The Midsummer Crown (13 page)

‘N-now?' he gulped.

‘Yes. Now.'

He was reluctant to do so, but gave in to my bullying, and I eventually found myself back at the top of the stairs which led down to the passage where Rosina Copley had her room.

‘That one,' the lad said, pointing to the second door along. ‘That's where he was murdered, except . . .'

‘Except?'

The boy shuddered. ‘Except it couldn't have been by no mortal hand, could it? Stabbed in the back, he was. But the door was bolted on the inside.' He pointed with a grubby, trembling forefinger. ‘Well, you c'n see for yourself, master. They had t'break it down.'

And suddenly I saw what I should have perceived at once had the gloom of the landing not made observation difficult. The entrance to the second room from the stairhead was nothing but an empty space, although quite a number of large splinters and shards of wood still lay around. The hinges hung jaggedly from their sockets, bearing silent witness to the force which had been necessary to get inside. The lad edged up behind me, peering over my shoulder and staring with morbid fascination.

‘They say he were lying right across the door, stiff as a poker,' he whispered. ‘'Course, I don't know that for certain. I didn't see him. But it's what they're saying, those that did.'

‘Who found the body?' I asked, but he didn't know.

‘Them that broke down the door, I suppose,' was his somewhat fatuous reply. And yet it had logic to it.

I stepped inside and glanced around, but there was nothing to see. All the tutor's personal belongings seemed to have been removed, and what remained was simply the sparse furnishings of the cell-like chamber. There were no stains on the flagstones and the scattering of straw was none other than those which might have been expected from the trampling of many feet. Gregory Machin obviously hadn't bled much, a fact consonant with what I had been told of a quick stiletto thrust through the back into the heart. But who could have done it? Who could have managed to enter and vacate the room, bolting the door behind him?

I glanced up. The bolt was still slammed home in its wards; a good, solid iron bolt which had evidently resisted being shaken loose when, as must certainly have happened, someone first tried to rouse the tutor by banging and shouting in order to awaken him. I walked over to the window where I opened the shutters and leant out. I was only one storey above the ground, but I could see no foothold, no projecting stones that would have made for easy climbing. Moreover, the window – even had the shutters been open, which was possible on a warm June evening – was far too narrow to permit of easy access. Tutor Machin must have been alerted to anyone trying to gain entrance by that method, and a single push would have sent the intruder sprawling on the landing-stage below.

‘Them shutters were closed,' said the lad's voice behind me. He had ventured in, his courage fortified by my presence, and was staring warily about him. ‘So they say,' he added, careful to deny any personal involvement in the matter.

‘And who are “they”?' I asked.

He shrugged. ‘No one in partic'lar. It's just what everyone's saying.'

I could see that I was unlikely to get any information worth the having, so I encouraged him to return to his duties, whatever they were, and leave me in peace.

‘Master Steward's probably looking for you. With all these visitors thronging the castle, there must be quite a few errands to run.' He agreed and was moving reluctantly towards the door, when I remembered Piers and stopped him. ‘Do you know where young Master Daubenay's lodging?'

When he had finally identified Piers, the boy gave a disparaging sniff. ‘Oh, him! Should by rights be dossing down in the male dormitory, but I ain't seen him there, leastways not yet, and he's been here more'n a week now. Don't know where he goes. Law unto himself, that one.'

That tallied with what I already knew of Piers, so I nodded dismissal and gave my full attention to the room. A second inspection, however, yielded no more clues than the first, nor any further inspiration as to how a man could be stabbed in the back in a chamber shuttered and bolted from the inside. I again looked closely at the window, but even had it been wide open at the time – although ‘they', it seemed, said definitely not – I still deemed it impossible for the murderer to have entered that way.

Witches? Demons? The Black Arts? I shivered. It was possible, I supposed. We all knew that these things existed, and yet, somehow or other, I could never bring myself to a wholehearted belief in any of them. I thought of the demons who had once, according to legend, inhabited this island, but found I could give them little credence, either. Nor the giants. Nor the thirty-three Daughters of Albion. And yet, was I right? If one believed in God, should one not believe in Satan also? There was undoubtedly good and evil everywhere one looked in the world. But there again, was my definition of evil the same as the next man's . . .?

I took a great gulp of river-scented air – enough to sober any man – and gave myself a mental shake. What in God's name did I think I was doing, standing here philosophizing, when there was work to be done and a murderer to be caught and an abducted child, whose life was most probably in danger, to be found? I gave one final searching glance around the room, grudgingly admitted that there really was nothing to be gained by prolonging my stay, stepped across the shattered splinters of wood that had once been a door and emerged into the passageway.

As I did so, a trumpet sounded in the distance summoning the castle's underlings to supper. It occurred to me that I was bound to be reunited with Piers in the servants' hall and turned towards the stairs with a certain amount of relief. As I did so, a young girl appeared from the opposite direction, sweeping the passage clean of what looked like several days' dust and litter. But as soon as she heard the trumpet, she propped her besom against the wall and slipped past me with a sweet, half-guilty smile, running fleet-footed down the steps, knowing from long experience that she who came first was most likely to be first served. I was about to follow her example when something among the pile of rubbish beside her broom caught my eye. Stooping, I carefully picked it up.

It was a little twig of birch leaves such as the seamstress, Maria Johnson, had been wearing – and someone else, although I couldn't, for the moment, think who – a token of that night of magic and mystery, Midsummer Eve, which was now only ten days away. It must, I reckoned, have been dropped quite close at hand, having been one of the last things, if not the last, to be swept up by the young girl's broom before she abandoned it to go to supper.

I stared at the twig thoughtfully where it lay in the palm of my hand, wondering what significance its discovery had so near to the room where the murder had been committed. In the end, I was forced to the conclusion that it probably had none. Nevertheless, I put it into the pouch at my belt, then made my way to the servants' hall for supper.

The first person I saw on entering was Piers who was on his feet, keeping a look out for me. With a sweeping wave of one arm, he indicated that I should join him at a table halfway down the hall where he had evidently saved me a place.

‘Where in God's name have you been?' he demanded as I eased myself on to the bench alongside him.

‘I was just about to ask you the same question,' I retorted, helping myself from the big basin of pottage which the servers had placed in the centre of the table. Having sampled it, I grimaced. ‘The food doesn't improve. It's still the same, tasteless mush that was being served up last year.'

A young woman sitting opposite to me said bitterly, ‘It never changes. Just be thankful you don't live here.'

I realized it was the girl who had been sweeping the passageway, and that in spite of her complaint, she was just about to help herself to a second bowlful of stew. But then, however bad the food, one had to eat.

‘I saw you just now,' I said. ‘You were sweeping the corridor outside the room where Master Machin died. How often do you clean it?'

She grimaced and stuffed another spoonful of pottage in her mouth as though afraid that someone might deny her right to it. When, however, she was able to speak, she deigned to reply. ‘Not often,' she admitted, raising her voice slightly in order to make herself heard above the general din of conversation, adding defensively, ‘There's miles o' passageways in this here place. A girl can't be expected to be everywhere at once.'

‘Of course not,' I agreed sympathetically. ‘And surely no one of any sense would expect it of you.' She looked mollified and I continued, ‘Would you say that today was the first time you've swept it since the murder? Since last Friday, that is?'

‘There ain't been no point in sweeping it before,' she answered indignantly. ‘What with the door of that room being broken down and everything, I just been waiting for the dust to settle.'

‘Very sensible, too.' I smiled, and bent my head to get on with my own rapidly cooling supper.

The girl stared at me for a moment or two, obviously waiting for me to explain the reason for my questioning, but when I didn't, she soon lost interest and began speaking to the man sitting beside her.

‘What was that about?' Piers hissed in my ear, but I waved him to silence.

‘I'll tell you later. Did you find Sir Francis and inform him of events at Minster Lovell?'

‘I did.'

‘And?'

‘He wasn't best pleased about any of it, especially William Blancheflower's decision to kill Beelzebub.'

‘What did I tell you?'

Piers shook his head. ‘Oh, he was upset about Nell's death just as much. Coming on top of all the rest, he so far forgot himself as to say straight out in front of me that he wished he'd never set eyes on any of the Fitzalans and that he rued the day young Gideon crossed his threshold. Of course, he quickly recollected himself and put me on my honour not to repeat what he'd said to Godfrey or Gideon's brothers. He looked harassed, poor man, and muttered something about “this business at the Tower”, and something else about having been summoned by the Lord Protector.'

I picked the meat from between my teeth and wondered if I was hungry enough to risk a second bowl of pottage, and decided that I wasn't.

‘Let's get out of here,' I said to Piers, as the sound of several hundred people all talking at once threatened to deafen me.

He agreed, but as we turned to swing our legs over the bench, I became aware that someone was standing directly behind me.

‘I thought I should find you stuffing your guts as usual,' Timothy Plummer remarked crudely. But without giving me time to reply in kind, he went on, ‘You're wanted at Crosby's Place. Now. The Protector wants to see you.'

EIGHT

My first thought was that he had aged, suddenly.

I had encountered Duke Richard briefly only a few weeks previously, and even then he had seemed careworn; hardly surprising considering all that had happened in such a short space of time. The death of his adored elder brother and the Woodville conspiracy against himself had been shocks from which it would take any man a while to recover. That was only to be expected. But now, standing before him in the superb hall of Crosby's Place, the evening light filtering in through the great oriel window, the magnificent red and gold ceiling arching above us, the splendour of marble flooring beneath our feet, his face, always thin, looked even more drawn with anxiety. And there was something feverish about him; his dark eyes glittered and he played even more constantly with the rings on his fingers.

During our ride through the London streets from Baynard's Castle to Crosby's Place, I had taken the opportunity to quiz Timothy on what had happened at the Tower that morning. Was it, after all, true that Lord Hastings had been summarily executed?

‘No, of course not,' the spymaster had snapped, adding bitterly, ‘although it won't stop the rumour spreading and being repeated as fact over and over and over again until some people are convinced of its truth.'

‘So what did happen?' I wanted to know.

Timothy grunted. ‘There was a conspiracy, of course. We knew that – well, you knew that – with Mistress Shore trotting to and from Westminster Sanctuary to keep the queen dowager apprised of events. For the moment, all the conspirators are in custody in the Tower. What will become of most of them, I can't say. But I'm sure that Hastings will be tried and executed.'

‘How do you know he'll be executed?' I had queried uneasily. ‘How can you possibly anticipate the verdict?'

‘Oh, don't pretend to be naïve, Roger,' he retorted angrily, as we had turned from Thames Street to ride up Old Fish Street Hill. ‘The man's guilty. You alone could testify to that. Jealousy of Buckingham is what's at the bottom of it. Hastings has always been at daggers drawn with the Woodvilles, and until a week or so ago he was my lord Gloucester's closest ally. Until, that is, he discovered that the place he had assumed was lawfully his, as the Protector's right-hand man, had gone to my lord Buckingham, along with God only knows how many perquisites and concessions that Hastings had counted on as his by right. So he threw in his lot with the queen dowager and her adherents in another attempt to get rid of my lord. And if there's one thing more than any other that Duke Richard can't pardon it's betrayal of trust. “Loyaute me lie” is his motto, and he expects the same of others. He won't let the Lord Chamberlain – ex-Lord Chamberlain – escape to plot again. Hastings will die, but at least he'll have been given the dignity of a trial.' I saw Timothy glance sideways at me. ‘Now what's the matter?'