The Devlin Diary (37 page)

Fifth week of Michaelmas term

N
O, THAT COULDN’T
be the end. But it was, unfortunately, the end to what Claire had copied from the diary. After taking her morning shower and getting dressed, Claire looked over her notes and felt the same frustration she’d felt the night before, when she’d finally gone to bed after hours of transcribing.

True to his word, Andrew showed up at Claire’s set promptly at 9:00 a.m.

“So?” he asked eagerly. “What happened?”

Claire handed him the notebook. “Read it and weep.”

“It ends sadly?”

“No, it doesn’t end. That’s the end of my notes, but not the end of the diary or the story.”

She went to the gyp, the small communal kitchen next door, and brought back cups of hot tea. Andrew sat at her dining room table with the notebook open in front of him. He sipped his tea absently, engrossed in reading. At last, he closed the notebook and looked up at her.

“We’ve got to find that diary,” he announced.

“I agree. Take me back to Derek Goodman’s set and let me search for it again.”

“I don’t think that’s wise. The police brought in Ashley Templeton and her friend Clive for questioning yesterday after I made that call to Portia. Their story checks out for the night Derek died—the police can’t place either one of them at the scene. So they still don’t have a suspect, and I’d rather not give C.I.D. any other reasons to suspect you—like, for instance, having your fingerprints all over his set. In any case, Hoddy and I have already looked through everything. I don’t think the diary is there, unless it’s hidden under the floorboards, which doesn’t seem to be Derek’s style. I think we should look in the Wren Library again, and not just in R bay, but everywhere. Didn’t Mr. Pilford tell you that Derek often put books back in the wrong places? Perhaps he did it on purpose. Instead of taking the book from the library, he puts it in a place where no one else would think to look for it, which is tantamount to squirreling it away for himself.”

“Search the entire library? That could take days.”

Andrew arched a brow. “Do you have a better idea?”

“No.”

“Then meet me at the Wren in an hour. I promised I’d take some books from Derek’s set over to Fiona Flannigan. I’ll be there at eleven.”

Claire decided to spend her free hour in the Lower Library, researching Ralph Montagu. Hannah seemed convinced that he was the murderer, but according to Andrew, no historian had ever even hinted at such dark strands in Montagu’s soul. Blackmailer? Yes. Two-timing womanizer? Yes. Completely unscrupulous? Yes. But serial killer? If it was true, Claire realized, a career-making story had just fallen into her hands.

She walked into the library and turned right into the reading room, lost in her thoughts—so lost that she bumped into Rosamond Mercy, who was bent over a water fountain taking a drink. The collision knocked a plastic medicine bottle from her hand.

“Sorry,” Rosamond said.

“No, it’s my fault,” Claire replied, picking up the bottle that had landed near her feet. She read the prescription as she handed it to Rosamond: alprazolam, ten milligrams as needed.

“Sorry,” Rosamond said again, taking the bottle and scurrying away.

Claire sat down at a computer terminal and typed in Montagu’s name. It didn’t take long to discover that if any biographies of the man existed, they weren’t in the Trinity Library—or the University Library or the Seeley Historical Library, either. She tried searching under subject, then keyword. The only document relating to Montagu was a twenty-page letter published in 1679 regarding the Earl of Danby affair, which had nearly sent the lord treasurer to the Tower and sent Montagu running back to Paris, out of harm’s way.

But from what Andrew had said, Ralph Montagu had been written about in at least a few books, perhaps even his own. She looked up
Charles II and the Rye House Plot,
wrote down the call number, and located two other general histories of the period. Then she typed in “tachygraphy” to see what might come up—why not write a paper on codes and ciphers and then a second on a female physician and a murderous courtier in Restoration London? “Tachygraphy” didn’t yield any results, but after unsuccessfully trying a few words and phrases she hit pay dirt with “cryptography”: seventeen listings. One book looked particularly helpful: an annotated 1984 edition of John Wilkins’s circa 1694
Mercury, or, The secret and swift messenger: shewing how a man may with privacy and speed communicate his thoughts to a friend at a distance.

Claire gathered up Andrew’s book, along with the other Restoration histories, easily enough, but she couldn’t find the book on cryptography. She wondered if it would turn out to be another of Derek Goodman’s acquisitions. She took her books up to the front desk and inquired of the young librarian there, who typed the call number into the online catalogue.

“It’s listed as being on the shelf,” the librarian said.

“I’ve already looked. It’s not there.”

“Oh, hold on—I know where it is.” She turned around to scan the titles stacked on the book trolley behind her. “The bloke who’s had it checked out just brought it back,” she said as she handed the book to Claire. “I hadn’t gotten ’round to returning it to the shelves.”

“Who checked it out?” Claire asked. What if someone else was writing a paper on the same subject?

The librarian made a few quick strokes on the keyboard. “Here’s the record,” she said. She turned the monitor slightly so that Claire could read it. “Robert Macintosh.”

“For God’s sake, doesn’t the bedder ever come in here?” Andrew asked, looking around at the chaos of Robbie Macintosh’s set. Claire stood next to him and was equally amazed at what she saw. Empty pizza boxes and beer cans littered the tabletops. Books and clothes covered the floor. It looked like the aftermath of a party, but Claire suspected that it was a cumulative mess made by Robbie alone. The graduate student himself appeared as though he’d just gotten out of bed. He wore a pair of baggy jeans, a T-shirt with a large stain on the front, and a dazed expression. It was a bit like coming across a hibernating bear in his lair.

“Sorry ’bout the mess,” Robbie said. “The bedder refuses to come in here. I was going to complain, then I realized that she had a point—it didn’t really seem fair to expect someone else to clean up after me.”

Andrew flipped open the top of a pizza box. Inside was a half-eaten slice covered in green mold. “Good Lord, Robbie, if you can’t clean up after yourself, you might think of hiring someone.”

“That’s what my girlfriend says. She refuses to come in here, too. But I haven’t because, you know, this is a good way to keep my own space, right?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind sharing it with cockroaches. However, we didn’t come over here to discuss your extremely unhygienic lifestyle. Dr. Donovan found out that you checked out a few books on tachygraphy. The day we spoke to you in Dr. Goodman’s set you said you knew nothing about it. Why didn’t you tell us the truth?”

“It was the truth. I didn’t know anything about that note you showed me. As for the books, well, I was just curious.”

“You developed an interest in speedwriting right at the same time Derek Goodman did? Seems like an awfully big coincidence. Tell me, Robbie, where were you the night he died?”

“You don’t think I have something to do with that, do you?”

“I don’t know. You said you were with your father in the hospital. Will your father tell the same story?”

“What are you now, the police?”

“No, but I am the college’s liaison to C.I.D. If you don’t talk to me, you’ll have to talk to one of the detectives.”

“Shit.” Robbie sat down and raked his hand through his hair in the same anxious gesture Claire recalled from their first meeting. What was he hiding? “Look, I had nothing to do with Dr. Goodman’s death,” Robbie said. “Can’t we just leave it at that?”

“No.”

One glance at Andrew’s stern expression was enough to know he was serious. “Okay, here’s the deal. I spent that weekend with a girl who’s not my girlfriend. I told my girlfriend that I was with my dad. If she finds out that I wasn’t, she’s going to break up with me.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that possibility before you kipped off for the weekend with another girl.”

“Thanks for the advice,” he said, then sighed and muttered another obscenity. “Before I tell you anything, you need to know that I didn’t do it.”

“Didn’t do what?”

“What I’m going to tell you.”

“Maybe you should just tell us first—”

“All right. Just keep it in mind, okay?” Robbie took a deep breath. “I needed money and Dr. Goodman said he would pay me if I helped him.”

“Helped him what?”

“Write his paper.”

“His paper on codes and ciphers?” Claire asked.

“Yes. Except that as it turned out, he didn’t really expect me to help him so much as do all the research and write it myself. Then he would publish it under his own name.”

“He paid you to write his paper for him?” Andrew asked, incredulous.

“Look, I didn’t do it, okay? I didn’t even get started except for checking the books out. When I went over to his set that day, I was going to
tell him that I wouldn’t do it. I didn’t want to risk getting kicked out of school.”

“But if you were the one who was going to do the research and the writing, how did Dr. Goodman know what was in the diary?” Claire asked. “How did he know about the murder of Roger Osborne?”

“He’d read it already. He was brilliant, you know.”

“That means he must have known something about tachygraphy when I showed him my notes,” Claire said to Andrew. “He flat-out lied to me—said he’d never seen anything like it before.”

“He’d had a close relationship with Nora Giles,” Andrew reminded her. “I think we can assume he knew something about it.”

“Do you know what he did with the diary once he’d read it?” Claire asked.

“He gave it to me,” Robbie replied.

“He gave it to you?” Andrew asked.

“Where is it?” Claire asked.

“It’s right here,” Robbie said, walking over to a pile of books on the floor. It was buried at the bottom. “I’m glad to be rid of it,” he said, handing it to Andrew. “I tried to put it back in the Wren, but I couldn’t get into R bay without Pilford’s help—and it didn’t seem a good idea to let anyone know I’d had it.” He paused while Claire and Andrew looked over the diary. “Dr. Kent, is this going to go on my record? I didn’t actually do anything wrong. I thought about doing something wrong, but then I realized it was wrong and I didn’t do it.”

“This will be just between us for now,” Andrew said. “But if I hear so much as a hint that you’re not on the path of the straight and narrow…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know of any other students that Dr. Goodman may have paid to write for him?”

“I don’t know any names,” Robbie said, “but I got the distinct feeling that I wasn’t the first person he’d ever asked.”

Andrew shook his head in amazement. “It seems that Derek Goodman broke every moral and ethical code held by this college. Or
any decent human being, for that matter.” He turned his attention back to Robbie. “Are you still having financial problems?”

“My dad’s sick, he can’t work. It’s been kind of tough.”

“I’ll call the junior bursar’s office and set up a meeting for you, all right? I’m sure we can find a way to help you out.”

“Thank you, Dr. Kent.”

Andrew gave the diary to Claire. She looked at it with wonder. The end of the story was right in her hands.

“How long will it take you to transcribe it?” he asked.

“A few hours.”

“Would you like some help?”

Claire smiled.

21 December 1672

I
N THE CHAMBER
outside Arlington’s office, Hannah gives the clerk a sealed letter addressed to the minister.

“Could you take it in to him at once, please?” The clerk looks doubtful, so she prods his memory. “You may recall that I was here a week ago. With a gentleman.” She sees the recognition in his eyes as he recalls his encounter with Dr. Strathern. He nods and hurries away, message in hand.

Only moments later he returns and ushers her into Arlington’s chambers. The minister waits for her behind a massive desk, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a look of extreme displeasure. His affable expression has become decidedly more peevish of late. Her open letter lies in front of him:
I know who killed Princess Henriette-Anne and why.
“You intend to explain this, I assume,” he says sourly.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well? Don’t waste my time.”

“Henriette-Anne had a lover. Her husband found out about it. He also discovered that she was with child and that he was not the father. It couldn’t have been difficult to deduce, as according to Madame Severin they were rarely intimate.

“I suspect this betrayal was not easily countenanced by the duc, who was known to be of a jealous and vengeful nature. The duc poisoned her. Perhaps not by his own hand, but I believe it was done on his behalf.”

“And what, pray tell, put these ideas into your head?”

Hannah places a neatly written sheet with all the markings and her interpretations on the desk in front of the minister, then watches as he reads. “I believe it means, in essence, ‘The cuckolded son of France murdered the pregnant daughter of England.’”

“Where does this come from?” he asks.

“These symbols were found carved into the skin of the bodies of the murder victims.”

Arlington reads her interpretation aloud. “‘The son of France, a cuckold.’” He looks up at Hannah. “How did you derive ‘cuckold’ from this?”

“It’s the sign for Capricorn, symbolized by a goat. In Latin, the word for ‘goat’ is
capri,
or sometimes
cornutu,
which means ‘horns,’ or ‘cuckold.’”

“Ahh.” Arlington’s mood is not improving, but he continues reading. “And the moon and the sign of Leo signify daughter of England?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And the letters?”

“The first four letters of
potio
—Latin for ‘poison.’ Seeing as all four victims were at Princess Henriette-Anne’s on the night she died,” Hannah says, “I think we can assume that this story is about her.”

He turns the page over. “Is this all?”

“Unhappily, Lord Arlington, I believe this story is meant to continue. The murderer is by no means finished.”

He studies her carefully, as if attempting to judge her earnestness. “And what do you imagine happens next?”

“I can’t honestly say. But if I were you, I would not go out at night without an armed guard, and I would be very careful about allowing strangers into my rooms.”

“I do not need advice from you,” Arlington snorts.

“My lord, I do not know what is to come, but I believe there is some
one who knows much more than he lets on. If you care for your own and Madame Severin’s safety, I suggest that you arrest Ralph Montagu and question him.”

“Montagu? You must be mad.”

“You told me yourself that he was the one other person who knew how Princess Henriette-Anne died.”

“And you think this makes him a murderer?”

“I suspect that he may know more about this affair than anyone else. I do not want to believe that he is a murderer, but there are a number of things that, taken together, signify his guilt. Dr. Strathern said that it was common knowledge in Paris that Montagu and the princess were close, that there were rumors that they were more than just friends. Montagu may have been her lover—or conversely, he may have been her killer. It’s even possible that he was both, as he is a man who has revealed himself to be thoroughly unscrupulous. Also, whoever killed my father and the others is an educated man, who has at the very least a passing knowledge of medicine, astrology, alchemy, and Latin.”

“Your conviction is inspiring, but these are not terribly convincing arguments. Keep in mind that you’re accusing a former ambassador of England and one of the king’s servants. Do you really expect me to arrest him on the basis of your suppositions?”

“Such scruples have never stopped you before,” Hannah points out.

Arlington’s mouth twists at the corners, as if he’s suppressing a smile. “You skirt dangerously close to the edge, Mrs. Devlin. All of my dealings are based on what is best for the king. And right now I would say that it is best for the king that we drop this matter.”

“Why are you protecting Montagu?”

“I do no such thing. You simply have not convinced me that there is any need to take action against him.”

“If you will not send the guard after him, at least tell me where I can find him.”

“His lodgings are on the Scotland Yard.”

“I’ve already asked for him there. Where does he stay when not at court?”

“What need have you to see him?”

“It’s a personal matter.”

“Ahh,” Arlington says. “I’m not entirely surprised.”

“It is not quite what you think. He seduced my maid, then abandoned her. After which she took her own life.”

“I’m sure that’s no more than an unfortunate coincidence,” Arlington says, unperturbed. “Montagu’s personal life is of no interest to me as long as it does not conflict with the king’s business.”

“I should like to speak to him regardless.”

The minister mulls it over. “He is to depart for Paris again tonight. Mind you, I’ll have nothing interfere with that. I’ll give you leave to see him, but I insist on sending an escort with you.”

“I don’t need an escort. I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself.”

Arlington snorts again, but she senses respect along with the scorn.

“It’s not for your safety,” he says grudgingly. “It’s for his.”