Authors: Fiona Buckley
I had to keep my pretense up somehow. “I am sure, ma’am, that you would never harm a living soul if you could avoid it,” I said sweetly. I heard the false note in my voice, but Mary, innocent, devout Mary, didn’t.
“Of course, I would not! But all this may well be far
in the future. Again, we are being too serious. Davy! The music you are playing is too melancholy; you are sending our thoughts into solemn paths. Play us something merry! And then it will be time to end this gathering and all go to our beds.”
I would be thankful, I thought, as my head began to throb in good earnest, when I got to mine.
Scotland was indeed a wild place. Even at Holyrood, the queen’s principal home, things occurred that on the whole did
not
happen at Elizabeth’s court. When the supper was over and I took my leave, I was not even out of earshot of Queen Mary, who was still talking to Janet Hepburn in the supper chamber, indeed had only walked down one short flight of stairs, before a pair of hands stretched suddenly out of a dark doorway at the foot of the staircase and grabbed me.
They jerked me out of the light of the flambeaux that lit the stairs and the hallway into which they led, dragged me through the doorway, and pushed me roughly up against a stretch of cold stone wall. I opened my mouth to cry out but a hand came down across it and the cry was muffled out of existence.
“That manservant of yourn has been snooping at Furness’s Tavern and asking questions,” said Ericks’s
voice furiously in my ear. “I went in there tonight and Furness told me. Just what do ye think ye’re about, my lass? Tell me that!”
A lady leaving a private supper party held by Elizabeth could usually expect to get back to her own quarters without being attacked en route. I would have liked to say so but since Ericks’s hand was still over my mouth, I was in no position either to answer his question or tell him what I thought of the way he had asked it.
I waited. The hand, cautiously, eased its pressure. “I want an answer,” Ericks whispered. “But no caterwauling, now, or God help ye . . .”
I managed to grunt in an affirmative tone and the hand dropped to press against my left shoulder and keep me pinned against the wall, which ground into my back. His other hand had my right upper arm in a savage grip. “Verra well. Now, answer me. What’s that man o’ yours after?”
He was strong and he was causing me considerable discomfort but at least he wasn’t threatening me with a blade. I was dealing with an angry man but not, I thought, a murderous one. I could almost have sympathy for Adam Ericks. He might be innocent, after all, and if so, he had something to complain about. After Mary’s cloying simplicity, the Ericks rudeness even had something refreshing about it.
“Information,” I said quietly. “Anything that might lead me to the man who killed my cousin. Edward Faldene
was
my cousin. It is a matter of family feeling. Surely you can understand that?”
“Ye ask that of a Scot? We’ll hunt down ony man
that offends one of our clan, hunt him across the world and through the ages if need be.”
“Then you do understand. I want to find out who killed my cousin. I have learned that Master Furness was fetched to the inquiry because someone laid anonymous information about the quarrel Edward had with you. I wanted to know who the informant was and I wondered if the tavern keeper knew—or could guess. I think it possible that whoever did the informing may also have done the murder and be looking for a scapegoat. I sent my man to talk to Master Furness. That’s all.”
“Laid information . . . ? I didnae know that.” Ericks’s grip slackened a fraction. “A scapegoat, eh? So someone’s tryin’ to point a finger at me; is that it?”
“It could be.” I tried to move but it was still impossible and the attempt made his grasp on me tighten again.
“May the lord have maircy on them if ever I catch them, whoever they are. Layin’ snares for an innocent man. I’ve no time for papists, and that means you as well, my lady. Ye’re another of Faldene’s papist kin, are ye not?” The mere thought made him so angry that he shook me, like a dog with a rat, rattling my teeth and knocking the back of my head against the wall. Fortunately, due to Dale’s ministrations, my head was well protected by my piled and netted hair.
“I said this at the inquiry and I’ll say to ye again now,” Ericks growled. “I might tak a drink or two and get angry and tear a papistical thing like a cross off a man’s throat or plant a fist in his face, but that’s one thing, and creepin’ in at a window in the middle o’ the
night with a blade an’ doin’ murder on a man asleep is another. That’s an insult in itself, to be washed oot wi’ blood!”
“If my cousin’s killer is ever found,” I said, “then as far as I’m concerned, you are welcome to fill a whole washtub with his blood. Please do. Now, will you let me go? Before someone comes through here—or comes to look for me?”
The grasping hands relaxed and fell to his sides. “Aye. Verra well.” He paused. Then he said: “Ye keep askin’ who killed him. Strikes me, ye ought to be askin’ why.”
• • •
When I left the supper room, my headache had been trying to return, but the encounter with Ericks had the odd effect of dispersing it. Feeling enlivened once more, and patting my skirt to make sure that the documents Henderson had given me were still safely there, I went to see if Brockley had come back, found that he had, and summoned both him and Dale to my chamber so that we could all talk. “Did you learn anything, Brockley, and if so, what?”
“The landlord, Master Furness, had little to tell me, madam, except one thing. He repeated what Lady Simone’s butler said. There were strangers in his tavern that night who egged the quarrel on. I can’t see how anyone could plan it in advance, but it seems to me more likely than ever that someone meaning harm to Master Faldene might just have snatched a chance to put the blame somewhere else.”
“Yes. That
is
interesting,” I said thoughtfully. “Thank
you, Brockley. Now, then. Listen. I have here a copy of a document which Master Henderson has with him. It is the original list of Queen Mary’s English supporters—a version supplied to her some years ago. I also have a copy of the list she now has. If my cousin ever did get his list to her, then the version now in her possession should differ from the original—it should contain up-to-date changes. It may even be the very document he gave her. I want to compare the two. If they’re not the same, then probably Edward did deliver his list. I want to know because . . .”
“Because it’s possible that Master Faldene was killed for some reason connected with the list, madam?”
“Yes. But if he delivered it safely, then that probably isn’t the reason.”
“Everyone,” Brockley said slowly, “has kept asking who. But if we knew for certain why, we’d very likely know who, straightaway.”
“Yes, exactly!” I said in surprise, because he had virtually repeated Ericks’s remark. And of course, they were both right. I saw it now. It was the moment for telling them of my encounter with Ericks. Brockley, of course, was scandalized and wanted to rush away then and there to teach Ericks some manners, but I peremptorily stopped him.
“No, Brockley! He did me no harm, and if someone has tried to put false blame on him, he has every right to be angry. In fact, you and he both think the same way and it is good sense.
Why
was Edward killed? That’s what we need to get at.”
“It seems to me, madam,” Brockley said grimly,
“that it’s a very pressing need, a great fear or a great hatred, that would cause a man to kill in such a fashion. The reason ought to be as big as a mountain.”
“Yes. Yes, I agree.” I frowned. I was considering the matter from this angle for the first time. I had been so overwhelmed by the simple fact that Edward had been murdered that I hadn’t considered the extraordinarily vicious, stealthy, and elaborate manner of it as important. “But in that case . . .” I began slowly.
I stopped, groping after an idea that refused to clarify. Brockley, his intelligent forehead wrinkling just like mine, said: “Are you thinking, madam, that he may have been killed and the list taken, just to stop it from being delivered? That could make sense. There are plenty of Protestants in Scotland who wouldn’t think the queen’s claim to England was lawful and wouldn’t want to encourage their queen to invade England.”
The idea found its way into speech at last. “But she had a list already.” I rubbed my upper arm, where Ericks’s finger marks would soon be showing up as bruises. “How could it be worth killing Edward just for an amended version? Anyone who knew enough to know he was carrying it very likely knew about the first one as well. Anyway, how
did
anyone know he was carrying it? There are a lot of questions here that need answering. Well, the two lists I have here should tell us whether he delivered his message to the queen or not. Let’s settle that first. Sit down, both of you. Which of you is best at reading aloud?”
They were both literate, but Dale said: “I can read receipts and put labels on pots of unguent and scent,
and make shift to write a letter or read one, but Roger’s the one who had real schooling.”
“Very well. Then, Brockley, I want you to read one of these lists out while I check it against the other. I’d like to do it now, before we go to bed. We’ll need to light some more candles.”
Dale lit them while I brought out the package that Rob had given me and unsealed it. There were indeed two lists, on slightly different paper, each running to three pages. They consisted of names, individuals in some cases and families in others, with details of where they lived and what they had offered to help Mary Stuart turn herself into the Queen of England: money (and how much), men and horses (and how many), and arms (what kind). Each had a note in Rob’s handwriting at the top of the first page. One said laconically:
My Old List.
The other said
M’s Present List.
There was also a separate note, which said,
I’ve taken a look myself. The two aren’t the same but the changes don’t look recent. But I know you’ll want to see for yourself. Rob.
I regarded the lists with pleasure. In so many of my past adventures, I had been the one who stole into other people’s studies and private chambers, picking locks in the process, to examine their personal papers. I had hated it, for I was always afraid of being caught, and besides, it felt so tasteless. This time, for once, someone else had done it for me.
“Read out the old list,” I said, passing it to Brockley.
I sat on the side of my bed, with the queen’s version in my hand while Brockley pulled a table near the window seat, arranged a bank of candles on it, and sat down with Dale at his side. He began to read.
It was interesting. Some of the names, of course, were no surprise—those of powerful Catholic families whose allegiance I could have foretold. Others were unknown to me. But one family was mentioned whom I knew and had liked and was sorry to find in such circumstances, and others I knew slightly and was surprised to find so treacherous.
The one I was holding, the list purloined for me by Master Rokeby, had indeed been annotated in places. A few names had been crossed out, and notes, in a variety of hands, had been scribbled against them. Two or three men had died. Another had lost his wealth and so his offer of money was void. Another had married his daughter to a man who was decidedly not sympathetic; it was not advisable to rely on him now. Most of the annotations were dated, though, and Rob was right, none of the dates were recent. They could not be connected with Edward’s list but presumably reflected information that had drifted in over the years.
“Thank you, Brockley,” I said when we had finished. I lowered the papers in my hand to my lap and sat gazing down at the last sheet, wondering what line of inquiry to follow next.
An entry that had passed me by with no more than a private nod of recognition when Brockley was reading suddenly leapt at me, as though it had bounded from the page.
John and Euphemia Thursby of St. Margaret’s, Northumbria. Have offered a dozen horses from their stables and twelve men from the
St. Margaret’s tenantry, and what money can be spared when the time comes.
A pity, I thought. A great pity. To be expected, of course. They were Catholics living in the Catholic stronghold of Northumberland and had connections in Scotland. It was perfectly natural.
Was it?
“What is it, ma’am?” Dale asked anxiously. “Why, ma’am, your face has gone so . . . so fixed. Are you all right? Is it your head again?”
“No, Dale. No. I’m just . . . wondering something.”
“Wondering what, madam?” Brockley asked.
“That’s the trouble, Brockley. I hardly know. It’s so . . . tenuous. Like morning mist. There’s nothing solid there. And yet . . .”
In my head, fragments of the conversation I had had with the Thursbys on the day I arrived at St. Margaret’s were reciting themselves, with all their nuances of voice. I could see the faces of John and Euphemia, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, Robin and Robina Goodfellow, as I had thought of them then. I could see St. Margaret’s itself: comfortable, well cared for, beloved.
“The fact is that we love St. Margaret’s too much and can’t help but hope we will never lose it.”
That had been John Thursby.
“It would break my heart if we did.”
That was Euphemia.
“Yes, well, that’s as may be. But if it’s ever God’s will that our religion be restored in England, well, as Madame de la Roche says, it’s a sacrifice we might have to make.”
Another voice chimed in my mind, that of Lady Simone Dougal, speaking of her husband and the English abbey he had once inherited.
“On his last visit, he was approached by some emissary or other of Queen Elizabeth and asked if he would give an oath that he would back Elizabeth if ever there should be a war between England and Scotland. They told him that he might lose the former abbey if a Catholic ruler ever took the throne. He didn’t believe that. He said he was sure that our Queen Mary would never reward faithful followers by taking their homes away from them, and that this was nothing but a ploy, a cruel pretense of Elizabeth’s.”