The Manner of Amy's Death (2 page)

      “Hm.  The stockings were black.  I always think that a man who gives a woman a pair of black stockings cannot wait to see what they look like when she wears them.”

      “Miss Katherine!” says Mrs Picto in a shocked voice.  Then we both laugh.

      “Well Mrs Picto, no man will ever see my stockings, black or white.  I int
end never to marry for I think no one will ask me!”   We laugh guiltily.  Laughter seems so out of place here.

      By this time we’ve almost finished
clearing the chamber.  I’m busy writing labels while seated at the table, ‘a pearl brooch for Arthur Robsart’s wife’, and so on, while Mrs Picto attaches the labels with ribbons to the items in question and places them carefully in the travelling trunks.  A servant has been sent by Sir Anthony with some refreshments since we won’t join them in the Great Hall next door.

      “So now there’s only the
miniature portrait of Amy on the table, the miniature of Robert, and Amy’s sewing things to assign,” I say.

      “Maybe Sir Anthony
would like the miniature of Sir Robert,” says Picto.

      “No,
I asked him.  He said he doesn’t wish to own it.” That speaks volumes to me.  Sir Anthony is known locally as a very honest and respectable gentleman.

      “Maybe Mr and Mrs Hyde of Throcking would like it,” I
continue, “They’re Sir Robert’s very good friends and have been most generous towards us all in the past.”

      So the label goes on the miniature, ‘For Mr Hyde of Throcking’

      “And I think John Appleyard should have his sister’s wedding portrait.”

      “That only lea
ves Lady Amy’s needlework,” says Picto.

      There’s a needlework box
containing silk embroidery thread, woollen yarn, needles and a dainty pair of scissors in a case.  There are also the remains of a roll of blue sewing silk and a little sewing apron with deep pockets.

      “Would you like these, Mrs Picto?”

      “Oh, Miss Katherine, I don’t know what to say.  Maybe they should belong to a lady such as Mrs Odingsells not a humble lady’s maid like me.”

      “Nonsense.  You’
re as fine a needlewoman as anyone I know and, besides, you loved your Lady Amy like a daughter.  You looked after her for many years.  Amy would want you to have these.”

     Mrs Picto is overcome by this unexpected windfall.  She tries on the apron and places her hands in the pockets, pulling out some threads of silk and a small scrap of paper.

      “What’s this?”

     She opens the paper on which a note has been written but, not being able to read, hands it to me.  As I scan the note the hair on the back of my head prickles.  It seems to be a note from Robert, a very recent note from Robert.

      “To my dearest lady wife, my greetings.  I hope that your health is much improved.  I am currently at Windsor and intend to make a trip to Compton Verney so that I may search for a manor in Warwickshire.  I know that you have long wished for us to have a property that we may call home.  I will call at Cumnor on the afternoon of the fair in Abingdon so that we may discuss this further.  Please take care that our meeting is in private and send all those of your own kind and your servants to the fair.

      Your loving husband, R.D.”

      I read the note twice just to make sure that this is really happening and the blood drains from my face as I do so.  My brain is racing with a myriad of possibilities.

      “What is it?” says Mrs Picto.  “What does it say?”

      “It’s er, it’s nothing,” my voice is a whisper.  “Just his last note to her.”

      “Maybe we should give it to
Mr Smythe and the jury,” says Picto.

      “No, no.  It’s nothing.  I’ll put it with the other notes.  Don’t mention it, it’s not important.”

      What makes me tell such a lie?  I’m not normally untruthful.  But I am very, very frightened.  Everything’s coming together and making sense, all the strange events of the past eighteen months.  And this explains Amy’s desire to be alone in Cumnor Place on the day of her death.  Was she expecting her beloved husband to pay her a long overdue visit? Could it be that Amy’s death was not an accident after all?

      John App
leyard walks into the chamber.  I’m in such a state of shock that I don’t even hear him on the stair.

      “Oh, Mr Appleyard,” says Mrs Picto, “You are just in time.  We have this minute finished our work.”

      Amy’s brother looks down into the wooden chests and sees all the objects, neatly labelled, on top of the gowns, bodices and kirtles.  “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Katherine, and for your help, Mrs Picto.  You have spared me the eternal recriminations of the women in our family and the disputes over who should have had which trinket.”  He smiles sadly; he knows human nature.  “Now let us all go down to a well earned supper.”

      “You two go down first,” I say, “And I will follow presently.  I will never again enter this chamber and I wish to say goodbye in private.”  I lock the two chests and hand the keys to John.

      When they’re gone I open the note again with trembling fingers and take it to the window.  The light is fading fast now.

      I read it again and again and my heart beats faster.  Dirty work has been done and apparently by Robert Dudley.
  Why did Amy not destroy the note?  Did she too suspect a plot?  It would not have been the first time she had suffered such fears.

      Ought I to hand the note to the foreman of the jury as Picto suggested?  I am very, very afraid.  The people involved are influential, powerful peopl
e at the top of the royal court and I don’t wish to end up at the foot of a flight of stairs with a broken neck like Amy.  Further, the well respected Sir Anthony Forster will not thank me for stirring up a scandal so close to home.      

      What should I do?

      I look through the note once more and place it with the other notes in the bundle tied with ribbons.  Then I have a thought.  I don’t know why but I check the writing of this note and another one from Robert written some two years earlier.  The writing’s not the same.  The capital A’s for instance are formed in a different fashion and the R.D. is but a poor imitation.  Robert’s handwriting is more educated, more artistic.  Did Amy see this and suspect a plot?  Or was she so desperate to see Robert again that she paid no heed?

      Worse and worse.  Who would have wanted her dead?  Robert? The
Queen?  It’s true he was careless with her affections, cruel even, but was he so cruel that he killed her?  And Amy, why didn’t she notice that it was not his handwriting?  Or had she believed it was written by a secretary?  There are so many unanswered questions.

      Mrs Picto’s voice calls up the stairs, “Miss
Katherine, everyone is in the Hall waiting for you to come down to supper.  Are you quite well?”

      “Yes, yes, quite well.”  Looking down there’
s a crack in the floor where two boards do not meet firmly.  I crush the note in my hand and push it down the crack.  “Coming.”

Seven Years Earlier - Somerset House, London

I’m fast asleep when the noise wakes me up with a jolt.  What in heaven
’s name is going on!  Then I’m aware that there’s an argument of monumental proportions going on in the chamber next to mine.  My friend Amy and her husband, Lord Robert, are having another quarrel and everyone in this enormous palace must be aware of it.  No, I’m wrong!  Everyone in England and neighbouring France must be aware of it.  The subject of the heated discussion is the usual one – the Lady Elizabeth Tudor, second in line to the throne of England.

     
Amy and I live in the sumptuous, newly-built Somerset House where her husband, Robert Dudley, is the keeper.  Unfortunately Amy’s arch enemy, Elizabeth, is the new owner – not that we see much of her as she spends most of her time at Hatfield House or at court with her half brother, the young King Edward.  In my beautiful sweet-smelling bedchamber next door to theirs I can’t help hearing their shouted conversation through the wood-panelled walls.

      “I’ve said I’m sorry, Amy, but we would not be where we are today if I did not hold such high office and work so hard.”

      “Work so hard for
her
, you mean!”

      “If you are referring to the Lad
y Elizabeth, I work hard for
her
to provide
you
with the beautiful gowns you so like to wear.”

      “And while you work so hard,
that bastard daughter of the whore Ann Boleyn can flirt with you just as her mother once did with King Henry.”

      “Amy,” says Rob
ert in a shocked voice, “I advise you to curb your tongue.  Women have been burned for saying less.  Elizabeth may one day be Queen and you would be well advised to remember that and our position.”

      “Well,
if you think what
Oi
say is bad, you should ’ear what the common people call ’er after that affair with King Edward’s uncle, Sudeley.”  Amy speaks in a quieter voice now but, forgetfully, slips back into her Norfolk accent.

      “
I would remind you that you are not a ‘common person’ so please do not speak like one, Amy, and you should not be discussing such things with servants.  And anyway Thomas Seymour, the Earl of Sudeley, behaved disgracefully while Elizabeth was staying at his house
and
she was only fourteen years old at the time.  She was his ward.  He was supposed to be taking care of her.”

      “Oh Sudeley took care of her all right
!” spits Amy, correcting her grammar, “His wife knew it too.  And your Elizabeth allowed him to walk into her chamber half naked
and
romp with her on the bed.  Some say she had his child.”

      “No she did not.”

      “How do you know?”

      “She told me so herself.”

      “Oh, so you
are
close then!”

      “Amy, I’
m losing my patience with you,” yells Robert again.  There’s a silence.

      “Listen to me,” he continues more quietly and in a reasoning tone, “I’m not defending
Elizabeth ….”  He’s obviously seen the look on her face.  “Oh no, I’m not.  But she
does
now own Somerset House and we live here because I’m the keeper of the house on her behalf.  Nothing more.  It’s what I do, Amy.  It’s my position and if I have to talk to the owner from time to time, so be it.”

      “I know but I don’t like her.”

      “I know you don’t but the affair with Sudeley is over and done with and she certainly learned her lesson the hard way.  Elizabeth won’t behave like that again.”

      “So you accept that her behaviour was not exactly exemplary,” says Amy in a triumphant tone.

       “She was foolish.  She found herself involved with a traitor and was very fortunate that they couldn’t prove that she was plotting the King’s overthrow with him.  Sudeley went to the block; Elizabeth didn’t.  You know the evidence.”

      “She’s dangerous, Robert.” 

      “Well it doesn’t matter now.  She won’t be significant for much longer if father’s plans work out - nor will the Lady Mary.”  Robert’s voice drops.

     
“But King Edward is very ill and Elizabeth and Mary are his successors.  They are his half sisters.  If neither of the two, Elizabeth or Mary, are to succeed to the throne what will happen when he dies?”

      “Hush
!  Keep your voice low.  Such talk can be construed as treason,” whispers Lord Robert.  “I can’t tell you everything yet but today I was with father discussing his plans.”

      “So you didn’t ride to Hatfield last night to see
Elizabeth?”

      “No and I’m sorry, Amy,
that we did not get to Ely House today for the strawberry fair as I promised.  There are now more important matters afoot.”

     
In the privacy of my chamber I’m wondering what he can mean.  One thing is very certain; Northumberland, his father, is up to something. 

      Well at least Robert’s explanation for his whereabouts last night should satisfy Amy.
  You should have heard the way she was carrying on when he didn’t come home.  He’d promised Amy that we’d go with a group of friends to his father’s home at Ely House where there was to have been a strawberry fair today.  Ely has the best strawberries in the whole of England so little wonder Amy had been so looking forward to it but Lord Robert didn’t return until this evening.  Hence the argument!  She’d been furious and full of suspicious thoughts.

      “Maybe we can go to Ely House tomorrow,” says Amy hopefully. 
Poor Amy.  She sees so little of Robert because of his duties at court that she seizes any opportunity to have him to herself.

      “I’m afraid we can’t do that, my love.  Father requires us all to be at
Syon Place tomorrow.”

      “
Syon!
” screeches Amy incredulously as the argument ignites once more.