The Midsummer Crown (9 page)

‘Which of you cross-eyed little numbskulls left that fucking kennel door open?' he screamed. He strode towards them and knocked their heads together with a ferocity that made me wince. ‘You know how dangerous that bastard is! Now, which one was it, eh?'

Of course, they vociferously denied responsibility, each one blaming the other two, with a wide-eyed innocence that made it impossible to tell who was lying and who was not. In the end, the kennel master gave it up, but threatened them all with instant dismissal if such a thing ever happened again.

‘My abject apologies, masters,' he said, turning to Timothy, Piers and myself, the three of us fast regaining our courage now that the danger was past.

‘Think nothing of it,' Timothy assured him grandly. ‘I daresay the dog would have done us no harm.'

‘If you believe that, you're a fool,' was the curt reply. ‘Forgive me, sir, for speaking so bluntly, but that animal is one of the most dangerous creatures it has ever been my lot to encounter. By rights he should be put down before he does someone a serious mischief, but Sir Francis won't hear of it. Says the place is completely safe from marauders as long as Beelzebub is allowed to roam free at nights.' He laughed at what must have been the look of consternation on our faces. ‘Oh, don't worry, masters. He's only allowed to roam around the outer walls. The courtyard gate is shut and locked at sundown. The dog can't get inside. And I'm out to muzzle and return him to his kennel at daybreak. You can sleep sound.'

‘Nevertheless, I'm bolting my chamber door tonight,' I remarked quietly to Timothy as we returned to the inner courtyard and so into the house for supper.

He nodded in agreement, but Piers Daubenay, who had the excellent hearing of the young, assured us blithely, ‘You've no need to be afraid, you know. Kennel master Blancheflower is quite right when he says Beelzebub can't get in. The gate between the inner courtyard and the outer compound is always securely locked at sunset every night. And there's a small side door, also bolted from within, which William can slip through each morning without any danger that the dog can push past him and come inside.'

‘And in the evening?' I was still worried.

‘In the evening?' Piers frowned, then smiled. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. William gives Beelzebub his meal last thing, and, while the dog's sniffing at his food, he removes his muzzle, then quickly enters by the side door and bolts it top and bottom. You'll be perfectly safe, you know.'

‘I never thought otherwise,' Timothy replied with a nonchalance that did him credit. But I guessed that he intended to lock his chamber door just the same.

Supper in the airy servants' hall had been a pleasant meal. The spymaster and I had been given seats of honour, one on either side of the steward, and the food had been worth waiting for: an oyster soup followed by roast mutton in onion sauce, with beef patties and mustard curd as a remove, the whole being rounded off with a pear syllabub garnished with crystallized rose petals. Both ale and wine had been served, and I had partaken liberally of both. I remember wondering at the time if I had been wise to do so.

The conversation, on the high table at least, had been subdued, all of us thinking of the missing Gideon Fitzalan, wondering if he had yet been found and, if not, what could possibly have become of him. This latter consideration had troubled me, perhaps, more than the others, the discovery of his whereabouts having been laid squarely on my reluctant shoulders. I had listened enviously to the careless hum of talk and the occasional shout of laughter from the lower tables and resentfully wondered, not for the first time in the past couple of days, how it was that I found myself mixed up in the Duke of Gloucester's affairs yet again.

Now, lying naked on top of my mattress – for the little guest chamber, though comfortable, was hot and airless and I had pushed the coverings on to the floor – I felt that resentment forming itself into a great knot inside my belly, churning away as though it were a live thing. After a while, however, I realized that it wasn't rancour that was causing my discomfort, but something far more physical. The wine and ale were at war with one another, and a third helping of syllabub was also putting up a fight of its own. As always where food and drink were concerned, my eyes had proved to be too big for my innards. I could feel the sweat pouring off me and knew that I was about to throw up. I slid off the bed, wrapping the discarded sheet around me as I did so, unbolted my door and stepped out into the passageway. Timothy's drunken snores sounded clearly from the room next to mine.

I recalled that the door at that end of the corridor gave on to the courtyard, and was relieved to see that, although locked, the key hung on a nail beside it A second or two later, I was breathing in the cool midsummer night air, and the threat of immediate sickness had receded. Everything was silent except for the hoot of an owl somewhere amongst the trees bordering the estate, their heads nodding above the roofs of the various outbuildings. A three-quarter moon was riding high in the heavens, bringing the shadows moving stealthily out of their corners to creep across the courtyard floor and give everything a somewhat sinister aspect.

Suddenly, out of the corner of one eye, I thought I saw a movement in the blackness near the gateway arch. I turned my head sharply, straining to see more clearly, but all appeared still. And yet so strong had been the impression that I forced myself to walk across the moonlit space of the enclosure, feeling very vulnerable and exposed, until I reached the wedge of all-concealing shadow by the gates themselves. These, I was pleased to note, were firmly closed, the massive crossbar in place and the great top and bottom bolts securely rammed into their sockets.

I turned to the door at the side of the gateway that Piers had mentioned, peering through the gloom to make certain that it, too, was fastened. I was startled to see that it was not: neither bolt had been shot. Not, of course, that there was any real need for anxiety I told myself. It was firmly closed and even Beelzebub's brute strength would be unable to batter down the solid oak of which it was made. All the same, I decided, it would be wise to make sure, and the sooner the better. I had suddenly recollected that I was wearing nothing but a sheet and, even though the night was warm, I was beginning to shiver. In spite of this, I hesitated a moment or two longer, peering around me for some sign of life, but there was none that I could see. All the doors to the outbuildings were firmly shut; not even the baker or his assistant as yet out of bed to light the ovens for the new day's batch of bread. The movement I fancied I had seen had been nothing more than a trick of the light, a flicker of shadow in the gateway's arched depth. All the same, I decided that someone had been lax in doing his duty; probably William Blancheflower when he had returned the previous evening from taking Beelzebub his supper. So I first reached up and then stooped to fasten the side-door's bolts, both top and bottom.

Satisfied, I wrapped the sheet more firmly about me and went back to bed, the rough stones of the courtyard chafing my bare feet. This time, thoroughly chilled, I picked up the coverings from the floor and spread them over me. Ten minutes later, I was sound asleep and remained so until morning.

I was awakened not by the cock crowing nor by the careless clatter of servants as they went about their morning's work, but by the sound of raised voices just outside my chamber door.

‘Well, where in God's name is she?' the steward – I could easily recognize his edgy tones – was demanding angrily. ‘The kitchen's a shambles with Mistress Cook waiting for the pantry and buttery to be unlocked, not to mention the linen press and still room being inaccessible! For heaven's sake, man! You ought to know where your wife is, surely!'

‘I haven't set eyes on her since I got up,' came William Blancheflower's voice in answer. ‘Nell's always up before me – up with the dawn, as you're well aware, Master Steward – so I assume she's around somewhere doing her duty.'

‘But that's just what she's not doing,' came the impatient reply. ‘I keep telling you! None of the internal doors have been opened and no one can get on with their work. I suppose I'll have to fetch the spare set of keys myself, but it's extremely annoying! When you find her, man, tell her I am excessively put out.'

‘You can tell her so yourself,' was the truculent rejoinder. ‘I've the dogs to see to, their feed to make up and Beelzebub to muzzle and get back in his kennel. Nell must be about somewhere or other. Though I admit it's not her way to neglect her duties like this. If I come across her, I'll give her a flea in her ear.'

The voices subsided and I started to dress. A maid arrived a few minutes later with hot shaving water for both Timothy and myself (I heard her knock at his door and the scrape of his bolts in response) so things in the kitchen were obviously straightening themselves out. By the time I was ready for breakfast – blue hose, clean shirt, yellow tunic – Timothy was waiting for me outside my door, ready to make his way to the servants' hall, where the smell of hot oatcakes suggested that Master Steward had found his spare keys and unlocked all necessary cupboards. But still there seemed to be no sign of the housekeeper.

Piers Daubenay, looking very smart in what I took to be the Fitzalan livery of green and orange, joined us as we were sitting down on one of the benches at the upper table. (The lower trestles were empty, the lesser servants presumably being already about their business.) While we ate, the daylight, seeping in through the unshuttered windows strengthening from purple to opalescent blue, I told my two companions about the apparent disappearance of the housekeeper.

‘Keeping a love tryst somewhere,' Timothy sniggered, ‘and forgotten the time.'

But young Daubenay was much more disturbed. ‘You say it's Mistress Blancheflower who's missing?' he asked, frowning. ‘You heard Master Steward and William talking? You're sure about that?'

‘As sure as I can be without having looked out of my door,' I answered positively. ‘I'm certain I recognized the steward's voice and almost as certain that it was the kennel man with him. Why do you doubt me?'

‘No . . . No reason,' Piers stammered. ‘It's just so unlike Nell Blancheflower to fail in her duty, that's all.'

I was just trying to work out if this was an answer to my question or not, when I heard – when, indeed, we all heard – someone shouting at the top of his voice and someone else, a young lad by the sound of it, screaming. The noise was coming from the courtyard and Timothy, Piers and I rose as one man, crowding out into the passageway and clustering around the main door where we were immediately joined by Master Steward, the cook, still with a spatula in her hand, and three kitchen maids, all looking suitably alarmed.

William Blancheflower was running towards us, his face a mask of horror and his jerkin streaked with blood. There was blood on his hands, as well. Behind him, one of the kennel lads had stopped to throw up on the cobbles. The steward started forward to meet them.

‘William, what in God's name has happened?'

‘Nell!' the kennel man gasped, and leant against the wall of the house, fighting for breath.

I could see now that he was grasping a hunting knife in his right hand and that this, too, was covered in blood. For one awful moment, it flickered through my mind that William had murdered his wife, but I instantly dismissed it as he turned his ravaged face towards us.

‘What about Mistress Eleanor?' the cook demanded, her voice trembling and her eyes beginning to reflect the horror in his.

‘Dead!' William croaked. ‘Her throat torn out by that savage dog,' He held up the dripping knife. ‘Well, he won't kill anyone else. I've done what should've been done years ago, only Master wouldn't hear of it. I've cut his throat an' all.' He collapsed on to his knees, wracked by noisy sobs.

‘But . . . But I don't understand,' the steward protested. ‘Whatever would take Mistress Blancheflower outside the walls during the hours of darkness? Like the rest of us, she knew how dangerous Beelzebub was.'

At this point, my attention was distracted by a noise behind me, and I turned just in time to see Timothy catch the slender form of Piers Daubenay in his arms as the boy crumpled in a faint. With an exclamation of impatience, the spymaster pushed his burden at me, saying, ‘Here, you hold him, Roger, while I go and investigate. Master Steward, follow me!'

It was just as well that he didn't require my company. I was standing as though rooted to the spot, my mind in a turmoil. I had no doubt at all that I was the unwitting cause of the housekeeper's death. My eyes had not deceived me last night. For reasons of her own, Eleanor Blancheflower had been up and about during the small hours, but when she had seen me crossing the courtyard to investigate, and being trapped in the gateway with no place to hide, she had unbolted and slipped through the side-door, intending to come in again as soon as the coast was clear. Unfortunately for her, I, in my usual busybody fashion, had repaired what I believed to be a serious omission and thus locked her out – with fatal consequences. Did I own up? Or did I lie low and say nothing? I must speak to Timothy as soon as possible.

Luckily, Piers recovered consciousness in a very short space of time, but his looks were so ghastly that I was reluctant to leave him. The cook had her hands full with two of the kitchen maids in hysterics and the kennel boy clinging to her skirts and shaking from head to foot. Fortunately, he had, for the moment at least, stopped vomiting.

Piers freed himself from my clasp with more speed than gratitude and gave me a push. ‘For heaven's sake go and find out what's happening, Master Chapman. See if there's anything to be done. Perhaps things aren't as bad as William thinks.'