Murder by Misrule

CHAPTER 40

  Clara sat in a huddle in the straw, shivering in her thin smock, her bare arms wrapped around her bare knees. She'd slept for a while curled up on her side but had been woken by a clanging somewhere deep within the gaol. One whole day and one whole night in hell: whatever sins she had committed in her life, she had surely paid for some portion of them here.

  She shut her eyes. They were useless anyway; the cell was so gloomy and so vile to look upon. Would she ever see beauty again or raise a brush to paint it? She remembered the first time she had taken her father's easel outside to paint the bridge over the Groenerei canal. It had been a glorious day, fine and clear with a lovely light. That was when she knew with perfect clarity that this would be her work. Then the sky had darkened. A clap of thunder stood her hair on end. Rain poured from the sky, drenching her clothes and ruining her painting. She ran all the way home, where her father had rubbed her wet hair with a towel, chuckling at her dismay.

  "Oh, mijn lieveling, sometimes it rains. We get wet and run home. We dry ourselves by the fire and go out again the next day when the sun is shining again."

  Her father remembered the sunshine. She remembered the rain. Tom was like her father in that way. Would he remember her? Would he help her? He was her only hope of rescue. She bade her mind's eye to visit his open face, his golden curls, and his sun-kissed skin. She sighed at the memory of his warm caresses and shivered again. So cold; too cold.

  The heavy door groaned as it swung open, a band of golden lamplight widening in its wake. In the beam of light stood Tom, her golden lover, his arms heaped with parcels. Clara pinched at her cheeks with both hands, whimpering anxiously. Was she dreaming with her eyes open now? Had her mind broken?

  But then she noticed one of the objects the vision of Tom held around one arm: a wreath of green holly sprinkled with bright red berries. She could never have imagined that; no one could. Only Tom would bring a Christmas wreath into Newgate Prison. The vision was real. He had come for her.

  He stood blinking at the gloom for a moment then dropped his burdens on the floor and whipped off his cloak, reaching her in two short strides. He wrapped the thick wool around her, tucking one end firmly under her arm as if she were a child. Then he wrapped his strong arms around the bundle he'd made of her, sheltering her head under his chin. He rocked her gently where they stood, murmuring shushes and sweet words.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. Not since she had grown too large for her father's lap had she felt so warm and safe. It wouldn't last — nothing good ever did — but she would store the feeling up against future troubles.

  As her tears subsided, she told him about the poisoned wine and cheese and the deaths of her tormentors. Tom hugged her tighter and spoke to someone over her shoulder. "Our villain is cleverer than we thought." For the first time, Clara realized he hadn't come alone.

  She buried her face in his chest again for one last breath of pure comfort then raised her head. Looking over his shoulder, she saw the short, dark boy who had been with him on the day he'd found her in the surgeon's house. The boy stood on the threshold. He had a handkerchief tied under his nose as a defense against the stink.

  The boy nodded and turned toward the jailer, who stood just outside the door. He snapped his fingers and spoke sharply, in tones that reminded Clara of the way Lady Rich spoke to her servants. Soon a bustle enveloped her and Tom as servants scuttled in and out, sweeping away the foul messes, scrubbing the floor and walls with buckets of sudsy water, and building a new bed of clean straw. Tom released her to rescue his gifts and soon her arms were filled with soft linens, blankets, and pillows. His arms were strung with baskets of hard rolls, sausages and cheese, a cask of beer and a wooden cup, candles and a tinder box. She even saw a sheaf of rolled papers — more poems, no doubt, to beguile the lonely hours.

  The smell of tansy and lavender rose through the little room. Clara felt a fresh alarm rising with it. She met Tom's eyes. "How long do you intend for me to stay in here? I could live for a month on all this bounty."

  "I'll free you as soon as I can, my darling. A day or two, I promise. No more than a week. They'll deliver the gaol before Christmas. I'll pay anything to get you out. It's my fault you're here at all."

  "No, it isn't," his friend said. He'd had a disagreeable expression on his pretty face since they'd arrived. It looked more like jealousy than distaste for the gaol. Now he pulled the handkerchief from his face, ruffling his moustache. "It's Stephen's fault."

  "I should have known he would spill the beans," Tom answered him. "I should have shut his mouth up faster."

  Clara frowned. "What beans are these?"

  Tom explained what had happened at the scene of Caspar's death. He had told her none of this on Saturday night. Why not? When he finished, she said, "Now many people know that you think me a witness to that terrible murder on Queen's Day."

  "Were you one?" The boy faced her with his hands on his hips. "Did you see anything at all?"

  Clara studied the little figure, noting the fineness of the facial bones and the balanced proportions of the lithe body. The wispy moustache was no longer quite straight. This person was not a boy, waiting for time to thicken his jaw and broaden his shoulders. This was a woman: young but fully grown. Did Tom know? Men could be very stupid.

  But his eyes were fixed on her. "I am abased with sorrow that you must endure this nightmare, my dearest darling. I beg you, by my love for you, tell us what you saw that day. The slightest detail could help."

  "And then what happens?"

  "Then we catch the murderer and bring him to justice so he can't murder anyone else."

  "I mean, what happens to me?"

  "Why, nothing. Or anything." Tom looked confused. Hadn't he thought about this part? "You can go on about your life." He favored her with a dimpled smile. "Only now with me in it."

  The smile was not so persuasive here in this cell, which was still dark, if not as wretched. Tom would leave soon, taking his smile, and then all these nice gifts would be taken away from her. "I cannot go on about my life while I am in this horrible dungeon."

  "Well, no, of course not. Of course you'll be released."

  "But only if I tell you what I saw. If I saw anything, that is."

  "No, no," Tom said. "You'll be released no matter what. They're holding you for questioning in the matter of the death of the Fleming — your husband. But we think we know who killed him."

  She blinked at him. "You know who killed Caspar and still you leave me in this dark hole?"

  "No! I mean, yes, we think we know, but we can't be sure. We have no proof." He shot a desperate glance at his friend for support and got nothing but half a shrug. The friend did not care if she were released or not. Clara couldn't imagine why this woman would go about dressed as a young lord, but she was obviously very self-willed and equally obviously possessive about Tom. She was no ally for Clara.

  Tom gave it one last try. "It's not that simple, sweetling. Nobody will believe us, anymore than they believe you. The man we suspect has disappeared. We'll have to put the whole story together, all the murders, with evidence and testimony from witnesses, like you. Then we can make a case to set before the judges. That's why you must tell us what you know."

  Clara shook her head. "I cannot think in this horrible place. First you must get me out. When I am home in my room, safe and clean, then I will try to remember for you."