Read The Fatal Fashione Online
Authors: Karen Harper
Tags: #Fiction - Historical, #England/Great Britain, #16th Century, #Mystery, #Tudors
The Fatal Fashione (16 page)
“Thank God you’re here!” Jenks blurted the moment Elizabeth and her two companions stepped through the door of the laundry. It was, the queen saw, too dark in here with the window shutters closed. The air was damp and heavy with death. They’d laid the body out on the worktable with a white cloth over the face. On a stool at Pamela’s head sat an older man, evidently the dead woman’s husband, with his hands gripped as if in prayer. Ursala was seated on another stool, with Jenks standing behind her, at Pamela’s feet, one of which Ursala kept hold of as if she could comfort the corpse.
When the queen swept back the hood of her cloak, everyone rose, looking stunned and overwrought. “Stay where you are,” she told them as she approached the body.
The tabletop was wet; how much this murder reminded her of Hannah’s. She had no doubt it was the same killer, but felt furious she was no closer to knowing who that was.
“Ursala and …” the queen said with a nod at the man.
“Peter Browne,” Jenks said, “Pamela’s husband.”
“Ursala and Peter, I greatly regret this dreadful turn of events. Both Ursala and Pamela have been of help to me, and I will see she is properly buried.”
Ursala looked dazed, but Peter seemed to come to life as he squinted up at Clifford. Perhaps, the queen thought, he hadn’t seen so large a man before. “Thankee, Yer Majesty,” he said only.
“I didn’t let anyone pick up the coins I dropped on the floor yet,” Jenks put in. His eyes were bloodshot; he looked as if he’d been through a battle.
“All right,” she said. “Now if Peter and Ursala would just leave me here for a few minutes to see to things … Jenks, perhaps you can continue to sit with them in their chambers.”
“Yes, Your Majesty, right at the back of the building here. Peter?” he said, and helped the man up, then Ursala. “Oh, Melly, Melly, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed into her hands as Jenks escorted them out and closed the door. Though their voices were muted, Elizabeth could hear Jenks talking quietly to them. Her brawny guard had come a long way from just serving her with shield and sword, she thought, then forced herself to concentrate, for she must not take long. She would send Clifford almost immediately for the constable, who, she had no doubt, would again send for Nigel Whitcomb.
“Clifford, open at least one of those pairs of shutters,” she said, and gently lifted the cloth from the corpse’s face. When more light shot into the room, Elizabeth gasped. The dead woman’s lips were horribly red and chapped. Perhaps her mouth had been scraped against the wooden vat in which she had been thrust to die.
The queen examined the vat, then studied the wet floor Meg had mentioned. Yes, scattered coins and several cuckoo-pint roots that had bounced into corners. “Rosie,” she said, “scan the rest of the floor to see how many of those round bulbs you see.”
“And pick them up?”
“No. They are a link to the other murder,” she said, almost to herself. “Look,” she said, pointing at the table next to the body. “Perhaps Pamela was setting the table for her breakfast, for there’s a pewter plate, spoon, and cup. And what’s this strange substance on the plate?” she asked, bending closer to study a small amount of dark, gritty powder with a consistency somewhere between soil and dust. “Rosie, ask Ursala to step back in here.”
Elizabeth sniffed at it. Vaguely familiar. Then she recalled Anne Gresham’s description of the imported
chocolata
cakes: little ones, round, brown, dry as dust and likely to break into dust, too, and bitter as can be without sugar.
chocolata
cakes: little ones, round, brown, dry as dust and likely to break into dust, too, and bitter as can be without sugar.
“Ursala,” the queen said, when Rosie brought her out, “is this dark dust something for breakfast or that you use to clean clothes here?”
The young woman peered closer. “Nothing dark cleans clothes. Never seen the likes. If it was here before, I didn’t see it.” She sounded as if she were in a barrel; her eyelids were swollen. To have lost her good friend Hannah and now her identical twin—which brought up other concerns the queen would have to consider. Had the murderer meant to kill Pamela or Ursala? Was he striking at female servants who worked for the queen? If so, was Dingen van der Passe in danger—or Meg?
“Here, I can taste it and probably tell what it is,” Ursala said, and reached for the stuff.
“No!” Elizabeth cried, yanking her arm back. “It’s best left alone for now, that’s all. And what might Pamela have drunk in the morning?” the queen inquired, picking up and looking closely into the empty pewter cup. Even in this dismal light, she could see the slightest trace of dark liquid rimming the inside bottom of it.
“Bread and curds and whey,” Ursala said. “At least almost always.”
Bread, curds, and whey were all light-hued, Elizabeth thought. The remnants of the drink and the spilled powder were dark—so dark.
She thanked the dazed woman and sent her back to Jenks. She’d like to know if it was
chocolata
powder or not, but she was taking no chances. It could be anything. Besides, there was cuckoo-pint on the floor, and Pamela’s lips looked scraped raw. Meg had said even the pollen of the plant could be deadly.
chocolata
powder or not, but she was taking no chances. It could be anything. Besides, there was cuckoo-pint on the floor, and Pamela’s lips looked scraped raw. Meg had said even the pollen of the plant could be deadly.
If this was
chocolata,
who could have sent it here? It was ridiculous that laundresses could afford expensive stuff like that rare, secret Spanish import, let alone that they would know how to obtain some. Nor could households like this afford the sugar the bitter stuff needed. Her belly cramped again. The only people she knew who had access to the new Spanish fashion were, unfortunately, in the Gresham household, and if the drink was spiked with poison cuckoo-pint, several had access to that, including whoever killed Hannah.
chocolata,
who could have sent it here? It was ridiculous that laundresses could afford expensive stuff like that rare, secret Spanish import, let alone that they would know how to obtain some. Nor could households like this afford the sugar the bitter stuff needed. Her belly cramped again. The only people she knew who had access to the new Spanish fashion were, unfortunately, in the Gresham household, and if the drink was spiked with poison cuckoo-pint, several had access to that, including whoever killed Hannah.
“Clifford,” she said, “open another pair of shutters. Rosie, come here and help me open her mouth with this spoon so we don’t touch her sores. And, Clifford, bar the door to keep out any of her workers who arrive.”
“Unless,” Rosie put in under her breath, “like poor Hannah, she had agreed to keep them away to meet with the murderer.”
“Not this time, I think, or Ursala would have known. No, the one who meant her harm just walked in through an unlocked door or managed to talk his way in for—or with—something.”
Reminded of the dark dust again, not touching the powder, she brushed about half of it into her handkerchief and knotted it, then tied it to the cord of her pomander. Reluctantly she turned to her terrible task.
Shuddering, Rosie held the spoon, and with it they pried open the quickly stiffening jaw muscles to peer inside Pamela’s mouth. “Could it be, Your Grace, that someone forced something hot into her mouth to punish her for telling on him or her?”
“Telling what?”
“Maybe, if the killer thought she was Ursala, for telling that she’d seen Marie Gresham or Anne Gresham near the site of the first murder. I don’t know. I don’t know about any of this. Ugh.”
Everything seemed to circle back to the Greshams, Elizabeth thought. Though the light was still not good, she immediately noted two things about Pamela’s death. One, like Hannah, she had swallowed or inhaled water, dark-looking water, too, maybe some of the
chocolata.
Two, though she was no doubt drowned, there had been an attempt to finish her off another way first. Not with strangulation this time, she would wager, but by poisoning, for the insides of Pamela’s cheeks and tongue were as raw and red as a bloody, uncooked beefsteak.
chocolata.
Two, though she was no doubt drowned, there had been an attempt to finish her off another way first. Not with strangulation this time, she would wager, but by poisoning, for the insides of Pamela’s cheeks and tongue were as raw and red as a bloody, uncooked beefsteak.
Elizabeth rushed over to look again at the fatal vat of liquid. “Someone fetch a candle or two,” she ordered as she stared into the darkish water where Pamela had been found. She didn’t appear to be bleeding, so that wasn’t blood in the water. Could it be
chocolata?
Cuckoo-pint herb didn’t turn water dark like that but made it milky.
chocolata?
Cuckoo-pint herb didn’t turn water dark like that but made it milky.
Rosie located a lantern, which Clifford lit with his flint. “Hold the light over the vat.”
To Elizabeth’s amazement, the water was not tinted at all. It had only appeared so in the wooden tub and dim room. How many times in this investigation had she found dead ends when she thought something might be a solid clue? At least, thank God, no gold signet ring glittered from the depths.
She told Clifford to fetch Jenks. “We must call in the constable,” she told him. “You may stay to give Ursala support. If the authorities ask whether anyone else has been here, do not lie to them.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I am grateful you’re letting me stay with her—she’s lost so much.”
“At least, my man,” she said, squeezing his rock-hard upper arm, “I believe she has found you.”
“One more thing,” Jenks said. “Peter tells me that a man as big as Clifford—first, he thought it was Clifford—used to be in this area a lot, loitering around the starch house. Wore black, he did, but for a red-and-blue-striped taffeta cap, and he had a Dutch accent.”
“Dirck van der Passe,” Elizabeth cried as both Rosie and Clifford nodded.
“Could be,” Jenks said, “’specially since I heard he admitted he was taking walks round here. But if the constable asks, should I say Meg found this body, too?” he asked, still whispering.
Elizabeth frowned down at the cuckoo-pint herb and recalled again Meg’s warning about how poisonous it could be. “Don’t be afraid for Meg,” she told Jenks, “for I’m sure her time can be accounted for all morning—I’ll vouch for that. What, man? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Her stalwart Jenks managed to appear even more shaken than he had when she first arrived. “She—Meg came running in late and out of breath to go with me this morning,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “Said she had to check her drying herbs first in the shed. Well, that could be,’cause losing the profit from selling her starch herbs, she’s got to make more money selling something.”
“Ridiculous!” Elizabeth insisted aloud at the mere thought that Meg could be at all involved in murder, no matter what Constable Whitcomb had claimed. To cloak her thoughts, she added, “I can just pay her a bit more if she’s fretting about supporting Sally, and the girl is making her own wages. Meg is happy for your new-fledged relationship with Ursala,” she insisted as if they’d spoken of Meg’s possible motive for a second murder. “I know she is, especially now that she and Ned are getting on.”
“Oh, yes, Your Grace, that’s sure,” he said, but suddenly neither of them sounded like they meant it.
THE QUEEN DID NOT RETURN IMMEDIATELY TO THE palace. Instead, after she sent Clifford to fetch the local constable, with Rosie in tow, she hurried to Hannah’s nearby loft to see if Hugh Dauntsey was still there. The downstairs door was ajar, so she and Rosie tiptoed up the steps.
He wore forget-me-not blue with a matching cape as if he were at court instead of in this sad, haunted place. Rather than sitting at the table, he was perched on the single stool before the large window across the room. Head bent, he perused something on a long piece of parchment, perhaps his final reckoning of Hannah’s earthly goods.
The queen’s gaze skimmed the loft, which smelled of something fresh and looked well scrubbed. It had been stripped to the bare bones; the worktable, empty braziers, poking rods, wooden ruff forms, and the starch bath that had been Hannah’s coffin were lined up tidily at the top of the stairs, ready to be hauled away.
Elizabeth held up her hand to Rosie for quiet and studied the big window from afar. She recalled how she had struggled to close it in her nightmare, but the breeze kept blowing into her face. Could that have been a sign she must open this investigation to consider those she did not want to blame, namely the Greshams?
Dauntsey had the window completely closed, and it didn’t loom as large as it had when it was open. Yet the loft itself seemed to have grown in size and import since she’d seen it.
As Elizabeth climbed the last several stairs that brought her into view, Dauntsey looked over, started, and leaped off his stool.
“This place is not open for bus—Your Majesty? Here?” he cried and, rolling up his documents, strode quickly toward them.
“Do you think I need a coach or mounted entourage to go about my city?” she asked him as he bowed. “I was called to the scene of a tragedy near here, since,” she said, watching him closely and drawing out her words, “a whitster was murdered this morn in somewhat the same way poor Hannah was dispatched in this very place—in this very tub.” She walked over to knock her fist against the wood, glanced again into his concerned face, and went to look closer at the window.
“But—who died?” he asked, scurrying after her. “And by the same hand as Hannah?”
“I warrant so. I fear we’ve a filthy-hearted multiple murderer loose among those of my city who labor to keep all of us clean and fashionable.”
She noted the window was nearly waist high off the floor. In that respect, unless one had a bad leg, it would be easy enough to climb in or out. It was nearly as wide as an oriel window or a big bay but hardly the height of one. Rather, it only came to the top of her head. She lifted the heavy metal latch and hefted the window as both Rosie and Dauntsey hurried to help.
“Stand clear,” she said and raised it a few feet. Though made of leaded, mullioned sections, it was unique in that it lifted upward in one piece instead of swinging out in separate parts. “It’s stuffy in here, Dauntsey. Did you see anything about the place to prop this open?”
“I—no, I have not. I used one of the poking sticks the other day—here …”
He fetched one quickly and brought it to her. It was a metal crimping iron to put S-curves in ruffs, but she’d seen similar ones for hair. It, too, was quite heavy. Too bad Hannah did not get to one of these for a weapon in time. Had she known her attacker, or had he—or she—simply taken her unawares by quietly coming up the stairs much as she herself had just done?
“Is there anything I can do to help with this latest tragedy, Your Majesty?” Dauntsey said, rubbing his ink-stained hands together. “I would be delighted to settle that estate, too. What is the name of the murdered whitster?” he repeated.
“There is no need, for this woman has heirs. She is—was—the sister of a woman you’ve met, Ursala Hemmings.”
“Her sis—Not Ursala, then, but her sister?”
“She was an identical twin, you see, so it could be that the killer made a mistake. The victim this time was Pamela Browne.”
He looked quite dismayed. “How dreadful for Ursala, first her friend here and then …” His voice trailed off. “Terrible. By the way, I have here for Ursala the pair of perfumed gloves you wanted me to save for her. I regret if I sound confused, but I’ve been so distressed by what Lord Paulet has suggested to me—that you have heard some dreadful rumor about my cheating at stocks. I assure you, I am no such charlatan.”
No wonder, she thought, the man was so on edge with her. She’d known Paulet would tell his minion that she had hinted about illicit stock market dealings.
“It galls me greatly,” Dauntsey said, clearing his throat, “that such a rumor might ruin my resurrected reputation with Your Gracious Majesty, for I am innocent of such murmurings. But what galls me more is that I can guess who is spreading such lies, and you always listen to him.”
“You know a great deal,” she countered, glancing out and down at the roof below the window. Though it did not appear so from the street, it was steeply slanted. A person would have to sprout wings to risk going out this heavy window, which could bang down if the prop holding it were disturbed. He or she would slide right off the shingle roof, not to mention being seen by a field full of whitsters.
“It was Thomas Gresham, was it not, Your Majesty?” Dauntsey went on. “I insist I must have an opportunity to answer such slanders. Why, if duels or jousts of honor were still fought at Smithfield, I would challenge him.”
“Slap him across the face with the perfumed gloves?”
“I pray you are not mocking me, Your Majesty.”
Thank God, she thought, the roof as well as the window could indeed help to clear Thomas Gresham, for with a bad leg and a cane, he’d never risk this. And a woman in skirts would have to be foolhardy and desperate to climb out, then back in.
On the other hand, whoever had killed Hannah could have heard a noise on the stairs and hidden in the room when Marie entered and saw Hannah, newly murdered. If not behind the rolls of fabric, then behind the big starch tub. It might be not only Marie’s lack of memory protecting her but the fact that the killer knew the girl had not seen him or her.
“I am not mocking you, man, for I believe you have served me well with Hannah’s goods so far. Besides, Sir Thomas’s leg he shattered several years ago would keep him from accepting your duel, so I want to hear no more of such tripe. If you are both to serve me in the future, you must get on—with each other as well as with me.” She finally stared full-faced into Dauntsey’s strange eyes, something she tried to avoid. As if he did not want to face her, either, he quickly gazed out the window over her shoulder.
“You mentioned that the killer is targeting those who keep all of us clean and fashionable,” he said. “Not only, Your Majesty, does that describe a particular person, but one who is ranting this very morning in the field out there. Did you note him well?”
She turned back toward the window, scolding herself for not looking out of it farther than the roof. Rosie came to stand beside her as Dauntsey peered out, too.
“The Reverend Hosea Cantwell,” Elizabeth said. Occasionally, amidst the distant murmur of women working over their linens, she could hear his strident tones. She could see him, too, standing on a barrel in the midst of a field snowy with sheets.
“He may not pose the danger your rebellious northern lords do, Your Majesty,” Dauntsey said, folding his arms over his chest, “but he’s haranguing those of us who favor following your lead with courtly fashions, and on the very morning, evidently, that a whitster just happened to be murdered near where a starcher was killed last week. He’s got quite a crowd, too, a captive audience, and when they hear one of their own has been punished by some invisible hand—”
“I do not need you to do my thinking for me,” she clipped out, “but I’ll see him arrested if he’s preaching against me again. Let me have those gloves, if you please, man, and bring your papers to me soon.”
He handed her the pair of gloves; they smelled of lavender and rich ambergris, the latter of which she’d seen on the perfumer Celia’s worktable. “I yet need to sell these starching goods to the van der Passes,” he called after her as she made her way around the items piled near the stairs. “Dirck is coming to look at these things and make a bid within the hour.”
Perfect,
she thought. The man had been seen in this area, and if he was culpable in or had information about these murders, this would be the perfect place for her to question him. Right now, she was going to see that Hosea Cantwell got down off his high horse.
she thought. The man had been seen in this area, and if he was culpable in or had information about these murders, this would be the perfect place for her to question him. Right now, she was going to see that Hosea Cantwell got down off his high horse.
“Whatever can we do, Your Grace?” Rosie asked, hurrying down the steps behind her. “We need Clifford or Jenks to cart Cantwell off, don’t we?”
“We’ll stop at the royal mews and see who’s there. As my lord Cecil would say, it’s time to stir the pot again. Then perhaps Hosea Cantwell or Dirck van der Passe will float right to the top.”
Thomas Gresham could recall being in more pain only once before, when his leg shattered, and that had been physical instead of cerebral. This was turning into a dreadful nightmare.
“Here are detailed renditions of all the queen asked for, my lord Cecil,” he said, and handed the sheaf of papers to the watchful man across the conference table. “May I go now?”
“I have no authority for that,” Cecil said. “Stay while I glance through these.”
“My building crews are expecting me on the site of the exchange today. The blocks of marble for the frieze above the front arches are being delivered.”
“Then they will have to do without you.”
“May I at least send my agent a note authorizing he sign for them?”
“And send him your signet ring to seal it with?” Cecil said.
Judas Priest.
Gresham swore his father’s old oath silently. This powerful man was hostile to him, too. He was lost indeed.
Gresham swore his father’s old oath silently. This powerful man was hostile to him, too. He was lost indeed.
“Send the note, then,” Cecil said almost begrudgingly, “but I must read it first.”
“And my wife? May I not let her know at least that I am detained here for a while? That way, she won’t worry something’s amiss—even though it is.”
“You may write your wife,” Cecil said, still skimming the report he’d written, as if Gresham were some criminal.
Surely, Thomas thought, Elizabeth of England would not send him to the Tower to be questioned. He hated the place. In fact, he detested that entire end of town with the Thames rushing through the arches of London Bridge and all those small, crowded shops clinging to the very edges of it. It would be fine with him if the shops that would grace his exchange would sap the strength from that hodgepodge, where crowds of humanity shoved each other above the roaring torrent and criminals’ heads were stuck on pikes.
He shuddered again. Surely, Her Grace did not believe he had murdered Hannah, even if the woman had been both a thorn in his side and a living reminder of his lost love. English law executed those adjudged a murderer in various ways, depending on their class, connections, and crime. Not being of the nobility, surely he would not be beheaded. The mere thought of his head displayed on the bridge for all to see horrified him. That shame would destroy the fame he had hoped to achieve through leaving London the grand edifice of his mercantile exchange.
He fought to collect his rampaging thoughts. “I will write my wife now, that she should not worry,” he told Cecil.
“I’m afraid she will have to,” Cecil said, turning to the next page of his report. “I want you to write her that you are here at Whitehall, and she’s to come forthwith—without the children—to join you here.”
“You don’t suspect … don’t think … that Anne aided or abetted …”
“I’ll consult with the queen on that. Just write the note, Sir Thomas. Then I’ll give you a comfortable room with a guard outside your door to rest up in until your wife arrives and Her Majesty returns.”
Mounted on one of her favorite horses from the royal mews, a big bay, Elizabeth, with Rosie and four grooms also mounted, headed a block away to see if Cantwell was still raving. Indeed, he was. They heard him before they saw him as they stopped at the fringe of the field behind four oaks, which were rattling their brown leaves in the rising wind.
“You women of England must take a stand for decency!” Cantwell was shouting. His clarion voice carried well on the breeze. The queen had always wondered how he would sound when he preached, and now she knew.
“If there are starchers among you, renounce your tasks of stiffening neck ruffs for stiff necks, ruffs as large as cartwheels for the queen, her nobles, and even the upstart gentry who would ape their betters. But are those who are slaves to style really their betters?”
“The rogue is as good as urging them to sedition,” she told Rosie. “Remind me not to exile him to the northern shires so he can preach more rebellion there.”
“Remember,” Cantwell shouted, punctuating his words with grand gestures, “it is far better to have a millstone tied about your neck and be cast into the sea than to mislead someone to sin. And you laundresses and whitsters who labor to wash the fine and fancy linens of others, their ruffs or the tablecloths whereon they feast daily at bacchanals—”
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