The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) (6 page)

I studied the letter once more. “He says he believes that he has found traces of a scheme to assist the cause and ambitions of Mary Stuart. He then goes on to say, ‘I cannot yet be sure whose brain has hatched the scheme or in what it consists, but I shall soon go again to the Masons at Lockhill and will attempt to discover more.’ Sir William, I can hardly credit—”

“That this could concern the Masons whom you know?” said Lady Mildred. “But they are Catholic supporters.”

“They contributed money,” said Cecil levelly, “to train priests for the purpose of undermining our Anglican regime. That’s almost treason in itself.”

“They wouldn’t have thought of it like that,” I said. “I’ve worried about them ever since last year, and others like them. Some of the Catholic supporters I met were such good people, really, so likeable. I never enquired what happened to any of them, but I’ve thought about them often. I liked Ann Mason especially. She has a difficult life.”

“I daresay. In fact, the authorities agreed with you
in the main. Most of the people you visited on your journey were left alone. We didn’t even fine them. The only exception was your own uncle, who really had gone too far, and even he hasn’t come to much harm. He’ll be released from the Tower soon. His gout is causing anxiety and the council are willing to be merciful, now that he has had a good shock. I assure you, neither the Queen nor the council are anxious to interfere in the small activities of ordinary households, even when they’re giving money for dubious purposes. However, this suggests something more than a charitable dropping of coins into a begging bowl.”

“But . . . you must have made enquiries about the Masons . . . and others . . . ?” I said. “Surely, if anything were wrong . . .” My voice trailed away.

“Yes, we made enquiries,” Cecil agreed. “We looked discreetly into the affairs of the Masons and the others who contributed to the cause of training priests. We were merciful, but not careless! The Masons were reported to be loyal and harmless, despite their preference for Catholic forms of worship. This information is a complete surprise. However, for some time, I have thought that
something
was going on somewhere—something quite different from Dudley or the ex-councillors. It’s not unexpected. The fact that Mary Stuart is no longer queen of France, but believes herself to be queen of England strikes me as alarming. She’s at large on the political landscape like a panther escaped from a menagerie . . .”

My mind was now disturbed for Ann Mason’s sake as well as mine, but this made me laugh. Lady Mildred laughed, too. Cecil gave us both a pained look.

“Mary Stuart is a living invitation to intrigue. I was never quite sure how competent the man was whom I sent to investigate the Masons. He’s been withdrawn now. My doubts were probably justified! Let us get back to the matter in hand. There have been indications. To begin with, there is a Dr. Ignatius Wilkins. You won’t have heard of him, but he was a priest in Queen Mary’s day and incidentally denounced two of his parishioners as heretics and got them burned.”

“His own parishioners?” I said.

“Yes. Ordinary people, a weaver and his daughter—the daughter was only nineteen.” Cecil’s eyes were angry. “They couldn’t believe that bread and wine could mysteriously turn into flesh and blood, and said so, and they couldn’t believe either that anyone would want to hurt them for being, as they saw it, honest. They said it wouldn’t be honest to pretend they believed something when they didn’t. Rob Henderson, your Meg’s guardian, was in their town by chance and he saw them die. Not of his own choice; he was caught up in a crowd. He told me afterwards how he saw their faces through the smoke, full of terror and bewilderment that this could be happening to them . . . he didn’t stay until the end.

“Enough of that. It’s all over. They can’t be brought back.” Cecil pushed his emotions down. “Wilkins is no longer a parish priest. He gave up his parish two years ago, because he is Catholic and could not accept the Anglican form of worship. He has been watched, so we know a good deal about him. He now runs a school in High Wycombe. It isn’t a very good school. Dr. Wilkins, in fact, is hard up.”

I had been reminded of Aunt Tabitha and Uncle Herbert, and that ghastly, gloating description of a man dying in torment. It had left a mark on me. Before then, living as I did in the power of my uncle and aunt, I had feared them, but after that, I began to hate them, for they had filled my mind with images which polluted it and spoiled my joy in innocent things. Never, since then, had I been able to enjoy that characteristic scent of autumn, the woodsmoke of the November garden bonfire. I would breathe it in once—and then Uncle Herbert’s face, full of hateful pleasure, and Uncle Herbert’s loathsome voice, uttering loathsome words, would force their way into my mind. Even a warm and friendly hearth would disturb me if it smoked, and blew the smell out into the room. I thought of the weaver and his daughter and wished that Dr. Wilkins were not merely hard up, but starving in a ditch. I took a mouthful of quiche and had to struggle to swallow it.

Cecil was continuing. “For a man who is far from well off,” he said, “Dr. Wilkins has been splashing money about in a most remarkable way. Ursula—this is not a change of subject—just look once more at our new wallhangings. Not at the tapestries this time, but at the carpet to your left.”

I did so. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Is it Persian?”

“It is indeed,” said Lady Mildred. “We bought that from Bernard Paige, just as we bought the tapestries. It came by way of Turkey and Venice, as all goods from Persia do. It was somewhat expensive, just over . . .”

I was still trying to eat my quiche. The sum she named made me choke again.

“Oh yes,” said Cecil. “It’s silk, made from thousands
on thousands of tiny knots. It would never come cheap, although if we could arrange some direct commerce with the source, which doesn’t involve the Venetians
and
the Turks taking a cut, the prices of such goods might come down a little. The council is discussing the possibility, as a matter of fact. We fell in love with that carpet, I fear. We were in an extravagant mood. So, apparently, was Ignatius Wilkins, who was in the same warehouse at the same time. He, too, bought a Persian carpet, but believe me, Dr. Ignatius Wilkins just can’t afford that sort of thing.”

“Has he been asked where the money came from?” I enquired.

“Yes. I did that myself—a casual question there and then in the warehouse. You must be doing well, to afford a purchase like that, my friend. He said he’d been lucky at cards.”

I recalled the cost of Cecil’s own carpet and said, “If he was that lucky, he’s been cheating.”

“Or lying,” said Cecil. “And being paid, extremely well, for services unknown. That’s one example. There are others. A few words overheard at a dinner party for instance: a cryptic comment to the effect that Mary Stuart might be nearer to the English throne than most people realised.”

Elizabeth had called herself slender and brittle. I thought of her, of her pale shield of a face, her glittering dress and slim, jewelled fingers, her intelligence. And her fears. She had said she was a bulwark to England, but she was just one person, she had told me, just one life. Her life, her good name, stood between the realm and . . .

The smell of smoke. I shuddered.

“You don’t think Jackdaw died by accident, do you?” I said.

“No,” said Cecil. “It was a wonder that he was found, you know. The current in the Thames runs at a deep level. When people fall into the river by accident, they are often swept downstream underwater and straight out to sea. However, found he was, and there was an inquest. The verdict was accidental death, but . . .”

“But?”

“He was an experienced boatman; the evening was calm; and he had claimed to be on the track of a plot against the Queen. How does it sound to you? Incidentally, at the inquest, Dawson’s landlady—a very decent woman, sixty years of age—said that she had gone out that evening to call on a neighbour and that when she came back, she had a queer feeling that someone had been in the house—that objects had been moved. Dawson’s pedlar’s stock, which he kept in boxes in his room, looked stirred up, she said, though Dawson himself was a tidy man. But she also said that nothing had been stolen and the jury dismissed it as all her fancy.”

“It would be rather a coincidence,” I said, “if someone really had entered that house on the night that Dawson died, but had no connection with his death.”

“Exactly,” said Cecil, “and I distrust coincidences. The jury, of course, knew nothing of Dawson’s secret activities. It seems to me that someone wanted to be rid of him, and that they searched his room for any record he had made—of discoveries at Lockhill, perhaps.”

There was another pause, then, from the neck of his gown, Cecil pulled out what seemed to be a pendant of some kind, and lifted it over his head. He handed it across the table to me. “Look at this.”

It was a silver chain, from which hung a silver coin, a groat, with a hole drilled through it to take the chain. The date on the coin was 1546, near the end of the reign of King Henry. I turned it over in my hand, puzzled.

“It was given to me in a handful of change years ago,” Cecil said. “I kept it to remind me of what needs to be done to make England truly prosperous. You yourself, Ursula, know what it is to be hard up, but your money would have gone further if it had been good money. Look at that groat closely. Can you see that it’s discoloured?”

I examined it. He was quite right. I had seen many such coins before though, and there was nothing very strange about this one. I looked at him questioningly.

“It’s a genuine coin of the realm,” Cecil said, “but it contains less than half the silver that it should. King Henry despoiled both gold and silver coins because he had spent too freely from his treasury. Since then, his son Edward and his daughter Mary have reigned in turn, but although they issued better coins than he did, they left much of the bad money in circulation. Elizabeth, advised by me, intends to have all the bad money removed before the end of this year. We need Elizabeth for more than just holding off a Catholic revival. We need her to make England solvent again. To protect her, Ursula, I am even willing to use you, a young woman who should not be engaged in this kind
of work, to help me hunt down anyone who could be a menace to her.

“You know the Masons, and you and Ann Mason apparently liked each other. Like Dr. Ignatius Wilkins, Leonard Mason is hard up. He is not employing any new servants just now, at least, not manservants, but there is a chance of getting a woman in there. Ann is concerned about her daughters. She has a new baby and cannot give the girls the attention they need. Their tutor, Dr. Crichton, is quite unable to instruct them in embroidery or dancing . . .”

“I’ve seen Dr. Crichton,” I said. “I got the impression he was quite unable to instruct anyone in anything!”

“Really?” said Cecil. “No wonder you seem sorry for Ann Mason. Well, my wife will tell you the rest.”

“We didn’t wish to brief you until we had prepared the ground,” Lady Mildred said, “but this has now been done. As it happens, one of the Queen’s Maids of Honour is a cousin of Ann Mason’s, and they correspond occasionally. As part of William’s enquiry into the Masons’ affairs, many of those letters have been read. We have learned much about the household. I had a casual talk with Bess, and then wrote to Mistress Mason, saying that I had heard from Bess that she was concerned about her daughters’ education, and reminding her of your existence. I didn’t claim close acquaintance with you. If something is going on at Lockhill that ought not to be, they will not want close friends of the Cecils on the premises. I pretended that all my knowledge of you came from Bess, and from the Queen.

“For your information, my dear, you have been badly pulled down by a winter illness and need a rest from the court. You have no family to whom you can go—your former guardian, your Uncle Herbert, is unfortunately in the Tower. But I said I understood that you had once visited Lockhill and this had given me an idea! I trust,” said Lady Mildred austerely, “that I sounded like an interfering busybody, one of those people who organise the lives of total strangers. I did my best to give that impression. I suggested that you should go to Lockhill and help with the girls.”

“There was some correspondence on the matter,” Cecil said. “They asked for more details about you—whether you really had a good knowledge of embroidery and dancing, for one thing! As if,” he added dryly, “any of the Queen’s ladies would not! We gave you a glowing reference . . .”

“We know that you have the skills required,” put in Lady Mildred.

“And in the end,” said Cecil, “a letter came, saying that you would be very welcome and asking you to write to them yourself, to make final arrangements. Well, Ursula? Will you go to Lockhill?”

Part of me wanted to. I had been appealed to by the Queen, and here in this warm, bright room, I was being honoured—one could say flattered—by the confidence and trust of the Secretary of State and his wife. The memory of Ann Mason and my sympathy for her had been reawakened. Oh, yes. I was almost ready to consent.

However, my mind was made up. I was going to Matthew and I would not be seduced from him. Once
I was away from the court and the Cecils, this spell would break. The sooner I made my escape, the better.

For the moment, I must go on pretending, but the pretence need not go on for very long. It must be convincing, however, so I asked the right question.

“But what am I to do when I get there? Apart from teaching the girls galliards and Spanish blackwork?”

“Let us be clear,” said Cecil. “Jackdaw is dead. That amounts to a warning. This may mean danger for you and—perhaps—disaster for Lockhill. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Where does the picking of locks come into it?” I asked.

“I want you,” said Cecil, “to get into Leonard Mason’s study, and search his correspondence.”

O
ne of the tasks which my first husband, Gerald Blanchard, carried out for Sir Thomas Gresham was to find people who could be bought, or blackmailed, into working secretly for Gresham rather than for the Spanish administration in the Netherlands. Gerald always kept a careful eye on them. “Some of them make me extravagant promises,” he told me once, “but usually under duress, and that kind of promise doesn’t count. I never expect them to be bound by their word.”