The Fatal Fashione

  “Don’t know if she really will,’specially with Lady Gresham nearby.” She hunched forward, gripping her hands on her knees. “Each time Marie looks down into this garden, she says it’minds her of something bad, something lost. I know her mother don’t really want her to talk to you each day, Master Topside, or to you either, Mother Meg, but Marie don’t, either, not here anyway.”

  “Because of something she’s lost in this garden?” Ned repeated, frowning. “A trinket or another letter like she gave the queen or—”

  “I think it’s’bout someone she saw here, or argued with here—a woman.”

  “She told you that?” Meg asked.

  “No, but she said it in her sleep last night, over and over. I’m in a trundle bed next to her tall one, and she kept saying she looked like the woman she met in the garden. I thought she meant like the girl in the painting, but she was saying ‘woman’ and ‘garden’ and then that she lost her, lost her and can’t find her anymore. And then crying for her lost mother, too, not Lady Gresham,’cause she’s’dopted like me. Honest, I heard her aright, e’en if she was all upset in her nightmare.”

  “Listen, lovey,” Meg told her, reaching into the girl’s hood to stroke her rough cheek, “if she has a nightmare again like that, wake her up, won’t you?”

  “So she won’t keep having it so bad?”

  “Yes, but also because when you’re waked from a nightmare, you might remember things from it you can’t recall the next morning.”

  “Marie would like to remember. Last night she said she’s afraid, but she wants to recall things and doesn’t know how. Lady Gresham told me never wake her, but should I do it and ask her who’s the woman in the garden?”

  “Ask her anything she can remember about anything,” Ned put in, nodding at Meg. “If she can’t recall what happened in waking life, maybe her dreams will give the answers.”

  “Yes,” Meg said, looking now only at him. “Sometimes you have to just trust your dreams.”

  “What?” the queen cracked out so loud that Nigel Whitcomb scurried back several steps. “You accuse my herbalist, Meg Milligrew, of this foul murder?”

  She seized the parchment from Cecil’s hands and skimmed it. The document listed the names of four women—evidently some of Hannah’s workers—who claimed to have overheard an argument about the prices of starch herbs between said victim and said accused. Worse, it listed the names of several servants of the queen who had witnessed an argument between Ned Topside and Meg Milligrew in the public place of Kings Street on Wednesday, the 23rd day of October, hard by Whitehall Palace. This concerned how Meg was jealous that a person who went by the name of Ned Topside had visited the victim privily after the queen had sent the same Ned Topside once to see her publicly.

  “’S blood,” Elizabeth swore, and followed that with a string of curses.

  “Of course, I would be willing to question her here on these premises,” Whitcomb said, his voice at first a mere squeak, “Your Majesty, if you would just sign the document, since she’s your—”

  “I know these people intimately,” the queen interrupted, waving the parchment. “I can attest to their character, especially Mistress Milligrew, and she did not murder Hannah von Hoven! She’s the one who stumbled on the body and first reported the crime.”

  “More than once in my experience, Your Majesty,” Whitcomb said, “the one who supposedly discovers the deceased has been the one who killed said person. It is a wonder to me how they can be attracted to the site of their crime and the victim’s corpse, too. Why, I once heard of a murderer who not only attended the funeral but kept visiting his victim’s burial site.”

  “This is outrageous!” she insisted, brandishing the warrant again. “Chief Constable, I will look into this, but it is entirely beyond the pale. You are dismissed now, and I shall summon you again if you are needed.”

  “Pardon, Your Gracious Majesty, but I must ask that this woman be handed over for questioning at the least. My inquiries have determined that she is the only possible—”

  “You do not know whereof you speak,” Elizabeth went on, her voice steady and quieter now. “My lord Cecil and I have knowledge of several persons who might have wanted to kill Hannah von Hoven.”

  “You—but … I, Your Majesty,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height, “by the power vested in me, am the one entrusted by the laws of our realm to inquire into this, and I’ll not cower, as too many of us did that day you scolded us for simply asking that the future of the throne be preserved through your marriage and the bearing of an heir or—or …”

  “Or what?” she demanded. “Or there will be a treasonous uprising, led, of course, by my northern Popish subjects who are all cozy with my Scottish royal cousin? You are dismissed,” she said, flinging out an arm and rising. “However, I vow to you I will see to these accusations you have made and give Meg Milligrew over to your questioning tomorrow, should I see a need. I am certain in your lofty position you have many more important things to see to now. Good day to you.”

  When the still-sputtering man left the chamber, Elizabeth reread the warrant, threw it to the floor, then collapsed in her chair with her head in her hands.

  “Your Grace?” Cecil said, his voice so close he must be nearly leaning over her.

  “I’ll be all right in a moment. I’m thinking that I told Parliament that day that I will never be by violence constrained to do anything. Yet just now, I could have wrung that man’s neck. Is that what could have happened to Hannah? That someone who is always in control lost his—or her—temper?”

  “Over the years you have struggled to rein in that Tudor temper, and you will yet be victorious—in all things.”

  “I also told Parliament that fatal fashions are treasons, greed and lust, adultery and murder—and rebellions—in my kingdom. I told them that I do not fear death and that I have good courage, but this is wearing me down, Cecil. Yet, especially now, I cannot and will not turn this over to others to solve and punish.”

  “You also said to them that day, Your Grace, that England must take a stand for justice. You are doing that, always, even if it seems to some that you are obstructing that very justice. But you surely must hold to your pledge to let Whitcomb question Meg on the morrow.”

  She lifted her head from her hands and twisted around to look at him. “Hand Meg over to Whitcomb?”

  “Not if we can clear her quickly and find who did put Hannah in that devil’s liquor Hosea Cantwell’s always pontificating about.”

  “Meg’s gone to Gresham House with Ned, but I will see both of them, separately, the moment they return—Ned first. And, my friend,” she said, rising to face him, “don’t you dare add Meg’s name to that diagram you have—not, at least, until I speak with her.”

  As she hurried down the corridor to meet with her council of advisors, Elizabeth prayed the day would not get even worse. The northern shires were yet Catholic and seethed with their desire to champion Queen Mary of Scots over their God-given queen.

  Passing through her crowded presence chamber, she saw Hugh Dauntsey, whispering to Lord Paulet. She nodded to them and strode on until she heard Dauntsey call to her, “One thing I forgot, Your Most Gracious Majesty.”

  She halted so quickly that Lady Rosie nearly bumped into her.’S blood, she didn’t need Dauntsey calling out something private in this crowd. Though she gestured the man to her, she did not turn to him until she was in the corridor.

  “The thing you forgot?” she asked, trying to keep her voice reined in. Meg and Ned weren’t back from Gresham House yet. She felt twisted so tight about everything that she’d like to scream.

  “Something I found in the bottom of the fatal starch bath when I drained it,” he whispered to her. He held out a small black velvet pouch; she took it from his ink-stained fingers. “Not the pouch itself or it would be stiff as a board,” he went on as if she were a dunderhead. “Within is something that must have slipped off in a struggle. Wet starch is quite sl
ippery, they say.”

  “I will examine it and speak with you later.”

  She entered the council chamber, sat at the head of the long table, and nodded permission that others could be seated and business begun, but she kept fingering the pouch in her lap. Something small within, perhaps a thimble or an earbob. Unable to wait to see, even though Cecil began to speak, she opened the pouch and dropped the item in her lap.

  She touched it, then turned it in her fingers. It was a ring, large, heavy, evidently a man’s.

  “Her Majesty has summoned us today,” Cecil began, “to consider the northern shires and the dangers they could cause should the Catholic queen of Scotland become even more deceitful.”

  Definitely a signet ring, probably one used to imprint a coat of arms on wax seals.

  “We are talking about a large number of rogues,” Cecil said, “some nobles, some rabble, who may go to open rebellion, should Queen Mary give them either further covert or overt indications she would become the figurehead for such an uprising.”

  Elizabeth’s stomach began to knot. Glancing down in the shadow of her lap, she wasn’t certain what the figure on the raised part of the ring was at first, and she must not bow her head, or her men could think she was downhearted or fearful of her enemies. She looked straight ahead again at Cecil, who was still speaking.

  “We must lay plans to keep our realm and our ruler safe, so the floor is open to reports and discussions.”

  Then she knew. She knew—and feared—the figure on the ring was a grasshopper.

  “I swear to you, Your Grace, chief constable of London or not, the man is wrong!” Meg cried. She felt her skin flush hot; tears flooded her eyes, making two queens and two Cecils before she blinked. “Hannah was dead when I got there, and I didn’t do it!”

  “I believe you,” the queen said as she rose from the table and walked around Cecil to come over to take her hand. Meg tried to keep some semblance of poise, but she clung to the queen’s fingers. “Meg,” Elizabeth went on, putting her other hand on her shoulder, “I’m just telling you what the constable has come up with. Since he’s been looking in the wrong place, I fear he’s jumped to the wrong conclusions.”

  “I treasure your support, Your Grace. I am so undone that—”

  “Just listen now. Unfortunately, there is no denying the two events witnessed by multiple persons that might be construed to mean you held a double grudge against Hannah. And that would make two powerful motives—disagreements with her over money and over a man.”

  “But I don’t blame her for Ned’s going back to see her—that’s just him,” Meg blurted as the queen stepped back. Meg wrapped both arms tightly around herself to shop shaking. “Though lately,” she added, “Ned’s vowed to change his ways.”

  “So he tells me. I spoke with him briefly just now. This formal accusation makes me even more desperate to solve this murder. You are not the only one at your wit’s end.”

  “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, Your Grace, but Hannah was a pinchpurse, and I’d tell the constable that if he asks. All that time it took Sally and me to gather those herbs—not that we didn’t enjoy doing it—and she wanted my costs cut.”

  “Her stinginess would fit,” the queen said, nodding and walking to the window where Meg had noted she often stood when she was deep in private thought. “Hannah seems not to be able to handle money well, though she must have made a pretty profit from her starch shop here. But now Hugh Dauntsey has a long list of those who had left ruffs to be stiffened, so her estate must return all those with the fees.”

  “Which means Dingen van der Passe will get even more business, with her competitor removed,” Meg said. “But about my other supposed motive, Your Majesty. I was furious with Jenks at first for turning his devotion to me so swiftly to Ursala, but I certainly haven’t murdered her, any more than I killed Hannah over Ned’s attentions.”

  “Now that’s roundabout logic, isn’t it, Cecil?” Elizabeth asked. Then she added, turning back to Meg, “I know you were angry with poor Jenks at first, and even two days ago when you wouldn’t let him carry you. You were sharp with him about carrying Ursala the night she was so distressed.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, but I’ve accepted that now—Jenks and Ursala. One more thing, though,” she said, wanting badly to change the subject. Surely Her Majesty wasn’t just stringing her along the way she had others she mistrusted like Hugh Dauntsey, Lord Paulet, or those northern lords who were still members of Parliament. Surely the queen really believed she was innocent.

  “Yes?” Elizabeth asked when she hesitated.

  “Did Ned tell you that Marie’s having nightmares about meeting some woman in the gardens at Gresham House, Your Grace?”

  Cecil looked up frowning as the queen nodded. “Marie must have seen Hannah there,” Elizabeth explained to him, “when she came to Gresham House for money. Either while Hannah waited for the money from Sir Thomas or thereafter, perhaps Marie ran down to speak with her. Either the girl guessed who Hannah was or Hannah told her. If only, Cecil, we could see through the opaque swirl of starch water to the bottom of the barrel, eh?”

  “We need to move even more quickly to keep the constable off our—and Meg’s—backs,” he advised.

  Meg didn’t like it when they discussed her as if she weren’t here, as if huge decisions about her life could be made without her.

  “You told Whitcomb we had other possible murderers in mind,” Cecil went on, “so he’ll be demanding to know who and how and why—and I can’t see then how you’ll protect the Greshams, at least until we discover who is guilty.”

  “If only,” the queen said, hitting her fist on the window ledge, “poor little Marie would have a nightmare that would jolt her back to reality.”

  “That’s it!” Meg cried. She realized it might be a daft idea, but she was desperate now, and if it worked, she could continue to be important to this investigation without having it focus on her. “I know how to stage such a nightmare—with Ned’s help. Hannah’s not here to help us, but the cuckoopint is.”

  “What do you mean?” the queen asked, walking away from the window.

  “Remember, Your Grace, how you staged a play at Nonsuch last year to get your painter Gil Sharpe to come clean on what had really happened to him when he was studying in Italy?”

  “Of course.”

  “With Ned’s help, we can use cuckoopint pollen to help Marie remember. She wants to badly—though there’d be hell to pay if her parents found out Sally sneaked us in at night.”

  “Not if I’m along,” Elizabeth declared. “And they may thank us after, because there’s going to be hell to pay for all of us if Marie doesn’t quickly recall what she saw.”

  The last thing on earth the queen needed was an audience with the Marquess of Winchester, Lord Paulet, today, but she knew he hated Gresham, and since that could be one of the marks of Hannah’s murderer, she agreed to see him briefly.

  Despite his age, he nearly bounded into her conference chamber. Facing him alone but for her yeomen Clifford and Bates standing like silent sentinels inside the door, she was amazed to see the old man all smiles.

  “Your Most Gracious Majesty, I knew you would heed my counsel!” he blurted after his bow.

  She remained seated but remembered to raise her voice for his poor hearing. “In what respect, my lord?”

  “I told you that you needed a larger staff, just the way things used to be when I was comptroller of the royal household and one of your father’s chief financial advisors. I refer to your taking Dauntsey on and promising him if that goes well, there would be other assignments.”

  It was no news to her that Dauntsey would tat-tale to Paulet. She recalled seeing them together just before Dauntsey handed her the Gresham grasshopper ring. Of course, since she trusted both Dauntsey and Paulet as far as she could throw them, they could have planted the ring to incriminate her chief financial advisor they both hated. But however would they get a ring from Thomas? br />
  Or did the ring in the starch indeed indicate that Thomas had lied to his queen about only seeing Hannah once and at his home? Men were capable of such lies to hide their lusts. Had he requested Hannah release her women, and had he lost his ring in their struggle for her life? It was just one more reason besides helping Marie to remember that she was risking so much this night to sneak her people into Gresham House after dark. Over Meg’s protests, she was taking Ursala and her twin sister, Pamela, too, as key players. If this dark drama didn’t work, perhaps nothing would.

  “So,” she said, refusing to go along with Paulet’s hailfellow-well-met demeanor, “thanking me for hiring your friend Hugh Dauntsey is the reason you have requested a private interview today? You are welcome, but I have many obligations, my lord.”

  “Destinations?” he said, cupping his ear with one hand. “Are you leaving the palace again, then?”

  It amazed and annoyed her that he kept an eye on her. Did he have an informer telling him when she ventured out and who she visited?

  “Tell me why you are really here, my lord,” she said, raising her voice even more.

  “As Hugh Dauntsey’s mentor, I would offer Your Majesty the opportunity to make a great deal of money in the stock market,” he said, speaking too loudly as usual. “He said you showed great interest. It is all quite high risk, but anything worth while having is high risk.”

  “An interesting philosophy. So, since you are no longer controlling my money, you yet propose to invest it for me?”

  “It’s quite obvious that you could benefit from someone with much experience to advise you in that and in other ways.”

  “Meaning you, sir?” she demanded, growing more angry by the moment.

  “Dauntsey, as well. He’s been making both of us a fortune speculating in stocks.”

  She was tempted to tell Paulet that Thomas Gresham had said Dauntsey was conducting his business illegally.

  “Pray tell me,” she said, nearly shouting back at Paulet, “what is the market practice called forestalling?”