rear wall. I came forward again, bumped into a timber support, and remembered that wherever the hiding place was, it hadn’t been close to a support. I moved away, lowering the lantern again to scan the floor. Then I saw it. It was dark now with ground-in dust; it had been easier to see when it was new. But it was there; a triangle, an inch across.

“Got it,” I said.

Jenkinson came over and squatted down. Opening the tool bag, he attacked the nails of the marked board, digging at the wood around the nailheads with a sharp awl, and then wrenching the nails out with a clawhead hammer, shuffling along the length of the board in order to deal with them all. Then he produced chisels, and kneeling beside him, I helped him lever the board up. As we laid it aside, we paused. We could hear the ring of nailed boots approaching along the street. The watch was on his way back, along the street side of the warehouses. We lowered our lanterns out of sight into the cavity, in case a gleam of light should show through any crevice, and waited, motionless, until the footsteps had gone past.

Then we looked into the cavity to see what our lanterns had to show us.

I had been right to think that it was too shallow for such bulky items as two-foot-high salts, but Gerald hadn’t let that worry him. Beneath the floorboards were joists, and below the joists was an older floor of cobbles. It must have been hard work, but Gerald and his servant, John Wilton, had dug some of the cobbles up to make a square hole with sufficient depth, and into this, several bulging sacks had been stuffed. To get at them, we had to shift two more floorboards. Then we hauled out the first sack. It was very heavy. Jenkinson cut the cord that tied its neck and we pulled out a linen-swathed object that we carefully unwrapped. A gold dish, elegantly chased around the rim and with a crested bird engraved in the middle, lay gleaming warmly in the lantern light.

Jenkinson yanked out a second sack. This proved to contain what Gerald’s inventory had described as sundry small costly ornaments, total value approximately seven hundred pounds. I whispered this information to Jenkinson and we examined them together, concluding that they had been undervalued and were probably worth nearer to a thousand pounds than seven hundred. I had seen them before, once, but I had never handled them and had not remembered what they were like. They were in linen bags, some of which contained sets of pieces, all wrapped individually to keep them from abrading one another. The sets included several little gold figurines of pilgrims, and a lady’s toilet set of silver, crystal, and white jade, complete with silver manicure tools and three tortoiseshell combs.

Other bags held a pretty gold box with an enameled pattern on the lid, a ruby pendant on a gold chain, a silver cup, small but exquisitely chased, and last of all, a chess set, the board made of polished woods, the chessmen of ivory, so intricately carved that when I picked one up to examine it closely, I gasped.

“They’re so delicate!” I touched the chessmen gently, half afraid of damaging them.