Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) (20 page)

“What the…”

“This was hidden behind one of the roofbeams, hooked on a nail.”

Carey was triumphant, holding the rusted thing, covered in nameless white and black stuff, insects and spiders bailing out as fast as they could. He waved it, set it to his shoulder, and took aim at the hole in the wall that Cumberland could no longer see. Cumberland’s gorge suddenly rose because he had looked at the other end of the bow. It was dented, some small threads caught in the splintered wood there.

Carey saw it too and his eyes narrowed as he looked carefully at the place where the steel of the bow crossed the wood of the stock. To Cumberland’s horror he pulled off a couple of the caught threads, put them carefully in a leather purse he kept in his doublet sleeve pocket.

“Hmm.” he said.

“Jesu,” was all Cumberland could say.

“According to the inquest report, before she broke her neck, Amy was already dead from two large dents in her head, one two inches deep, the other one an inch deep.” They both looked at the crossbow. “See here? He fired at her, missed, then when she tried to run past him and out the door, he hit her on the back of the head with the crossbow hard enough to kill her. The stock itself made the two-inch dent, the metal bow the one-inch dent.”

“Jesu.”

In the pause, Cumberland thought that now if ever would be the moment for Amy’s ghost to show herself. But she didn’t. All the movement came from Carey who leaned the crossbow, stock down, against the wall and went up the second set of steps, turned right at the top of the second set of steps where there was a much larger carved door.

Another search through the keys eventually found the one that opened it and they looked into a very fine long gallery running above the wing of the manor house that adjoined the hall. That, too, had shuttered windows but it seemed in better condition, though it was dusty and smelled pungently of mice and rats. Thank God there were no bats. Somehow it didn’t…feel haunted.

Carey was frowning. “So. Somebody shot at her with the crossbow, she tried to get out the door at the bottom of the stairs, which meant she had to run past him, and that’s when he hit her with the crossbow.”

Cumberland nodded. It made sense of a gruesome kind.

Carey stepped out into the long gallery where Amy Dudley had walked on rainy days and probably practised dancing. He paced all the way to the end, where there was another locked door, blinking rapidly when he passed a window that let daylight squeeze through the shutters. The portraits and hangings that must have been there once had long since been taken away. Only the things built in were still there, like the window seats and the carved linenfold panels on the walls.

Carey moved purposefully back to the long gallery door onto the back stairs. They stood looking down into the entrance hall.

“Right, George. I’m Amy…”

“And very pretty you are, too…”

“Thanks, my lord,” said Carey drily. “You are the assassin.”

“Grr.”

“So you stand inside the musicians’ door until you hear the sound of my steps.”

Cumberland did as he was asked with great theatricality. Carey came down the stairs slowly, stopped on the landing. Cumberland stepped out from the musicians’ door, aimed an imaginary crossbow because he didn’t feel like picking up the one that probably killed Amy Dudley.

“Kerchunk!” he said, firing an invisible bolt at Carey.

“By some fortune, you miss at point-blank range and I see you. Then I run
down
the stairs past you…”

Carey came down the stairs past Cumberland who mimed hitting him on the head with the imaginary crossbow.

“And down she goes and breaks her neck in the bargain,” finished Carey looking annoyed. “It’s wrong. It can’t be right.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“But why would she run past the doorway where a man was standing who had just tried to kill her? She could have turned and run up to the long gallery again, screaming blue murder and escaped through the door at the other end.”

“Tried to fight him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, my lord, she’s a woman.”

“My wife would.”

“Your lady wife is made of stronger stuff.”

“Your lady mother would, too.”

Carey sighed. “All right. I don’t know where the dents on her head were, back or front. They might have been on the…No, the inquest report would have said so, said they were on her face, not her head. She must have run past him…no.” Carey shook his head irritably.

“What’s the problem? You’ve found the murder weapon. Amy Robsart was killed by someone who tried to shoot her with a crossbow bolt and then used the crossbow to bludgeon her when he missed. You should be pleased. You’ve solved a thirty-year-old mystery.”

“No, I haven’t, I’ve made it worse.”

“How?”

“For God’s sake, my lord, why didn’t she run back into the long gallery?”

“Panicked?”

“When you panic, you run away from the danger, not straight past it!”

“Not necessarily,” said Cumberland who believed he had never panicked in his life.

“You do!” Carey went back to the small door and looked at it again, seemingly found nothing that pleased him. He went back up to the long gallery door, opened the door, looked through it, locked it again, came down the stairs, counting them, checked the bolt hole in the panelling, went past Cumberland and clattered on down the stairs to the bottom. Through the open door to the courtyard, they could see Forster waiting for them.

Monday 18th September 1592, morning

Dodd decided to take a closer look at the clear trail left by the robbers before it rained or something. He knew he was conspicuous in his unpeeled state and also completely unarmed, but he needed to move to keep warm and he might as well do that by finding out more about his enemies.

He found the narrow path again with the footprints and some hoofprints from Whitesock, a tail hair on a branch. The path turned, went two ways. Upstream there was a dog turd, downstream the footpads’ feet, and Whitesock’s hooves continued in a different direction, heading south.

Dodd went carefully and quietly along the path by the stream. His feet told him that the path had once been a better-made road because it had smooth blocks of stone in places, some robbed out, some covered in weeds. It wasn’t as deep down as the Giants’ Road up on the borders, though. He bent to look at the stones more carefully. One was freshly chipped by a shod horse’s hoof.

He carried on up the path, his feet already prickling and sore from the stones and twigs. Once the soles of his feet had been like leather, when he was a wild boy, but he still knew how to go quietly.

He smelled them first. There were men somewhere up ahead, smoking.

His nose tingled. He recognised that smell. The bastards had stolen his pipe and expensive henbane of Peru, mixed with that magical Moroccan incense that made the world soft-edged and his rage far away. He scowled. Jesu, what he would give for a pipe and some smoke to drink.

He slipped among the stands of bracken and gone-over shepherd’s purse and mallow. There had been buildings here once, the path had a tumbled masonry wall beside it and a great multi-trunked yew tree growing from it.

It was a while since he’d needed to do it, being senior enough now that he could send Bessie’s boy or Bangtail up a tree for him, but you never forgot how. He circled the tree to be sure there weren’t any crows in it, found a place to start. He hoisted himself up onto a branch and then climbed slowly to the crown of the tree, and then out along a branch where he lay down and got his breath with the sun dappling on his bare back.

They were sloppy. Imagine leaving a tree that gave an overview of their tower? It wasn’t a tower of course; they didn’t have those in the soft South. Below he could see crooked flat stones and lumps of stone sticking out of the earth at angles. Ahead was another well-robbed wall. Beyond that was…

Once it must have been a small monastery, a hive of industry, no doubt, full of monks. The roof was gone and the walls showed the old blackening of fire and the green flourish of plants breaking it apart. Perhaps the monks had rebelled against King Henry’s men and so been burned out. That had happened in other places.

By squinting and leaning over, Dodd could just make out the two men standing on a bend in the path. It wasn’t so hard. Every so often puffs of smoke could go up from them and he could hear quiet talk.

Past them, further on, where the monastery gatehouse must have been, there were signs of thatch having been added to some of the building which was roughly planked along one side.

Dodd nodded to himself. They had a bolthole, that was why they were so bold. Who was their headman? He’d give a lot to know that and his surname. For a moment he thought about carrying on round the place and working out where the weak spots were.

He was more tempted to stay in the tree and wait for nightfall and then go in quietly and slit some throats. It was a very attractive thought, but in the end that would be stupid. He might well slit a few throats but at some stage someone would wake up or catch him and it stood to reason there were a lot more of them and then they wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Sighing, he climbed very carefully down the tree, sliding a little on the flaky bark, then retraced the path upstream. He stopped at the ford to drink as much as he could. He wasn’t hungry anymore, the ball of rage in his gut was food enough really, as it had been in the past.

Then while he was drinking, he heard the rattle of dog paws trotting down the path toward him, smelled the dog himself too who was panting and snortling on a trail, and he heard a high voice speaking to the dog.

He stood still and thought for a second. He already knew there were people upstream who had goats or maybe even a milch cow. Why would they come down the path with dogs?

There was one obvious answer. Would he run or would he meet them? That was obvious too. He looked about for a soft place and when he’d found somewhere behind a bush without too many thistles and brambles, he lay down there, curled up and shut his eyes.

Monday 18th September 1592, morning

Once out in the early morning sunlight, Carey shaded his eyes and cursed, then irritably wrapped his scarf round them again, rammed his hat back on his head.

“Mrs. Odingsells will see you now, sir,” said the man, “Though she’s not very happy, I’ll tell you. It’s a good thing you’re not a black-haired man, is all I can say.”

“I am,” said Cumberland.

“You’re too young, sir, both of you are, Mrs. Odingsells was very particular about it.”

They followed Forster in through the door to the opposite wing where the great doors to the hall were and then up a larger set of stairs that led on to a corridor in the inhabited part of the house.

They went into a chamber with a very large curtained bed, with the curtains pulled back and the shutters half open. The smell of old lady in the room was not too bad, Cumberland thought, quite similar to the Queen’s under all the rosewater, although the chamberpot was clearly unemptied.

Propped up on the linen pillows was a bony form in a knitted jacket and embroidered cap. Her hair was white, her eyes yellowed and milky with cataracts, and her beak the most powerful part of her face which had mostly fallen away back to the skull. Carey’s warrant lay on the bed, now right way up.

“So Her Majesty is trying again, is she?” she demanded in a stronger voice than Cumberland expected.

“Er…yes, mistress,” said Carey, sweeping off his hat in a bow, removing the scarf.

“Sit down, sit down, both of you boys. What’s your name?”

“Sir Robert Carey, mistress,” he explained, “seventh son of my lord Baron Hunsdon, Chamberlain to…”

The old woman had sucked in a breath.

“Henry Carey?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Why isn’t he here then, eh?”

“I’m not sure, Mistress Odingsells, I think he’s supervising the Queen’s move to Oxford on progress.”

“I didn’t like the man she sent last time she was there, whats-isname? Slimy villain for all his fancy gown.”

Carey had sat on the chair by the bed, Cumberland modestly took the clothes chest by the door, the better to escape if necessary.

“Kept shouting at me and hectoring and then offering money. Stupid man. Must have been a very good liar to get the job. So. What do you want, my lad?
I
didn’t see who did it, you know. I was playing cards, God forgive me.”

“Do you know the man’s name? The one who questioned you before?”

The wrinkled lips pinched together, then smacked apart.

“No, and I’ll have forgotten yours by tomorrow. Ugly tall man, black hair and eyebrows, one of Lord Shrewsbury’s crew, I think. The Queen was at Oxford.”

“Well, can you tell me the story of Lady Dudley’s last few days?”

“I can,” said the old lady and shut her lips.

Carey smiled. “Please will you, mistress?”

“Perhaps. Why should I?”

“I have a warrant from Her Majesty.”

The old lady lifted the warrant and squinted at it from the side of one eye. “Queen’s seal, give aid and so on. Yes. So what? Might be a forgery.” Carey said nothing. “And why would she want it all dug up again after thirty years?”

“I don’t know, mistress,” said Carey with surprising humility. “She won’t tell me. She won’t tell me anything, which is extremely annoying.”

The old lips stretched in a smile.

“It’s a puzzle isn’t it? And the man most folk say was the murderer died four years ago.”

“Do you mean my lord of Leicester?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Odingsells, “Who else? Not Sir Richard Verney nor Bald Butler as the Papist book said, they weren’t anywhere near. And yet it wasn’t right.”

Cumberland was suppressing the urge to shout “Stop talking riddles!” Mind you, it would be interesting to hear about the thing that changed the Queen’s life forever from someone who was there. Not as interesting as a sea battle, but still interesting.

“Mistress, please, would you tell me the tale, starting with about a week before, around the 1st September 1560?”

The old lady shut her eyes. “I suppose I’ll get no peace until I do.”

“I’m afraid not, mistress.”

The eyes snapped open. “Well the last thing I want is peace. So there!”

“Yes,” said Carey quietly, “It’s very dull being blind, isn’t it? A…an accident happened to my eyes on Saturday and I own I have never been so utterly undone with tedium as since then.”

She laughed a little. “What’s wrong with ’em? French pox?”

“Someone put belladonna into my wine.”

“Tut. You see, that was why I always thought it couldn’t have been my lord of Leicester. Yes, Sir William Cecil had a man placed in the kitchens, but it would have been easy enough to get round him and do the deed.”

“I think so too,” Carey said.

“Hmm. Good. Why didn’t you die?”

“I was very lucky, mistress. Or perhaps I should say that God must have watched over me?”

That’s right, thought Cumberland, give it a bit of Godly piety, that should unlock the old oyster.

“Hah! Such arrogance. So why didn’t He watch over poor Amy?”

“I don’t know, mistress. I’m not privy to His counsels. Perhaps God never meant Her Majesty to marry, as she says now.”

There was a cynical look on Mrs. Odingsell’s face. “So why didn’t He find a way that didn’t mean killing poor Amy?”

“In fact, you might say, in order to stop the Queen marrying Leicester, God only had to keep Amy alive.”

Mrs. Odingsells slowly shook her head, looking pleased with herself.

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you mean?” Carey’s voice had gone down to a murmur.

“Something was afoot. Something…I didn’t know. A messenger arrived from my lord Leicester and put Amy all in a tizzy. She ordered a new gown from her tailor and then when a new message came before it was ready, she sent me into Oxford to have her best velvet gown refashioned, to put gold brocade on the neck. She wouldn’t let me read any of the letters. She burnt them. Then she wrote three herself, though her penmanship was poor. I thought Leicester was planning to visit her but…”

“Did he?”

Again the slow shaking of her head. “He hadn’t seen her for months. A year maybe.
He
didn’t visit her.”

Cumberland missed the inflection but Carey didn’t.

“Who did visit her?”

There was a very long silence while Cumberland said nothing and rather thought Carey was actually holding his breath.

“According to the inquest papers, she wanted the house empty for the day,” Carey prompted finally. “She sent everyone else to the fair at Abingdon, but you refused to go and she was angry about it.”

“I knew poor Amy was terribly worried about something. It was very important. But she never killed herself, she wouldn’t do that, no matter what wicked men say. Never never. Amy was a good Christian woman, she spent hours on her knees praying for the wisdom to judge rightly.”

Another long pause.

“She did love her husband, you see,” creaked the old voice sadly, “In spite of everything. She loved him. She knew he didn’t love her, never really had, and she knew he was completely enchanted by the Queen but…she still loved him.”

Carey was tense as he sat, poised. Cumberland had to admire his patience and wondered where he’d got it.

“As for going to the fair…” The old creaky voice was far back in the past. “The youngsters were all for it, I wasn’t. I liked peace and quiet then. Go to Our Lady Fair at Abingdon on that Sunday…No! I don’t think so. Only the ungodly would go to a fair on a Sunday. There was to be a football match as well and why should I watch something so boring and unseemly?”

To Cumberland’s surprise, Carey didn’t explain to her what fun football was—but then no woman could possibly understand such things. Even his wife thought football was a waste of time.

“I refused to go and we had an argument about it. Mrs. Owens was going to stay with her but Mrs. Owens was deaf as a post and not too firm in her wits. Amy screamed at me that I would spoil everything, but I held fast and then finally she told me…She was meeting two courtiers. She would not say why but the meeting was vitally important. So I offered to help her dress for it and at last she said I could stay so long as I never moved from the parlour, on my honour.” There was a long creaking sigh. “And I never did, till it was too late.”

“Do you know who were…”

“The two courtiers? One was your father, Henry Carey, the other one of the Queen’s women. I didn’t know them, of course.”

“Did you see them?”

Mrs. Odingsells nodded. “Through the window of the parlour, through the glass so I couldn’t make out the faces. I saw Amy curtsey low to them, call the man my lord Hunsdon. He helped the lady-in-waiting down from her horse and they went up to the Long Gallery to speak.

“I played cards with Mrs. Owens, trying not to listen. I didn’t leave the parlour as I had promised.”

“What did you hear?”

A heavy frown and her lips puckered, a movement deeply carved into her mouth and chin.

“I heard nothing, they must have been talking quietly. Then doors opening and then a sound…a crack. A cry. Feet. Something like a cook splitting a cabbage. Then a woman’s voice crying, screaming “No! Oh no!” Scraping, thudding. A man’s shout. Running feet. Then a long pause and I looked at Mrs. Owens who hadn’t heard a thing and said, “What was that?” and she shrugged and bet me a shilling that the next card would be low.

“Then I heard nothing more and as there were no more cries and I was annoyed at losing four shillings to Mrs. Owens who was not a good player, I didn’t do anything until I heard the hooves galloping away.”

“What did you see of the lady-in-waiting?”

“She was wearing forest green with a brown velvet gard along the kirtle hem, I think. Quite a plain hunting dress. She had a headtire and a linen cap on her head and under it black hair as far as I could tell. She had…she was very pale.

“And you didn’t know her?”

“Neither of them, they were blurred by the glass. I only knew your father because of Amy greeting him by name.”

Carey rubbed his temples. “Mrs. Odingsells,” he said very softly, “did you ever find out who the lady-in-waiting was?”

Another long pause. “I guessed eventually. After the inquest.”

“And?”

“I will die before I tell you or anybody. That’s what I said to the evil black-haired bastard that came and tried to bully me in 1566 and I say it to you. So now.”

Carey took breath to speak, to argue with her.

“I’m an old woman,” shouted Mrs. Odingsells, partly sitting up in bed. “I’m old but I know you, Mr. Topcliffe, I’ve lived too long but anything you try with me will kill me anyway so you can do as you like and be damned to you!”

There was spittle on her lips. Carey stayed where he was.

“Mistress, I’m not Richard Topcliffe.”

“Get out and be damned…! You’re not?”

“No, mistress. Sir Robert Carey.”

“Oh.”

“What did Topcliffe do?”

“He was here before, the last time the Queen was at Oxford, when I was still young and could still see. He came and questioned me and he asked the same questions as you, but when I wouldn’t answer, he shouted and roared and threatened. Nothing came of his threats however, and he didn’t get what he came for. Oh no.”

Carey was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, squinting at Mrs. Odingsells who had her hands clasped to her breast. As far as Cumberland could make out in the dimness, Carey was pale.

“What were the courtiers discussing with Lady Dudley?”

The bony old shoulders lifted and dropped. “They didn’t tell me.”

Carey’s eyes narrowed. “But you know?”

Mrs. Odingsells said nothing. Cumberland listened to her breathing as Carey let the silence stretch, but Mrs. Odingsells was too old to be worried by it and simply glared back at him.

At last Carey tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Is there anything else, anything at all you can tell me of that day?”

“It was a nightmare after we found her, I couldn’t believe she was…There were people all over the place, coming and going, messengers to the Court, to Sir Anthony, to my lord of Leicester. The undertaker came from Oxford with his best hearse to pick up Amy and most of the village was there gawking and getting in the way, trampling about in the gardens and orchard and stealing apples and quinces. Dreadful. They buried her in one of the colleges of Oxford and the inquest spent a year debating what had happened. Pah!”

“That’s a very long time for an inquest?”

“Well the foreman of the jury was one of the Queen’s own men so you couldn’t expect them to come up with anything other than they did, but the rest of the jury was decent solid men from this county. And then…” She paused and looked as if she was about to add something else but whatever it was, she shook her head again and shut her eyes.

“I’m tired now, Mr. Top…Carey, please leave.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Carey with surprising meekness, stood up and went to the door. Cumberland followed him. “Thank you for speaking to me. If there is anything more you want to say…”

“Yes. Tell your father that I would like something tidied up. I cannot control what will happen to my possessions when I die, which will be soon, please God. Be sure you tell him to come here himself as I will speak to none other, not even you. Good-bye.”

As Carey made a Court bow to the old lady, Cumberland could make out the milky eyes, wide open, staring hard at him, assessing.

Once back in the corridor and the bedchamber door shut, Carey went along the corridor to the carved door at the end, opened it. There was the long gallery, seen from the other end, their own footsteps in the dust. Carey shut it again, felt his way back with his eyes squeezed shut in the light from the small windows along the courtyard side.

Then he stood, staring down the great stairs for what seemed an hour. Cumberland had no idea what was going on in his friend’s head except it seemed to be making him absentminded.

“Do you know who was the lady-in-waiting with your father?” he asked, more to break the silence than anything else. Carey started slightly and squinted at him.

“I’m not sure.”

“But you suspect…?”

“There’s a family story. My father’s sister, my Aunt Katherine, was one of the Queen’s senior ladies-in-waiting, and there was a story about a green hunting kirtle of hers being somehow damaged a month or two after I was born.”

“You think it was your aunt?”

Carey paused. “Yes, I do. But not my Aunt Katherine.”

For a moment Cumberland couldn’t work out the inference and when he did he sucked in his breath as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Only not with surprise because, after all, there had to be something like that going on.

Carey’s father, Henry’s by-blow and the Queen’s half-brother, had brought Elizabeth Tudor to Cumnor Place, disguised in her half-sister’s plain hunting kirtle, probably wearing a black wig. The Queen had been at Cumnor Place on the morning of the 8th September 1560, the day her rival Amy Robsart had been killed.

Carey found he was gripping the banisters with his left hand, the fingers of his other pressed hard into his temples to try and ease the headache. Something inside him was fighting to be heard. After a moment he breathed deeply and relaxed because this still wasn’t the answer.

How could the Queen possibly benefit if her lover’s wife was killed by a crossbow bolt, especially if she was actually present? The Queen was the sharpest, most intelligent woman he had ever met, apart from Elizabeth Widdrington. Would she set an assassin with a crossbow to kill Amy Robsart and actually be there to watch? The idea was ridiculous.

He shook his head again and groped his way slowly down the stairs, followed by a silent Cumberland. As they went into the courtyard and he tied the scarf on again, pulled the brim of his hat down against the sunlight, he said quietly,

“I don’t need to tell you to keep quiet about this, my lord.”

“Christ, no!” said Cumberland with feeling, offering Carey his arm again. “I’ve forgotten already. You deal with it. I’d rather take on three Dutch sea-beggar fighting ships in a rowing boat.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Please don’t mention it again.” Cumberland said firmly and beckoned for Kielder to bring up the horses. Carey called Ross over and the swordmaster went over to the stairwell where Amy had died, came back with a heavy sack.

“Where are we going now?” Carey asked as he felt for his horse’s girth to tighten it.

“I’ve had men at Oxford setting up an encampment in a field north of the city wall, just past that alehouse with the good cider. It’s handy for the Schools and Balliol, there’s a stream and it’s not too marshy. We’ll stay there.”

“Why not in one of the colleges?”

“Don’t be wood. Unless you fancy going three in a bed with strangers…”

“No, my lord,” said Carey, climbing into the saddle with much more effort than usual. He was suddenly infernally tired, was thinking longingly of going to bed, alone, and staying there. “I’ve done that.”