The Fatal Fashione (17 page)

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Authors: Karen Harper

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

BOOK: The Fatal Fashione
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“I doubt,” the queen muttered, “that these women have a clue what that means. And it’s a lie from the pit of hell, which this man evidently thinks he has the keys to.”
“—or the bedsheets of sin in which they cavort” he railed on. “You will answer for it, all of you, in one way or the other. Do you not think the hand of God passed judgment on the poor starcher who was murdered recently? And only today another of your ilk was so judged, when a laundress was drowned in her own laundry tub.”
“I’m not even sure that is common news yet. I want that man brought to me,” Elizabeth ordered her men, “but dismount to take him. I do not want horses’ hoofs sullying the work of these hardworking, good Englishwomen.”
Three of the four grooms dismounted and were about to wade into the crowd when the queen commanded, “Hold a moment!” To her amazement and amusement, despite what the rogue had been saying, she saw what was going to happen before he did.
Some of the women behind Cantwell had lifted a so-called sheet of sin between them and were creeping toward him. Before he knew it, as the laundresses made a circular move that reminded Elizabeth of a Maypole dance, they had wrapped the man in linen and pulled him from his perch. She could hear him shouting, muffled now, and, if she stood in her stirrup with a hand on her sidesaddle, she could see him writhing on the ground as they rolled him like a great, growing snowball.
“Let him be for a while, men, then bring him to the palace,” Elizabeth ordered. “And if you haul him to me in a linen net, be certain to pay the woman whose sheet or tablecloth you take.”
Despite her predicament with the murders, the queen shouted a laugh as she dismounted and handed her horse’s reins to the still-mounted groom. She shot a swift glance up at the window of Hannah’s loft and saw that Dauntsey had been watching, though he quickly turned away. Could this be where Marie had stood to stare at the window? And had she seen someone there she could now not recall?
“With me, Rosie,” she said. “Perhaps we shall yet snag another suspicious man. I intend to question Dirck van der Passe on the very site of Hannah’s murder.”
Despite Hugh Dauntsey’s vehement protests, Elizabeth sent him away. Rosie didn’t like it much better when the queen had her lie down in the now empty starch tub in which Hannah had been drowned. “And do not show yourself until I say, ‘I can picture poor Hannah there even now,’” Elizabeth instructed.
Then, hoping Dauntsey would not dare to warn her prey that she was lying in wait for him like a spider, she sat down on the single stool by the window to face the door. Outside in St. Martin’s fields, her grooms had rescued the disheveled, furious Puritan cleric, only to cart him off toward the palace. Though the women had bested Cantwell, they did not celebrate but whispered in clumps, probably about the dreadful demise of one of their own.
She heard footsteps on the stairs, and her heart began to pound. Who had Hannah been waiting for, perhaps in this very place, someone she’d let her women go home for, so she could face him or her alone? Thomas with that haunting adoration for his lost Gretta, which still shone in his eyes? He might not make it in or out the window, but he could hide within. Marie had said she’d heard what must have been a liaison gone wrong or an attempted rape—if Marie had not already hit her head and been hallucinating.
Dirck van der Passe appeared up the steps, all six feet plus of him. Suddenly she didn’t feel so brave, but she would face him down at any cost.
“Your Majesty?” Dirck said, squinting into the daylight streaming in behind her. “I—Hugh Dauntsey said meet him here to buy some starching goods,
ja,
he did.”
She walked closer so that he wouldn’t see Rosie in the tub. “You knew where to find the place, I warrant,” Elizabeth said.
“I been by before. Ve settled that. I vas just walking.”
“This is where poor Hannah died, you know. She fought for her life here, choked half to death before she was drowned in her own starch tub. The murderer hid at first, then crept out from where he’d secreted himself. He took poor Hannah out of her starch bath and put her on the shelf. Did you know all that, Dirck?”
“No, but you know all that?” he whispered, his eyes darting around the room.
“I know all that because there was an eyewitness.”
“Ja?”
he said as his jaw dropped.
“An unseen one, one we’ve kept hidden but who will now testify so we can arrest the killer. It would be better for him if he came forward to confess, for he’ll not escape now.”
She hadn’t meant to say all that, especially about a witness, but she would have Marie and Sally well protected. She probably should have bluffed everyone she suspected days ago—told them they had been accused by a hidden eyewitness—but she hadn’t been sure about Marie for a while.
“Drowned there?” he asked, pointing at the tub, which was behind her and the other stacked starching goods.
“It was under the window then, but yes,” Elizabeth said. “I can picture poor Hannah there even now. Can you?”
At her cue, Rosie sat straight up as if the dead had been called to rise on Judgment Day. Dirck jumped back and stumbled over a brazier. Two poking sticks went rolling under his big feet to send him to his knees, but he was gibbering all the while, “I swear I know nothing, nothing of it. I’m an honorable Flemish knight,” he cried, his eyes still wide on Rosie.
“I’m telling you, you were seen,” the queen accused.
“
Ja,
’tis true I knew vere her shop vas, even stopped some of her customers from going in—gave them promises of better prices at our place, took some of the ruffs there myself before they went up her stairs. That’s all I did, I swear by all that’s holy!” he cried, still on his knees, gripping his hands together as if begging for absolution.
“’S blood,” she muttered. That confession wasn’t the one she wanted, but it was one she believed. He looked distressed enough that he would have blurted out a murder, too, wouldn’t he? She herself had let slip about an eyewitness, so she had to send for Sally and Marie to be brought to the palace.
It took Meg nearly three hours to get to Eastcheap and locate Ned. He said he’d sent Bates back to Whitehall to report their lack of a prisoner. He had, at least, discovered that Celia no longer worked for the same glover and had not returned home—if he could believe the two women she’d been living with.
“But I tell you,” he said to Meg as they hurried westward toward the palace, “if I couldn’t get them to talk, no one could.”
“Turned on the charm with the ladies again?” she managed to get out between gasps. She had a stitch in her side from running.
“Meg, my Meg,” he said, swinging her around to face him. “My stock-in-trade is to convince people to like me and to believe in me.”
“You’re a great success at both, especially with the ladies who flock to—”
He gave her a little shake as others bustled past where Kings Street met the Strand. “If we are going not only to get on but to get together, Meg Milligrew, you must accept that and trust me, trust that my career depends on, as I said, being liked and believed. I’m vowing here and now, though, that it is only you I care for deeply, only you I—love.”
He’d said that as if he had a bitter taste—pure poison—in his mouth, but she nearly melted to a warm puddle on the cold cobbles anyway. She’d be willing to give him all the years of her life to prove that and to learn to say it better. She believed it already, though, because he’d never said the like before, not to her or anyone else all the times he’d had his trysts and tumbles, not that she’d heard of, anyway. And she’d been watching Ned real close for years.
“It’s not just, just,” she said, fighting for words herself, “that I look like and can sometimes sound like the woman you adore and can never have—Her Grace?”
“I do adore Her Grace, so I shall amend my vow. I shall still keep her on a pedestal but keep you in my life and in my bed, if you will allow it.”
“A marital bed, Ned Topside.”
“Of course. Didn’t I say that? I do want much more of you than your fair brow and those seashell ears you’ve let me fondle and kiss before. I’ll ask you again later, when death is not our business but life—together.”
“Now that was the prettiest speech you ever gave in any play, my love, and I’ll hold you to it,” she said as they set off again.
Holding hands, even in the thickening crowd, they rushed toward the vast grounds of Whitehall. Just as they broached the Kings street entry, Meg heard a cry. “That’s her. There! Seize her!”
She wondered if a female cutpurse was loose in the crowd. Or had one of the queen’s own guards spotted someone suspicious trying to get into the palace?
A burly man stepped between her and Ned and chopped his arm down to break their grips. From behind her, two other men took her arms and turned her away from Ned, who was shouting her name.
Everything blurred. Sounds, sights, smells. The world began to spin out of control.
“Margaret, alias Meg, Milligrew,” an agitated voice intoned, “you are under the aegis of the chief constable of the City of London for questioning under duress for the murder of one Hannah von Hoven.”
“Ned!” she screamed as the crowd, the accusations, the entire scene seemed to suffocate her. “I demand to see the queen!” she shrieked. “I am a servant of the queen. I demand to see the queen!”
But she was hustled off so quickly in the opposite direction, she knew that no one who could help could hear her.
 
AS SOON AS THE QUEEN RETURNED TO HER ROOMS in the palace, she summoned Cecil. “My lord, we must send some guards to watch Marie, and Sally, of course, for safety’s sake. I have let out to Dirck van der Passe that there was an eyewitness to Hannah’s murder. I doubt he is the murderer, but word could spread. If Anne Gresham protests her daughter being closely guarded, that is just too bad, for someone could creep into Gresham House to get to Marie.’S blood, I’ve proved that.”
“Perhaps Lady Gresham won’t be there when the guards arrive, as I sent for her nearly an hour ago.”
“Good. But not Marie and Sally?”
“I had no idea—”
“Sometimes it seems that everything conspires against us,” she cried, smacking her hands into her skirts. “Are Ned and Bates back yet with word of the glove perfumer?”
“Ned sent Bates back to say they’d had no luck, but Ned was going to pass himself off as Celia’s friend at her old residence.”
Elizabeth heaved a huge sigh. “Which means Meg might miss them both. My lord, send Bates at once to Gresham House at the head of a mounted and armed entourage. He was there with us that night, so he knows the way. Charge him to protect the girls until I arrive to fetch them in my coach, for on second thought, they would be even safer here.”
Cecil rushed from the room before she realized she’d forgotten to ask where he’d put Thomas and to tell him that Hosea Cantwell was being held here. At least, the Gresham family would soon again be under the royal roof, where she could keep an eye on them and interrogate them further.
She untied the handkerchief that held the dark powder. Was it her imagination that the substance seemed to glow in the shadows? She carried it into the early afternoon sunlight pouring through her window. Now she could see that the grit was composed of three distinct substances: white specks, perhaps sugar, as well as a dark brown—the
chocolata?
—and a coarser tan grain, the latter, no doubt, the ground poison herb.
If only Meg were here to identify it. Who had so carefully prepared this mixture, then given it to poor Pamela and convinced her to try it? Or had a drink made with it been forced down her throat before she was drowned? Strangest yet, surely not many knew cuckoo-pint herbs were poison. That made her fear the van der Passes might yet be involved, though Dirck had merely confessed to drawing away Hannah’s customers. Was he guilty of eliminating her and then dispatching someone he feared was an eyewitness?
Cecil hurried back in with Ned. “Did Meg find you?” she began, then saw that Ned was not only disheveled but bloodied.
“Hell’s gates, man, what happened?” she cried, rushing to him. It must have been something extreme. Ned was always protective of his appearance, and now his eye was nearly swollen shut and his nose had been smashed crooked.
“The chief constable’s men—took Meg.” He was gasping and breathing through his mouth. He had a split lip, too.
“
Took
her?”
“Accused her—of Hannah’s murder, arrested her. I tried to stop them—big louts—all of them.”
“Perhaps,” Cecil said, “after the two days he was promised, Whitcomb felt he had a right to question Meg.”
“He had no such right! Ned, where did they take her?”
“I know not. I tried to follow them, but they hit me. I fell and—Doesn’t Whitcomb have a jail or interrogation rooms somewhere?”
Elizabeth summoned more guards and commanded them to inquire in the city guildhall where to find the chief constable, then to demand in the name of the queen that Meg Milligrew be released.
“Whitcomb’s trying to spite me, just the way Cantwell did,” she told Cecil, and began to pace as Ned went out to tend his bruises. “I defied the Parliament, so they are trying to vex and challenge me in any way they can. I have Cantwell being held here, so I will have you interrogate him.”
Elizabeth put both hands to her head, pressing hard as if to keep her thoughts steady. “I fear Whitcomb will try to accuse Meg of Pamela’s death, too, for I believe the residue I found there was a deadly concoction made from sugar,
chocolata
powder, and Meg’s poison cuckoo-pint. He might know naught of that, but he’ll see the roots on the floor at the second murder scene, just like at the first.”
“But you said you had the
chocolata
drink at Gresham House, so that leads back to them, too.”
“If Meg or Anne Gresham—or the van der Passes, for that matter—is proven guilty, I face great loss. If it’s Thomas, the entire kingdom will suffer. I must move now, but I’m not sure in which direction. As soon as we discover where Meg’s being held, I’ve a good mind—”
The knock on the door startled them both. Clifford opened it.
“You’re back!” the queen cried. “Did you fetch the local constable to the murder site?”
“Yes, and he sent information forthwith for the chief constable, as you had thought he would.”
“Send someone back to the local man and ask him where the chief constable is now. Hurry!”
“Also, Lady Anne Gresham is here, Your Grace, demanding to see her husband,” Clifford said, as he turned toward the door.
“She can’t have arrived already from my summons,” Cecil said, frowning. “Not enough time has elapsed, so she must have come on her own.”
“I pray the girls are safe.”
“Shall I show her in here or take her to her lord?” Clifford asked. “I heard he’s already here under watch.”
“We shall do both,” Elizabeth declared. “Have her held in the hall for a moment, and bring Thomas in the back way to await her here—but send that man to the local constable first,” she insisted. Clifford nodded and rushed out.
“We need to know what passes between the Greshams,” Cecil said.
“Exactly. Though I regret it has come to this, you and I will eavesdrop on their reunion behind the door to my withdrawing room. My lord, I am getting desperate, and we must not only stir the starch pot again but slosh it all out on the floor.”
“I had naught to do with Hannah von Hoven’s death,” Meg insisted, the moment the two big guards half-escorted, halfshoved her into the small, dim room where Chief Constable Nigel Whitcomb sat in a large chair behind a small table.
“I must admit those charges were not correct, mistress,” he said, with a thin smile twisting his lips.
Thank God,
Meg thought. He must have realized his great error. Her biggest worry then was that she’d seen two of his big oafs turn on Ned and beat him in the face with their fists just before they blindfolded her.
“Well?” Whitcomb said, his tone still goading. “Not going to ask the chief constable what he means by incorrect charges? My, but you’re clever with the queen’s herbs, eh, even ones that can be used to dispatch your rivals in romance?”
“What? I demand, if the charges were wrong, that I be released forthwith, so that I—”
“You’ll demand nothing!” he shouted and banged his fist on the table. His beard quivered when he spoke. “The charges were wrong because now I have a second murder of another rival I vow I shall link you to. Cuckoo-pint on the floor of both your deeds—did you not think I would know or could not discover what it was and that it could be deadly? Her Majesty believes she can gainsay and buck me—all of Parliament—but she cannot protect you now, mistress.”
Meg’s insides cartwheeled. “A second murder—you mean Pamela Browne’s?”
“I mean you accidentally dispatched Pamela Browne, I judge, instead of her twin sister, whom your former betrothed, Stephen Jenks, has deserted you for and—”
“No! That’s a lie from the pit of hell!”
“Best watch your tongue about the pit of hell,” he threatened, pointing a stiff arm straight at her. “Those judged guilty of murder are executed in this land, young woman, and I shall have great bearing on your conviction. Speaking of warrants,” he went on, looking suddenly more amused than angry, as if he were toying with her, “the additional one against you will be drawn up as soon as I can visit the second murder site myself, for I’ve had to rely so far on the local constable’s description of things and his questioning of those there.”
“I didn’t kill Pamela Browne. Stephen Jenks, the man you mentioned, the queen’s own man, will testify to that—that I was happy for him and Pamela’s twin sister, Ursala. Just as Ned Topside, the queen’s chief player, will tell you that—”
“I understand at your arrest you were holding hands with the aforementioned Topside, so I’ve no doubt you’ve also cozened him to support your false claims. I expect all Her Majesty’s servants would stand behind your story, as the queen herself tried to do.
“I once meant to work with Her Majesty,” he went on, “even tried to placate her with an offering of a portion of the first dead woman’s estate. But she is stubborn to the core, much too willful for a woman, who should listen to the men of her Parliament, however high she thinks to sit in this land.”
Meg gaped at the man. His words could be construed as treasonous. If he detested Her Grace so, she had no doubt he’d like to make a scapegoat—or sacrificial lamb—of someone who loved her dearly.
“Anne!” Thomas Gresham cried as Elizabeth heard the door to the corridor open, then close. The queen had ordered that Anne be brought in, then left alone with her husband.
“Why are you here?” Thomas demanded. “Is Marie here, too?”
Their voices carried easily through the door set slightly ajar, the queen thought with approval, and Cecil nodded from the shadows as if to second that. Good, he could hear, too.
“I wasn’t sent for but came of my own accord,” Anne said. “And I didn’t want Marie out in the streets, even with me, so of course I didn’t bring her. I have something to tell you, and since you are lingering here, I had no choice but to—”
“I am not lingering but have been detained. The queen has questioned me further about Hannah’s death,” Thomas admitted. “But, for the good of our daughter, I am asking you to stand with me in this, not against—”
“For the good of our daughter?” she said, her voice bitter. “I’ll tell you about the good of our daughter. If you’d just listen for once, I need to inform you that this morning I dismissed that horrid watchdog of yours, Nash Badger, at least exiled him from our house. If you want him at the site of the exchange, that’s your business, but Marie just told me about the letters he carried for her. The man’s betrayed us. If he had come to us at once, her running away and getting in this plight could have been avoided.”
“He was no doubt only trying to please Marie—as we both do. Have you forgotten not only how beguiling but woebegone she can be?” His voice grew tender when he spoke of the girl, though Anne seemed to have enough venom for both of them.
“Beguiling? Then, I fear, she must have inherited that trait from her other mother—the one you wish lived instead of me!”
“Let’s not start all that ag—”
“You’re always on Badger’s side—on your own side! I never could abide him, with his tobacco-drinking breath and stinking hands. I finally got out of Marie that he’s secretly been carrying her letters. Did you know about those? Well, did you?”
“Marie gave the queen a draft of such a letter, and Her Majesty read it to me.”
“Oh, fine, you never tell me anything, either. You and the queen are closer than you and I! Have you been trying to protect Marie or Badger?” she raved. “Or, more to the point, yourself in all this?”
“Never mind shifting the subject. I’ll tell Badger to keep clear of you, but I need him at the house as a jack-of-alltrades and even a bodyguard when I go out. Look, Anne, I know that tobacco smell is—”
“He’s taken to trying to cover it up—and those smelly hands—with perfumed gloves, at least when he goes out. Perfumed gloves! I’m sure he’ll be laughed to scorn if he wears those at the construction site.”
They went on arguing, Thomas telling her she had to put the past aside and stand by him now. He warned that she herself might be considered a person of suspicion in Hannah’s death if she continued to be so vitriolic. Anne exploded at that, but the queen was beyond heeding her ravings.
For, several moments ago, more jagged-edged pieces of the puzzle had begun to fit horribly into place. Badger’s incongruous gloves could link him to Celia for more than just serving Marie. Badger had access to the
chocolata
as surely as Anne and Thomas had, for he had found the imported cakes for Thomas and had even carried the brew made from them in for the queen to taste. Thank God, that was not poisoned, as poor Pamela’s quaff must have been.
Besides all that, Badger had always seemed to hover close, from that day Elizabeth had first visited Thomas at the construction site of the exchange. Did Badger intend to protect his master at any price, and so had secretly decided to silence Hannah before she caused him harm? Or had Thomas hired him to do so?
Even though Cantwell was waiting to be interrogated, the queen knew she had to find and question Badger. But first, she had to get to Marie and Sally to be certain they were safe from him. He must know that Marie was regaining her memory. She had already caused him to be questioned by the queen about the letters and dismissed by Anne, partly at least, for secretly carrying them. He might fear the girl could identify him or would tell others more—the very reasons Ursala might have been targeted for death.

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