The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (29 page)

 • • • 

There was no guarantee that I would find him. He was Norfolk’s employee; he went where his master did and Norfolk could easily have gone to the court or set off on a visit. If so, his secretaries would go with him. I must just hope for the best, I thought desperately.

It was one of those times when there wasn’t a boat in sight for hire, and when one did come into view, it was already full of passengers. The next one was empty but failed to see our signals. A good twenty minutes passed before we finally got ourselves embarked and then I sat there fuming while the banks slid by with painful slowness, because we seemed to have hired the laziest ferryman on the Thames. If he’d put some energy into it, he could have made good use of the ebb tide but he rowed at leisure and I knew his type all too well. It’s never any use asking them, even politely, to go faster. They dawdle worse than ever, just to show their independence. Brockley knew that as well, and held his peace though I could see that he too was seething.

All the same, I took my impatience out on Brockley when he said: “But, madam, what do you hope to do if we find Dean and talk to him?”

“Bang his head on the nearest wall until he promises to drop this silly charge, of course! Then I’ll find Johnson and do the same to him.”

“You don’t really mean that, madam. Do you think . . . ” Brockley hesitated, meeting my angry eyes, but I had never really been able to intimidate Roger Brockley. “Do you think that either of them will listen to you? Especially Dean. I didn’t hear all of your last conversation with him, but did you part on friendly terms?”

“No. Very unfriendly.”

“So—what if he simply says no?”

Yes, indeed! What?

When we disembarked, I set such a pace on the walk to Norfolk’s house that Dale developed a stitch and Brockley had to insist that we slow down. He was no doubt wise, for we did at least arrive at the gate in orderly fashion, rather than red in the face and out of breath. Conley came majestically to receive us. “I am here on a matter of great urgency,” I told him. “Is Edmund Dean within?”

“He is on an errand to the Ridolfi house, madam. But if your business is so very urgent, perhaps my lord can help. He is with his tailor just now but if you would wait for a little, he may be willing to see you.”

I wanted to swear because of Dean’s absence but then, in a moment of unpleasant realization, I saw that Brockley was right again. Any attempt on my part to intercede for Gladys with Dean would probably fail. Dean’s resentment against me might well be behind this idiotic charge. It was Norfolk’s authority I needed. He was Dean’s employer and ought to be able to exert some control over him. And—yes, Norfolk was vulnerable.

“The matter is very serious,” I told Conley fiercely. “The duke may be able to help. Please tell him I am here. At once!”

He led us inside, and as soon as he did so, I heard Norfolk’s voice. He wasn’t upstairs, it seemed, but in one of the ground-floor rooms.

What I did next, I did—I know now—under the influence of something very like hysteria. It had been gathering all the time we were in that boat, watching that lackadaisical oarsman. I was so afraid for Gladys.

I knew her so well. She was short-tempered, volatile, and in
many ways, ignorant, and she couldn’t guard her tongue. Furthermore, I was now certain that as the years went on, her mind really had begun to falter. She had come to the point of half-believing in her own pretense of occult powers. I also knew that when she was confronted by armed men with a warrant for her arrest, she would suddenly have seen reality. It had happened before. She would see the pit in front of her and too late, she would see herself as she was: old, frail, powerless, and afraid of death. She would be terror-stricken, shaking and dribbling with fear.

So, when Conley tried to usher us into the antlered parlor, where I had first met Norfolk, saying in unhurried fashion that he would inform his lordship of my presence, I found his dignified calm just too much to bear. Something inside me snapped. Brushing past Conley, ignoring his protests, I made toward the Duke of Norfolk’s voice, sweeping through an anteroom and straight toward the source, a closed door on the right.

“Madam, you can’t . . . !”

Conley had rushed after me and was trying to get in my way. Once more I dodged him, knocked vigorously on the door, and called Norfolk’s name. I heard him answer, and I think I really did believe he had called an invitation to enter, but in truth I was too wrought up to listen properly. I threw the door open and marched in, and Norfolk, clad in a loose shirt and no doublet, beaky-nosed and hopping on one leg like an outsize sparrow as he tried to get his hose back on, just turned away in time to avoid considerable embarrassment.

The new hose he had been trying on—an elaborate puffed and slashed outfit, all violet and silver and ostentation—was having pinned adjustments checked over by the tailor, a short, bearded man, who looked at me in outrage. His dignity was the equal of Conley’s and somehow he managed not to lose any of it even though his mouth was full of pins.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I said, taken aback and turning scarlet, and behind me, Conley indignantly shooed the Brockleys out of the way. He then strode into the room, slamming the door in their faces.

“I couldn’t stop her, sir. I am extremely sorry, but she went past me like a mad thing. Mistress Stannard, please come away now and . . . ”

Norfolk cut him short. “Never mind, Conley. Let Mistress Stannard explain herself. Mistress Stannard, do you always burst unannounced into gentlemen’s private rooms? Did you not hear me call to you to wait? Surely you can see that I am in no fit state to receive a visit from a lady?”

“My lord!” I said. “I am sorry to come upon you like this but it’s an emergency. Something terrible has happened!”

I then did the best thing I could possibly have done in the circumstances, probably the only thing which would have cooled Norfolk’s entirely reasonable wrath and called forth sympathy instead.

I broke down in tears.

 • • • 

“Now,” said Norfolk, when he had resumed his doublet as well as his hose and somehow or other had got the two of us ensconced in the parlor. He had also made the scandalized Conley bring a flagon of strong red wine and had watched me gulp some of it down, “now, please, Mistress Stannard, tell me what the matter is and why you think I can help. All right, Conley, you can go away. I accept that you couldn’t stop her and perhaps there is a good reason behind all this.”

“There is. And I’m truly sorry. I was wrong to rush in on you like that. But I am nearly out of my mind. Are the Brockleys being looked after?” I added, as an afterthought.

“By good Mistress Dalton, in the servants’ quarters,” said Conley in chilly tones, and withdrew.

I looked at Norfolk. “You’re the only person I can think of who might be able to help, and every hour of delay means more fear and suffering for someone who can’t defend herself. Please listen.”

“You can see I am willing to do so. Go on.”

“My woman, Gladys Morgan . . . ”

“That terrible old crone who caused such a furore when you were staying here?”

“She is just old and a little silly. Yes, it’s Gladys. She has been arrested on a charge of witchcraft, and your third secretary, Edmund Dean, has apparently laid information that she cursed the messenger Julius Gale and that his death was due to that, to witchcraft, and not to being accosted and stabbed. And you know,” I said with passion, “that it isn’t true. You
know
that Gale was stabbed. You saw the wound, did you not?”

“It was just a slit. Even then, it seemed strange to me that such a small thing could cause a man’s death. I know the coroner said that it could, but there is another possibility, which Dean has also raised. Perhaps the hand that used the blade was under the influence of dark forces. Mistress Stannard, why should anyone want to kill Gale except for pure mischief and joy in evildoing?” Norfolk was all righteous innocence. “He was only a courier. He wasn’t robbed. Even the letters he was carrying weren’t stolen, as we thought at first. They were here all the time.”

“I don’t believe in those dark forces, my lord, and surely you don’t either. I am asking you to speak to Dean, to insist that he must accept that there
was
a stab wound and that there is no evidence that any . . . any occult power had anything to do with Gale’s death. Get Dean to withdraw his evidence!
Please,
order him to admit the truth. I’m afraid for Gladys! She’s old, foolish, and frightened out of her wits. I can’t bear to think of her . . . I can’t bear it . . . ”

Norfolk hurriedly poured me another glass of wine, before I could dissolve into tears again. “But
why
should anyone murder Gale?” he said again, wonderingly.

“Why should Gladys?” I countered.

My frenzy was passing now, once more enabling me to think. Norfolk was balking; very well, I would apply pressure. “Gale was not on the road to the north, as he should have been,” I said. “Did you not think that strange?”

“I did, of course, but perhaps he had some private errand—some friend for whom he had a message which he wished to deliver before leaving London . . . ”

Quietly, I said: “How the letters came to be found in his room, I don’t know. But I think he
meant
to take them to the house of Sir William Cecil, to be copied before he took them on
to their destinations. The correspondence you and Signor Ridolfi have been having with Mary Stuart, the Bishop of Ross, and Regent Moray, has been under scrutiny.”

“What?” Norfolk was in the act of pouring wine for himself. He nearly dropped the flagon. His expression of horror was almost comical. He looked as though I had hit him with a brick.

“My lord,” I said, “I have been staying in the house of Sir William Cecil. He was my informant. I assure you that he has no animus against you. But you’re involved in a very dangerous business.”

He gulped at his wine and then attempted to smile kindly, as a sophisticated man might smile at a child who was pretending to worldly knowledge it couldn’t possibly possess. “What are you talking about? Come, come! I have been considering marriage with a charming woman who would bring me many worldly advantages . . . ”

I just looked at him, without speaking. I had no need to speak. Norfolk’s own conscience and Norfolk’s own fears were doing it for me. I watched his eyes widen and saw him turn pale. After a moment, I said mildly: “You have been in touch, I think, with the Catholic earls in the north—Derby, Westmorland, Northumberland?”

“I . . . ” He stopped, nonplussed.

“Cecil wishes you well and fears you are running a grave risk. He would like to be your friend. He is helping you with a lawsuit, I know; surely that’s evidence of his goodwill. What he would like to see you do,” I said, “is step back from these schemes and plans. Dissociate yourself.”

“Does he know you’re here? Did he send you?”

“No. He has no idea where I’ve gone. My daughter, Meg, is still in his house, though, and she knows where I am.” I let the note of warning sound in my voice and Norfolk produced a feeble kind of indignation.

“My dear Mistress Stannard! You are in no danger in my house!”

“Indeed, I hope not. But do you not see that you need Cecil’s friendship? He tried to prevent Gladys’s arrest. He would be
grateful if you would help to destroy the charge which has been laid against her.”

“I see. What
exactly
do you wish me to do?”

I thought I’d made it clear already, but I obliged him by repeating it. “I want you, sir, to bring Edmund Dean to heel. To bear witness yourself that Gale died by stabbing. My lord, you are the Duke of Norfolk!” I resorted to flattery. “Dean will obey you and the justice who issued the warrant for Gladys’s arrest will surely listen to you!”

He refilled his glass again and I saw that his hand was not quite steady. “I wish I knew who really killed Gale. I wish I knew why!”

“To stop him from going to Cecil.”

“But they had only to warn Signor Ridolfi and get Gale dismissed from his service. There was no need to murder him.”

“Those particular letters might have amounted to some sort of emergency. Whoever killed him must have thought he had them on him. Who knows? Will you try to save Gladys?”

Norfolk drew himself up. “What if I say no? I have a sense of loyalty to my inferiors. I would have to make Dean look foolish and he is, after all, my secretary and has served me well. I am sure he is sincere . . . ”

I said: “I repeat. My daughter knows I have come here. And if you will not help Gladys, I will ask Cecil to go to the queen and tell her everything he has learned concerning your marriage plans and your dealings with the north and if he doesn’t wish to, then I’ll do it myself.”

He sat staring at me and I saw his lower lip wobble. “All I ask is that you tell the truth and make Dean tell it as well!” I said. “Please!”

“Naturally, if I am called as a witness, I shall say what I saw when Gale’s body was carried into my house. What else would I do?”

He was a muddlehead. He had just, more or less, threatened to lie about it because he valued Edmund Dean’s feelings more highly than justice for poor Gladys. I didn’t remind him.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be grateful, always. So will Gladys.”

Norfolk didn’t answer for a moment. His gaze shifted from
my face to look past me, so intently that I turned to look, thinking that someone else must have entered the room. No one was there, however. What he was seeing was a vision born from his own mind. Then he said: “If I must give up my hopes, my dreams, I shall lose her.”

“Her?” For a moment I was puzzled and then I understood. “You mean—Mary Stuart?”

“Yes. My Mary.” His glance returned to me. Insignificant little man though he was, he had in that moment a curious stature. “You probably can’t understand, but I love her.”

I said nothing. As on the day when I first arrived at Howard House, I found it impossible to remind him that his adored Mary might well have the violent demise of her husband Darnley on her conscience.