The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) (22 page)

It was opened for us before we got there, by a beefy young man who looked faintly familiar. Oh yes, I thought, of course. He was the assistant who had come with Mew to court, and carried the musical box for him. He must have been on the lookout for potential customers. As we followed him inside, I heard Brockley mutter something to him, and I sensed that Brockley had stiffened. I turned to him to ask why, but read a warning in his eyes. I had better wait until we could be private. However, if something had alerted Brockley, then I too must be alert. I looked keenly about me as we stepped into the shop.

It was in good order, strewn with fresh rushes.
There was a counter, with stools for customers, and the wall behind the counter had shelves, displaying various timepieces.

On our left, a staircase led upwards, and beside it hung a big, ornate clock, set in a gilt surround featuring heraldic creatures and extraordinary curlicues. It had a pale blue enamelled face with gold hands and golden Roman figures, and its works—its weights and wheels and pendulum, also gilded—hung glittering below, complex and beautiful, like a celebration of machinery.

I noticed that the windows and doors of the shop were well provided with bolts and shutters. Under the window, a chubby apprentice, fair and blue eyed as a cherub although marred by acne, sat at a table, concentrating on an arrangement of tiny cogwheels.

Wylie stepped behind the counter, and stood resting proprietory hands on it. “How can I help you, ladies, sir?”

Brockley took command. “Is Mr. Barnabas Mew here?”

“Mr. Mew is at his ledgers, but I am his journeyman assistant: Joseph Wylie, at your service.” He was an odd sort of clockmaker, I thought. It was a trade which seemed to call for neatness, patience and the deft handling of small mechanisms, but, as before, Wylie’s doublet was strained over his broad shoulders, and the fingers now spread on the counter were as thick as farmhouse sausages. His black hair fell into his protuberant brown eyes, and his face displayed the high flush of short temper.

This temper flickered in his voice as he barked, “Timothy, set a stool for the lady!” at the cherubic
apprentice, who sprang to obey with a speed which suggested nervousness. “Did you wish to commission a clock?” enquired Mr. Wylie.

“No. We wish to see Mr. Mew.” Brockley was firm. “Mistress Ursula Blanchard, lady-in-waiting to the Queen, desires to see him personally.”

“Mistress Blanchard!” There were doors in the walls behind the counter and Mew now came scurrying through one of them, eager and smiling. He must have heard Brockley asking for him. “I am most honoured! But what brings you all the way here when we were bound to meet so soon at Lockhill? I am returning there tomorrow. Did you not know?”

“Tomorrow? No, I didn’t know,” I said, more or less truthfully, relieved that I had moved so fast. “But it makes no odds. I . . .”

“Set the stool there, Timothy. Do be seated, mistress.”

“I am anxious for a private word with you, Mr. Mew,” I said clearly. “Do you have a room for confidential business?” I let my eyes go to the door through which he had come. “Meanwhile, perhaps my waiting-woman might sit down. Take the stool, Dale. Dale,” I explained to Mr. Mew, “felt unwell on the way here. Brockley can stay with her.”

Mr. Mew eyed Dale with some alarm. “Er . . . what is the malady? Has she a fever?”

“No, just a headache,” I said. “Horse travel doesn’t suit her. But headaches can be unpleasant. I have them myself sometimes. Could she sit here while we . . . er . . . talk?”

“Oh, of course, of course. As long as you are sure
that there is nothing, well, nothing contagious. Of course, it isn’t the plague season yet but—”

“I’ve not got plague!” said Dale indignantly. She caught my eye and put a hand to her brow. “It’s just a bad headache. I can’t abide horse-riding for any distance, that’s all.”

“Perhaps a tisane of camomile or marjoram?” I suggested. “Surely there’s an apothecary nearby?” I know there was: I’d seen one in Peascod Street.

“Maybe the lad could run out to him, if so,” Brockley said helpfully. “I’d sooner stay with Fran. She’s my wife, as it happens.”

“Oh, by all means. Timothy, make haste to Master Humfrye’s shop and tell him a preparation is needed for a lady with a bad head due to travelling. What was it you said, Mrs. Blanchard? Camomile or . . .”

“Marjoram,” I said. “Or both. Here’s some money.” I pressed a few coins into the hand of the spotty cherub and watched with satisfaction as he departed. That had got rid of the apprentice, anyway. “Now, Master Mew . . . ?”

“Oh, yes. Would it be on the Queen’s business?” His voice fell to an eager whisper. “Wylie, mind the shop! Through here!” said Mr. Mew, beckoning me round the end of the counter to the door which I had guessed led to his office.

Once there, I continued to glance sharply about me while Mr. Mew dusted another stool for me to sit on, and begged me to tell him how he could be of service.

He evidently took trouble to make his shop welcoming for customers, but out of their sight, paid little attention to comfort. The back room was a dismal
place. Its plain brick walls were adorned only by a dull hanging of painted cloth, over part of the wall on the right-hand side. The hearth was lit, but only with a small fire which did little to relieve the cold, and the window overlooked a regrettably untidy garden.

I was interested, though, in a long shelf which held ledgers and a box with a brass lock. Also of interest to me was the table in the middle of the room, where lay an open ledger and various other documents. A casual tilt of my head told me that they were bills and invoices.

“I’m not here directly on the Queen’s business,” I said, “but it springs from that presentation you made to the Queen—the musical box, I mean. You yourself wish that to remain confidential, I believe? That is why I wanted to see you here, and not at Lockhill. I want to give my little daughter a music box as a present. I can’t afford gold, but perhaps you could suggest something less costly which would still look pleasing? If it were satisfactory, and were shown about at court . . . well, who knows who else might want one? Perhaps Her Majesty might!”

“Oh yes, of course.” Mew was plainly disappointed that Her Majesty wasn’t ordering one forthwith, but he rallied. Business was business. “The casing could be polished wood, or silver or bronze. Personally, I think that wood, with a pleasant grain, is as charming as anything. I could make a musical box in polished walnut, with gold hinges, perhaps.”

There was a pause. Mr. Mew presumably supposed me to be visualising a walnut box with gold hinges. I pursed my lips and looked doubtful. “Could you give me a quote for walnut, and also for a silver casing?”

Mr. Mew picked up a slate from his desk and did some calculations, while I strained my ears for sounds from the shop, wondering what on earth Dale was doing, or rather, why she wasn’t doing it. Get on with it, Dale! Mr. Mew came up with some figures. “Well, I could just afford the silver,” I said doubtfully, “but it is rather costly. Perhaps I could see an example of a walnut casing . . . whatever’s that?”

Outside in the shop, someone was moaning. There came a thud, and then Brockley called me, his voice urgent. I rushed to the door and flung it wide. Dale was lying on the floor in a most artistic faint with Brockley crouched beside her and Wylie gazing down at them in alarm. Brockley shook Dale, whose head lolled unresponsively, and looked up at me with a convincing air of fright.

“Madam, she’s collapsed! My wife’s collapsed! She just slid off the stool and—”

“Oh, my goodness. Carry her into the office. What if a customer comes in and sees her lying on the floor like that?” Mew could hardly have been more obliging. “Wylie, take her feet . . .”

“Brockley and I will manage,” I said. “Mr. Mew, would you or Mr. Wylie go after your boy and tell the apothecary what has happened? If we wait for Timothy to come back, there’ll be delay. Ask the apothecary what he advises!”

“But, surely, madam, if you were to send your man . . .”

“I can’t leave Fran while she’s like this!” said Brockley, sounding convincingly like a panic-stricken husband, if not altogether like a respectful manservant.

“No, no, of course you mustn’t! Help me into the office with her. He’s her
husband,
Mr. Mew, and we’ve never seen her like this before!
Please
go to the apothecary or send Mr. Wylie. One of you can still guard the shop,” I added, ruthlessly organising Mew’s business for him.

“And you know where the apothecary is. I don’t!” Brockley said, as he and I bore the sagging Dale through the door of the office. “Hurry, man! Fran, Fran, wake up! Oh, madam, what can be the matter with her?”

“Lay her here.” We set Dale on the floor and I took off my mantle and folded it tenderly under her head. “Oh, Mr. Mew, please do
something
about asking the apothecary what to do! Or fetch a doctor!”

Between us, we gave Mew little chance to argue. He found himself, willy-nilly, leaving the shop to Wylie and rushing off in the wake of his spotty-faced apprentice. I shut the door between us and the shop, and there we were, with the back room to ourselves. Dale sat up and Brockley helped her to her feet.

“Well done!” I said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Dale rather stiffly, but she did look quite pleased with herself.

In a low voice, Brockley said, “Madam, there’s something you should know. It’s about that Joseph Wylie.”

“Yes. Something caught your attention as we came into the shop,” I said. “What is it?”

“I’ve seen him before. Madam, he was your muffled-up boatman, the day you were told you were going to meet Mr. de la Roche and you were taken to that boathouse.”

“What?” I stared at him and Dale’s mouth opened. “How can you tell?” I said. “He was wrapped up like Cleopatra in a carpet!”

“When he got up and handed you into his boat, I saw his back view. I recognised the set of his shoulders. I recognised his voice, too. It’s him all right.”

“Oh, my God!” said Dale, and turned white.

Brockley looked as though he would like to seize my arm in one hand and Dale’s in the other and run us straight out of the building. I felt just as horrified as they obviously did, although I had been suspecting Mew of worse than mere abduction, as had Brockley. But we were here now.

“So we know we’re in the right place,” I said. “Don’t let’s waste any more time. Quickly. Search!”

They looked at me, but I stood my ground and they obeyed me. Both were reasonably literate and I set them to looking through the bills and invoices for anything that didn’t seem quite right for a clockmaker, such as huge quantities of metal, or payments for mysterious services rendered. “Or to messengers to or from France—or for any mention of France at all,” I said.

I turned my own attention to the shelves. Here, the most inviting target was the box. It was locked. Now, for the very first time, I needed the skills acquired from Alexander Bone.

I at once discovered that theory and reality are two quite different things. No matter how carefully you practise a skill, the first time the real world asks you to do it, you find yourself dealing with the unexpected. Master Bone had left me six lockable boxes to practise
on, with locks of varying sizes and designs, but this one seemed to be nothing like any of them. My hands shook with nerves as I probed and nothing either moved or gave way. I tried first one pick and then another, in vain, cursing silently at the waste of time.

I was about to give in and give up when I felt something yield, fractionally. Holding my breath, I pressed harder and slid a second wire in. I forced myself to be calm. The lock clicked softly and surrendered.

The result was hardly worth the trouble. All the box contained was a copy of the lease under which Barnabas held his premises. I noted that extensive cellars were listed in the description of the property and wondered where the entrance to them was.

Disappointed, I closed the box. I tried but failed to lock it again, and stopped trying, for fear of doing damage. I stepped to the table and picked up the ledger. “Anything?” I asked the others, in a low voice.

“I fear not,” said Brockley. “What about you, Fran?”

Dale, who was peering at a pile of invoices, shook her head, then she stiffened, listening. “That’s the street door!”

Brockley pushed his wife down on to the stool, and rapidly arranged her with her elbow on the table and her head in her palm. Outside in the shop, we could hear Mr. Mew’s voice, giving orders to someone.

Brockley took up an anxious stance behind his wife. “Madam!” he said to me in a fierce undertone. “Put that ledger down!”

It was too late. The ledger was still in my hands when Barnabas Mew scurried back into his office, carrying
a glass phial and a spoon. He looked at me in amazement.

I retrieved the situation as best I could, with a bright smile and an anxious apology. “I’m so sorry!” I said. “I am incurably inquisitive. How neatly you keep your ledgers, Mr. Mew! You write a pretty hand, I must say.” I could feel Brockley boiling but I ignored him. “Do forgive me! I used to help an uncle of mine with his ledgers and I can see that your records are in perfect order. Could the apothecary help? Dale has come round, as you see, but she is still very out of sorts.”

Barnabas held out the phial. “The apothecary says it’s best taken in a little warmed wine. My maidservant’s heating some in the kitchen. The draught won’t do any harm, even if the lady is with child,” he added.

Dale blushed and Brockley said, “Well, I never thought of that.”

“What a happy thing, if so!” I said brightly.

There was a tap at the door, and in came a young maidservant, stirring a filled goblet and hoping that the wine would be warm enough. We all fussed and exclaimed while Mew added the medicine to the drink and gave it to Dale, who choked and spluttered and said she didn’t like the taste.

“It seems to be bringing you back to life,” I said consolingly. “Now, you sit there while I talk to Mr. Mew and settle what I’m ordering; then we’ll go to an inn and you can rest. We won’t start home until after dinner tomorrow, Dale. That will give you plenty of time to recover. Mr. Mew, I think I’ll face the expense and buy my daughter a music box in silver. Goodness
me,” I said, smiling sweetly at him, “what a worry it must be, having to keep supplies of precious metals to hand. Do you keep them here? And do you also keep copper and tin ingots on the premises, to make bronze?”