The Siren Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's by Fiona Buckley Page A
Authors: Fiona Buckley
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chamber. Brockley stood in the middle of the room, impassive as ever, but rocklike, waiting for us to agree.
Dusk was falling now. I thought of the thing we had seen, hanging on the wall of that dreadful little room downstairs. I thought of the duke’s fine residence as it was at night: the dark emptiness of the formal rooms, the long passages, some dimly lamplit and some not lit at all, and the cavelike doorways of the kitchen quarters. Candles would only make the shadows blacker, and their flames would flicker and whisper in faint currents of air. The shadows would move and take on shapes. Shapes, perhaps, like the outline of a body suspended against a wall.
“I think we should go,” I said to Hugh. “There’s just time to put our things together. The duke may not like it but . . . Hugh, please !”
“I doubt if we’re in any danger,” Hugh said. “I suspect that the boy’s death is linked to that of Gale. I helped to get Walt down and I had a look at him. It was a messier business this time, and the wound was in front, but it was a similar wound to the one in Gale’s back—done by the same sort of weapon; something with a thin, very sharp blade. Maybe he knew something that would have pointed to Gale’s murderer, and so the killer silenced him. But the killer, surely, has no need to attack any of us.”
“But who, now, can doubt that the killer is in this house?” said Brockley.
Hugh considered. Then he nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. Clearly you don’t want either your wife or mine to remain here! Very well. I’ll speak to the duke now.”
• • •
Norfolk, to be fair to him, was not offended by our wish to escape from his house. “I’d like to escape from it myself,” he saidmoodily. He even loaned us a couple of servants to help move our luggage, our coach, and our horses. The Green Dragon wasn’t luxurious, but I had seen worse inns. Brockley and Dale had to be content with a pallet in an attic, but Hugh and I were given a small but fairly clean chamber, opening onto a gallery above the courtyard, and the landlord offered us a late second supper with a choice of good wines or a beer, which he highly recommended, called Dragons’ Brew.
We declined the beer. Brockley said he’d heard of it, and it was notorious for its strength, and also for the strength of the headaches the following day. The landlord, grinning, also asked with interest after events at the duke’s house. He had heard of Walt’s death already.
“I’ve noticed before,” I said to Hugh, “that innkeepers are always first with the news. Do they have some kind of private signaling system?”
“No. They just have customers in from the houses roundabout, and the customers talk in their cups, especially if the cups are full of Dragons’ Brew,” said Hugh. “I saw one of Norfolk’s scullions in here with a tankard when we came in. I daresay he was drinking the stuff! And talking!”
I said: “I hope the inquests are held soon.”
• • •
Over the matter of the inquests, there was some bad feeling, since the justice who was organizing them first of all thought that Norfolk’s own house would be a good venue, offering as it did a big hall and a dignified atmosphere. As we were spending most of our daytimes at Howard House, we were there to witness Thomas Howard’s reaction. The Duke of Norfolk, his unremarkable face flushed pink with annoyance above his pristine ruff, and his voice squeaky with passion, expressed to the justice’s representatives, and in our hearing, his heartfelt opinion of what he considered an odious suggestion.
“It’s plain enough that something very undesirable has been going on in my kitchen quarters but what have I to do with servants’ misdeeds? To have the inquests here is as good asannouncing that this scandalous business is connected with me. It is not. Walt’s death and that of Gale may be connected to each other, but they’re nothing to do with me. If
Dusk was falling now. I thought of the thing we had seen, hanging on the wall of that dreadful little room downstairs. I thought of the duke’s fine residence as it was at night: the dark emptiness of the formal rooms, the long passages, some dimly lamplit and some not lit at all, and the cavelike doorways of the kitchen quarters. Candles would only make the shadows blacker, and their flames would flicker and whisper in faint currents of air. The shadows would move and take on shapes. Shapes, perhaps, like the outline of a body suspended against a wall.
“I think we should go,” I said to Hugh. “There’s just time to put our things together. The duke may not like it but . . . Hugh, please !”
“I doubt if we’re in any danger,” Hugh said. “I suspect that the boy’s death is linked to that of Gale. I helped to get Walt down and I had a look at him. It was a messier business this time, and the wound was in front, but it was a similar wound to the one in Gale’s back—done by the same sort of weapon; something with a thin, very sharp blade. Maybe he knew something that would have pointed to Gale’s murderer, and so the killer silenced him. But the killer, surely, has no need to attack any of us.”
“But who, now, can doubt that the killer is in this house?” said Brockley.
Hugh considered. Then he nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. Clearly you don’t want either your wife or mine to remain here! Very well. I’ll speak to the duke now.”
• • •
Norfolk, to be fair to him, was not offended by our wish to escape from his house. “I’d like to escape from it myself,” he saidmoodily. He even loaned us a couple of servants to help move our luggage, our coach, and our horses. The Green Dragon wasn’t luxurious, but I had seen worse inns. Brockley and Dale had to be content with a pallet in an attic, but Hugh and I were given a small but fairly clean chamber, opening onto a gallery above the courtyard, and the landlord offered us a late second supper with a choice of good wines or a beer, which he highly recommended, called Dragons’ Brew.
We declined the beer. Brockley said he’d heard of it, and it was notorious for its strength, and also for the strength of the headaches the following day. The landlord, grinning, also asked with interest after events at the duke’s house. He had heard of Walt’s death already.
“I’ve noticed before,” I said to Hugh, “that innkeepers are always first with the news. Do they have some kind of private signaling system?”
“No. They just have customers in from the houses roundabout, and the customers talk in their cups, especially if the cups are full of Dragons’ Brew,” said Hugh. “I saw one of Norfolk’s scullions in here with a tankard when we came in. I daresay he was drinking the stuff! And talking!”
I said: “I hope the inquests are held soon.”
• • •
Over the matter of the inquests, there was some bad feeling, since the justice who was organizing them first of all thought that Norfolk’s own house would be a good venue, offering as it did a big hall and a dignified atmosphere. As we were spending most of our daytimes at Howard House, we were there to witness Thomas Howard’s reaction. The Duke of Norfolk, his unremarkable face flushed pink with annoyance above his pristine ruff, and his voice squeaky with passion, expressed to the justice’s representatives, and in our hearing, his heartfelt opinion of what he considered an odious suggestion.
“It’s plain enough that something very undesirable has been going on in my kitchen quarters but what have I to do with servants’ misdeeds? To have the inquests here is as good asannouncing that this scandalous business is connected with me. It is not. Walt’s death and that of Gale may be connected to each other, but they’re nothing to do with me. If
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