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Authors: Karen Harper

Tags: #Fiction - Historical, #England/Great Britain, #16th Century, #Mystery, #Tudors

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BOOK: The Fatal Fashione
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Both of them looked speechless—and scared stiff. Dingen tried to say something but only sputtered. Dirck turned beet red. Elizabeth was surprised but suspicious when neither of them asked for details of the murder. Were they just too shocked, or did they truly not care—or did they already know?
“And,” the queen plunged on, pressing her advantage, “I have it on good authority that you, man, were seen near Hannah’s house the day she died.”
“But,” Dingen cracked out, “my husband could have nothing to do vit that! He oft goes about to buy goods or to deliver dem, dat’s all.”
“I asked your husband why he was there, not you, Mrs. van der Passe.”
“Vell, I vas taking a constitutional,” Dirck said, sitting up even straighter. “A valk, and the air in St. Martin’s fields is fresh, that’s all.
Ja,
I varrant I vas near the poor voman’s place, but hardly vent to see her—vouldn’t. Dere vas no need, for our starch house is far better than hers …”
He must have realized he might be digging himself a deeper hole, for he suddenly stopped in midthought.
“Ve regret the death of one so young and promising,” Dingen said, her voice wavering. “How did she die? Vat really happened?”
“That,” Elizabeth said, “is what the constable and coroner intend to discover. And since Hannah is gone, can your shop rise to the increased demands you will now face?”
As they both effusively assured her of that, she felt again they might indeed have arranged Hannah’s demise. Why, then, had Hannah sent her workers away? That smacked of preparation for some sort of lovers’ tryst, not a visit from the husband of her rival.
As the couple disembarked the royal coach, the queen looked past them and saw William Paulet’s lackey, Hugh Dauntsey, standing well back in the crowd. She refused to believe it mere circumstance—like Dirck just happening to be in Hannah’s neighborhood the day she died.
If Dauntsey didn’t live in this immediate area, she’d summon him to find out why he happened to be lurking here. She didn’t trust his puppetmaster Paulet not to try to upset her plans for England’s economic growth without him at the helm. Both he and his underlings needed watching.
Dauntsey’s icy gaze chilled her, so she sent Clifford to fetch Dingen back to the coach again. She came, this time, with her round, rosy face dour and her lips pressed so tightly together her mouth looked like a purse drawn in by strings.
The moment the coach door was closed again, the queen asked, “Are you familiar with a man named Hugh Dauntsey?”
“Hugh?
Ja,
he’s our money man, helps us good vit sums and figures, knows English taxes ve didn’t at first. He been seen near Hannah’s, too?”
“He’s in the crowd outside your door, that’s all.”
“Your Majesty, just’cause a starcher got herself killed, don’t mean me or my family involved. Just’cause Hugh Dauntsey outside our door or vorks for us, don’t mean a thing. If—if my Dirck loses the fine reputation ve got here—a reputation he long built as a Flemish knight, and ve left our homeland to come here … I just not go on. I just close my starch house and not go on.”
“Stay calm, Mrs. van der Passe. I simply wanted to bring the sad news to you myself and clear up a few things. There is no need for such fears and dire predictions. You may go now, as I’m sure you and your starchers have much to do.”
The woman scuttled out of the coach as if she had been burned. Elizabeth leaned back against the tapestried seat as the door closed yet again, and the coach bounced into motion. After all, she also had much to do.
 
“SO, NED, TO SUMMARIZE,” ELIZABETH CUT IN AS HE continued his extended, dramatized report to the assembled Privy Plot Council, “none of the neighbors you interviewed saw aught amiss at or near Hannah’s place the day she died, including anyone climbing out or in that large open window.”
Everyone seemed to take a breath when she interrupted Ned. It was nearly ten o’clock that night, and they were all exhausted.
“God’s truth, Your Grace, I thought you needed ample details about those I asked. All claim they were going on about their business. So it seems that Ursala Hemmings is the only one who saw anything suspicious, that being the Gresham girl hanging about—”
“Yes, I will deal with that later. It seems, then, we either have a murderer who did not seem out of place, even if seen, or one who is so wily that, even if a stranger, he convinced Hannah to send her women away so she would be alone in the loft.”
“Indeed, our prey seems coldly calculating,” Cecil said, “though we must not discount a possible crime of passion, a planned meeting that escalated to emotions. But whether it was an intentional murder by someone she knew or a spontaneous one by a stranger, we have a difficult and dangerous task ahead.”
“Exactly, my lord,” Elizabeth agreed. “Since Hannah sent her workers away, I yet wonder if she did agree to a tryst, though that starch loft is hardly a romantic bower. Jenks and Meg,” she said, leaning forward to see them on the other side of Ned, “is there anything else odd you can recall except the fact that Hannah gave her women an unexpected holiday?”
“Not that I can think of,” Meg said, and Jenks shook his head to back her up. For some reason, their visages both reminded her of thunderclouds.
“Ned,” the queen went on, “then I charge you to learn from Ursala who Hannah’s women were so that you may question them, each alone. One of them might have heard a hint, at least, of why they were released early that day. Or they might have seen or overheard something earlier about a liaison Hannah had planned, or have discovered someone who seemed sweet on her. Jenks, whatever is it?” she asked when she saw his expression turn even more grim.
“I can fetch Ursala’stead of Ned,” he said gruffly. “Then I can escort her to talk to Ned or just get the names from her, too, seeing I know where she lives.”
The queen caught the exaggerated way Meg rolled her eyes. Something strange was afoot here.
“Meg and Jenks, why the theatrics I usually expect from Ned? What is going on behind my back?”
“Nothing, Your Grace,” Meg murmured, not daring to look her in the eye.
“I just thought,” Jenks said, “you’d rather have Ursala here to talk to,’stead of letting the other whitsters and her sister know all about these doings, like if Ned goes there.”
The queen smacked her hand flat on the table. Everyone jumped. The nib of Cecil’s feather pen splattered ink on his paper.
“Yes—‘know all about these doings,’” Elizabeth repeated. “Here I am, relying on all of you to keep me informed about these doings, and something is going on I either need to know or at least need
not
to have bandied about covertly in my presence. Jenks, tell me.”
The big man shifted in his seat as if he’d been caught at something dire. “It’s just Ursala’s real delicate right now, Your Grace, and Ned might upset her,” he mumbled.
“Might poach in your territory,” Meg muttered.
“Meg,” the queen cried, “I hope you have something to add to that, something spoken clearly that makes sense and contributes to my question.”
“I just think Jenks favors her—Ursala. So he might try to protect her when mayhap she shouldn’t be protected any more than any other person we suspect.”
Jenks turned toward Meg in his chair so fast it squeaked under his big body. “We don’t suspect her any more than the man in the moon!” he exploded. “The poor girl’s completely o’erturned by her friend’s death!”
Ordinarily, the queen would have demanded silence or tossed them out for arguing before her, but she—like Cecil, scowling across the table—chose to let them rail on.
“Ursala was out guarding the laundry in the fields,” Jenks insisted. “Otherwise, she wouldn’t have seen the Gresham girl there.”
“But maybe she wasn’t in the fields all day,” Meg countered. “With the others about, they could take turns slipping away. I do agree with Jenks, though, Your Grace, that it’s best not to let Ned squire her about. Ursala’s as fetching as poor Hannah was, and we don’t need his special attention to—to her, too.”
“Too? Ned?” Elizabeth said before Jenks and Meg could go at it again.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Don’t try to bluff or cozen me! I thought perhaps you’d best head off what Meg implies before I ask her to explain.”
Her principal player managed to look completely calm and even innocent, which made the queen think there was, indeed, something amiss.
“I assume, Your Majesty,” Ned said in his smoothest tone, “that Meg still has her dander up over the fact I visited Hannah von Hoven, weeks ago and only once, after that day you ordered me to take Meg’s starch roots to her, the day Meg was sick, and she’s still acting sick right now—lovesick, if you ask me, so—”
“I didn’t ask you,” Elizabeth interrupted, “at least not that. Jenks, is it true that you are sweet on Ursala Hemmings?”
“I feel sorry for her, Your Grace, and just want—to help her,” the big man said, but he squirmed in his seat again.
Meg snorted; the queen sighed. It never took much to read Jenks’s heart, which was one reason Elizabeth knew how loyal and honest he was.’S blood, why didn’t Cecil step in to help with this? Right now, she had no inkling what her brilliant secretary of state was thinking, though he kept scribbling at that damned sketch of a ruff with the names of the possibly guilty in it.
“Let me say this,” Elizabeth told all of them, pointing like a schoolmaster, “and just once. Whatever frictions—or friendships—are among any of you, I need them to be subjugated for a time so that we, pulling as a team, can solve this murder. Is there anyone at this table who cannot swear to me that he or she can discipline himself or herself to that cause?”
She stared at each in turn. No one so much as blinked. “Then,” the queen added, “is there anything else for the good of the order before I tell you how I think we should proceed?”
“One thing Meg and I forgot, Your Grace,” Jenks said.
“Say on.”
“Ursala said one reason she missed Hannah so much was’cause Ursala used to be close to her twin sister—Pamela, married now, the one she lives with, along with Pamela’s husband. Ursala said that Hannah also has a twin sister. Both being twins brought Ursala and Hannah closer, I take it.”
“Or
had
a twin sister,” Meg put in, frowning. “Ursala might have said Hannah
had
a twin sister, not
has.
”
“Thank you, Jenks and Meg. I don’t see how that figures into this thick brew of possibilities, but anything we learn may help when we get more of the pieces put together. My lord Cecil, whose names are you filling in on your chart of suspicious persons?” she asked, leaning closer to him. “Ursala Hemmings?”
She noted that Jenks tensed as if he would spring across the table at Cecil. “Not specifically Ursala, Your Grace,” Cecil said, squinting swiftly over at Jenks, then back down to his parchment. “I have simply added to the section marked ‘disgruntled workers’ the words ‘or one of Hannah’s friends.’ But after what you and Lady Rosie have reported to us of your visit to the van der Passes, I have also included Hosea Cantwell’s name in another section of the diagram.”
Elizabeth nodded. “A wild card, indeed, and one I intend to keep face up by speaking with him again, on the morrow to be exact. And there’s one more possibility, though a vague one, by the name of Hugh Dauntsey, though I won’t have you add him to our list until I hire and question him.”
“Hire him? Hugh Dauntsey?” Cecil demanded. He never raised his voice when others were about, but she had always promoted a good give-and-take in these Privy Plot Council meetings. “When we’re trying to cut back that spider’s web of a bureaucracy your royal forbearers managed to let everyone spin around them?” Cecil plunged on. “That rabidly Catholic lackbrain Dauntsey?”
“My lord Cecil, he may have ruined his opportunity to take over Thomas Gresham’s role as chief Tudor financial advisor and foreign agent, and he may be rabidly Catholic—which is another reason he needs watching—but he’s no lackbrain.”
“He’s Will Paulet’s lackey, at least, and has been ingratiating himself with him. For all I know, he thinks he has a large bequest coming when the old man finally dies.”
“My point precisely—no lackbrain,” she argued. “Rather, a clever man with, no doubt, fettered and frustrated ambitions and a hatred of the Tudors for dismissing him and of me for never hiring him to do so much as count coins. And he must detest the fact he was replaced with Thomas Gresham, whom I yet favor.”
“But hire him?” he repeated. “He’ll babble everything you tell him to Paulet, and it will upset Gresham mightily if you start to trust Hugh Dauntsey.”
“Perhaps even more than it has upset you,” she admitted. “But I said hire him, not trust him, my lord. I learned just before this meeting that the ward constable you summoned about Hannah’s death has handed the investigation over to the chief constable at his request. And though I can’t recall his name, the chief constable—”
“It’s Nigel Whitcomb,” Cecil said, shaking his head. “He was previously chief steward of the Skinners’ Guild. He’s that new member of the Commons in your rebellious Parliament, though he was wily enough to hide in the back row that day you took them to task for urging you to wed. The man’s a stickler for detail and has a much inflated opinion of himself. And he’s as pushy as a North Sea wind.”
“He has moved quickly. He’s met with the coroner who examined Hannah’s body and ruled it a murder, and he’s convinced the coroner that since Hannah had no known heirs and was a royal starcher, part of the worth of her goods should come to the crown. Of course, Whitcomb’s trying to curry favor with me, but this plays right into our hands, as it will allow me to keep a better eye on Dauntsey.”
“It’s usually a percentage of the goods of the murderers, not the murdered, that comes to the crown,” Cecil said, frowning. “But what does Whitcomb have to do with Dauntsey?”
“I intend to hire Hugh Dauntsey to survey Hannah’s goods and reckon their worth, pretending I simply want to be sure the crown is allotted its proper share.’S blood, my lord, stop staring at me as if I’ve taken leave of my senses. You know if there is someone I do not trust, I oft bind him to me, to observe him all the better.”
“According to Gresham,” Cecil said, while everyone else hung on each word, “Dauntsey’s always got one hand in the till—someone’s till.”
“If he crosses me, it will be a way to permanently rid myself of him, and perhaps Paulet, too. But I will use his reports to me as opportunities to discern if he could be more than what Dingen van der Passe called her money man—a mere accountant, who just happened to be watching me from the crowd when I came calling there. What if he was doing more to help the master starcher and her husband compete with poor Hannah than tend their books and teach them how to cheat at taxes? I just plain don’t trust the man, though I am trying to overlook the fact that his appearance is so—unsettling.”
“What if, you mean,” Rosie said in a near whisper, “Dauntsey was also hired to rid the older starcher of her younger competition?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Besides, through Dauntsey, I’ll be able to keep an eye on what Paulet and this chief constable and pushy parliamentarian Whitcomb are doing and perhaps thinking. Now, let’s see—what else was I going to say?”
More than once at this meeting, her mind had wandered. Swimming in exhaustion, she intended to sleep well at least this night. She needed her strength to speak tomorrow with Dauntsey and Hosea Cantwell.
“Your Grace,” Rosie said, “there is something I, too, forgot to tell you in the hubbub of all that happened at the van der Passes’ starch shop. I—I regret I’m not much help on all this thinking and planning, but I just can’t get the memory of that poor woman’s starched corpse out of my mind.”
“Nor I,” Elizabeth said. “I warrant we are all on edge. Tell us, then.”
“Meg said that some of her starch roots seem to be missing from Hannah’s loft—at least one sack of them.”
Meg nodded, wide-eyed. Elizabeth saw Ned lean protectively toward Meg while Jenks just frowned.
“You see,” Rosie went on, “you told me to keep my mouth more or less shut but my eyes open at the van der Passes’. Well, I saw a big bag of roots there like the ones scattered on the floor of Hannah’s loft that I assume were Meg’s cuckoopints. I noted that several had rolled under the worktable where we—we examined the body … Of course, I realize the van der Passes must use the same roots for that thick, gray starch paste of theirs, but what if those were Meg’s roots, taken from Hannah the day she was killed?”
BOOK: The Fatal Fashione
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