A Traitor's Tears (10 page)

Walsingham rose to his feet. ‘Come this way, Mistress Stannard.'

He did not say please. Nor did he ask if I minded being asked to identify a corpse that might well be several days old. The sun had been agreeably warm for all that time. He just said
come this way.

I never did come to like Francis Walsingham.

But I went with him obediently. On the way, he did relieve my mind a little, by saying: ‘My men thought the corpse was a recent one – I mean, that it had only been dead for a short time. In that case, the killing only took place yesterday. This won't be too unpleasant.'

Nor was it. The tiny side chapel leading off from a bigger one was made of white stone and lay on the northern side of the palace. It was fairly cool and the poor thing on the trestle table in front of the little altar was more pathetic than horrible.

There was a guard on duty at the entrance to the little chapel, who came in with us and drew back the white linen cloth in which the dead man had been covered. Whatever the pains and terrors of his killing had been, his face was quiet. But the straw hat that still adorned his grey head was dirty, with broken ends of straw sticking out here and there, and the hair, which someone had smoothed on either side of his face, was greasy and limp and his mouth had fallen in, showing where, over the years, he had lost teeth. He looked as if life had used him harshly and it seemed a shame that death, coming to him with such violence, had continued the hammering.

I studied him, though, with care as well as pity. The big ears jutting through the hair looked familiar, although they were no longer red. I recognized the scar on the left ear, however. I drew the cloth back further. Beneath it, he was still dressed as he presumably was when he was found, in a brown jacket and an open-necked shirt, once white though now somewhat grubby. Over the heart, there was a slit, and a dark red-brown stain, that made me shudder. The jacket was open and I could see the belt that held up his breeches. It was of good polished leather with a chased decoration on the steel buckle. I put the cloth back, covering body and face once more.

‘It's Jarvis,' I said. ‘I know for sure by the scar on the left ear, and by that belt that he's wearing. I gave it to him myself, last year, when I was visiting the Cobbolds. I did give him small things sometimes, useful things, a kind of practical almsgiving.'

‘You're certain?' Walsingham said.

‘Yes, quite certain.'

‘Very well.'

We left the place, the guard resuming his position by its entrance. I went with Walsingham across the main chapel and then back into the labyrinth of rooms and passages that were the interior of Richmond Palace, to rejoin Cecil and the others.

‘Yes,' said Walsingham tersely as we came in. ‘It is Jarvis. A sorry sight. Excuse me!' He stepped quickly across the room and disappeared through a small inner door. I looked at Cecil in surprise. ‘What …?'

‘He hasn't been well since his return from France,' said Cecil. ‘Some affliction of the bowels. Through there is a privy. Be seated.'

I did so. ‘There's no doubt,' I said, and explained again about the scar and the belt. Cecil nodded and then we waited until Walsingham reappeared. Then the two of them looked at each other thoughtfully, as though they were exchanging silent messages.

At last, Walsingham said: ‘Mistress Stannard seems quite sure of her facts. So there's no dispute now over who the man is. But what was he doing on the Dover road, with a cipher message in his jacket? Was the Jack Jarvis that you knew in Surrey, Mistress Stannard, the kind of man who might deal in such things?'

‘I wouldn't think so,' I said. ‘I don't even know if he could write. He used to make a living by keeping sheep, near Guildford, I think. Then the land he used for grazing was enclosed and he couldn't afford the new grazing fees. I believe that Mistress Cobbold made some enquiries about him before she persuaded her husband to let him have the cottage. At the cottage, he grew vegetables and kept chickens.'

‘Heron's report said that he left his cottage the day before Mistress Cobbold's funeral,' said Walsingham. ‘Would that be correct?'

I cast my mind back to what Anthony Cobbold had told me and then said yes. ‘That would be the seventh of July.'

‘And yesterday was the tenth, and my men think he was killed that same day, not so very long before they found him.' Walsingham sat down by the clerks' table and drummed his fingers on it. ‘Two clear days in between, during which he acquired a cipher letter and presumably an errand to go with it. He was surely on his way to deliver that message to someone. I wish we could read it but so far it seems to have defeated my people. Someone,' said Walsingham, ‘gave him the letter. Probably exchanged his donkey for a horse as well, though whoever killed him no doubt stole the horse. But who wrote that letter and where was Jarvis taking it?'

‘Let's take it point by point,' said Cecil. ‘Firstly, the man Jarvis occupied a cottage that Jane Cobbold had provided. Secondly, within days of Jane Cobbold being mysteriously murdered, Jarvis disappears. It looked then as though he feared to be accused. Thirdly, he now turns up dead, far from home, with a cipher letter – that's suspicious in itself – on him. And fourthly, he met his death by a stab to the heart just as Mistress Cobbold did, except that this time, the killer didn't leave the dagger behind. What does all that suggest to you, Ursula?'

Dale and Mellot had both been silent up to now, but at this point, Dale opened her mouth and Mellot, seeing it, put a hand on her shoulder and said quietly: ‘Wait. Let your mistress speak.'

Dale choked back an outburst but looked at me with anguish and pleading. I spoke for us both when I replied to Cecil.

‘It suggests,' I said, ‘a connection between those two deaths. Which further suggests that something very odd is going on at Cobbold Hall. Something that has nothing whatsoever to do with Jane Cobbold's gossiping tongue or Roger Brockley's opinion of it, which supports my belief that Brockley has been wrongly arrested. I came here today to implore your help in getting him released. Murder – stabbing Jane Cobbold – just isn't the sort of thing Brockley could or would ever do. But now there are even better reasons for saying that he's innocent. It seems at least possible that whoever killed Mistress Cobbold also killed Jarvis. Please, can you help?'

‘There could simply have been a coincidence,' said Walsingham, ‘and Jarvis was attacked by footpads while running away because he was afraid he would be accused of murdering Mistress Cobbold. Whether he really did so or not.'

‘In that case,' I said, ‘where does the cipher letter come in? And there are two gardeners – not related to each other or to Jarvis – who say that Jarvis couldn't possibly have killed Jane Cobbold. So why should he run away?'

‘Perhaps Sir Edward Heron should have those gardeners questioned again,' said Walsingham.

‘That could be wise,' Cecil said. ‘But the cipher letter is more important. It needs explaining. It certainly doesn't fit in with Brockley as the murderer. I agree with Mistress Stannard that a very definite doubt has been cast on the charge against Roger Brockley. We may be able to get him released on bail. Can you put up bail for him, Ursula? Walsingham and I have to remain neutral, at least on the surface.'

‘I'll sell Withysham if I have to,' I said. ‘Yes. I can offer whatever bail Heron demands.'

‘The queen gave you Withysham,' Cecil said. ‘I'd be sorry to see you lose it. Make sure that Brockley doesn't flee the country! We shall send word to Heron recommending that he consents to bail. We can't go further than that but he'll probably take the recommendation as a command. If so, I daresay he will be in touch with you very soon after your return to Hawkswood, to arrange the details.'

‘Ma'am,' said Dale appealingly.

Once more, I looked at her. Her eyes beseeched me. I knew what she was asking. I was already asking it of myself although I had no more idea than Cecil how I should set about it.

‘Ma'am,' said Dale again. ‘
Please!
'

I said. ‘Brockley mustn't just be let out on bail; he must be cleared. I have a duty towards him and to Dale here. I intend to seek the truth for myself, independently. I hope you will not object.'

‘I rather thought you would say that,' said Cecil, ‘but tread carefully. Leave some things to us. We shall send an official letter to Anthony Cobbold, to tell him that his erstwhile tenant is dead. He'll want to find another, anyway. I'll explain the circumstances – where Jarvis was found and the fact that he was carrying a cipher letter. I shall also have Master Cobbold questioned. If he knows anything to the point, we shall discover it and you'll be informed. Don't complicate things by approaching Master Cobbold yourself.'

I asked if I could see the cipher letter and Cecil sent one of the clerks for it. It consisted of a jumble of letters and was not, therefore, the type of code I knew about. I had no idea at all how to tackle it. Cecil's own men were more likely to succeed and one of these days, Roland Wyse, who had quite a reputation as a codebreaker, would presumably get back from Norfolk, and might solve it quite easily.

I would do best, I thought, to leave that task too for the experts, and contented myself with saying: ‘Decoding that letter might answer all our enquiries. If the code is broken, will you let me know what it says?'

‘Certainly,' said Cecil. ‘Well, I should think the tide has turned by now, so you can start a journey downstream. I suggest that you and your companions stay the night at my house and set off for home tomorrow morning. We'll see you to the landing stage. Francis?'

‘I regret to say,' said Walsingham, getting to his feet, ‘that I can't come to the landing stage. My apologies, Mistress Stannard. Farewell.' He then plunged once more through the door to the privy.

‘Oh, dear!' I said.

‘He's always worse when he's upset,' Cecil told us as he guided us through the labyrinth of Richmond Palace. ‘And he's upset now. Just when he needs Roland Wyse's gift for decoding, Roland Wyse isn't here, and yet he was glad enough to give that young man leave to go to Norfolk. Wyse is extremely able but he irritates his colleagues by his thrusting ways.'

‘You mean,' I said, ‘that if Francis Walsingham can find another codebreaker as gifted as Wyse, then Wyse will be dismissed?'

‘Possibly.'

Well, the internal politics of the Secretary of State's department were not my concern. I had other things to deal with, which concerned me more.

B
ut where on earth
, I said to myself as, with Mellot and Dale, I boarded the barge and left Richmond Palace behind,
am I to begin? Dale is trusting me to help Brockley; I want with all my heart to help him, for his sake and mine – as well as for her. But what if I can't?
The whole mystery was like a ball of wool that has been wound so tightly that you can't find the end, which means that you can't use the wool.

Following Cecil's suggestion, we spent the night in London and left for Hawkswood in the morning. Meanwhile, Cecil and Walsingham presumably despatched messengers to Sir Edward Heron and Anthony Cobbold. Once home, I spent three days worrying at the problem of where to begin seeking the truth. Then Sir Edward Heron called on me again.

He came accompanied by a clerk. Their arrival was greeted by high-pitched barks from the new young dog Sandy and a deep baying from Hero, our half-mastiff bitch, by which I knew that whoever had ridden in was not well known to her. Hector, when he was alive, had bayed at everyone but Hero didn't give tongue beyond a welcoming
wuff
when people arrived who were familiar.

With Dale in attendance, I received them in the hall and offered the customary refreshments, which Heron declined on behalf of them both, though he seated himself and asked that his clerk should sit at the table and be provided with writing materials. I sent for these. The clerk, who had brought a box in with him, set it on the table, opened it and removed some sheets of parchment.

‘I am here on business, Mrs Stannard.' Heron's chilly eyes bored into me. ‘I have to say that it isn't business that pleases me, but a recommendation signed by both Lord Burghley and Francis Walsingham cannot be ignored.'

Cecil had been right. Heron had interpreted their letter as an order.

‘I understand,' said Heron, ‘that you are willing to put up bail for the man Roger Brockley while I continue my enquiries into the death of Mrs Jane Cobbold. My own personal belief is that in Brockley, I have the right man, but when orders come from such an exalted source, I can do nothing but comply.'

‘I am willing to guarantee the bail,' I said. ‘What are the terms?'

Heron shifted his feet uneasily. ‘I wish that I could discuss these matters with a man. This is not a matter for women.' His frosty glance swept over Dale as well as me and appeared to search the room, as though hoping that something masculine might be found in a shadowy corner.

‘But it's I, a woman, who will pay if Roger Brockley runs away,' I pointed out. ‘I have no husband to take the responsibility for me. I am sorry, Sir Edward, but you will have to discuss the matter with me.'

‘Nothing has been the same in this land since King Henry's son died and the throne passed to his daughters!' said Heron irritably. ‘Women should not be in positions of power. I am aware, madam, that Mrs Cobbold disliked you and that you suffered from her tongue, but though I deplore the way she spread scandal about you, I can understand why she did not approve of you. A good deal of your history is known to me and, believe me, it isn't the kind of past I would want for any lady in
my
family.'

‘The scandal that Jane Cobbold spread,' I said mildly, ‘didn't concern the services I have rendered to Her Majesty. It was entirely to do with my small son, a different matter altogether.'