carried it down and put it on a tallboy where stood a jug of water and a bowl. She had begun to bathe away the blood when she realised that the cat could not have spoken.
She turned and, looking upward, saw a white, stark face staring down at her. The mouth was a crooked gash, bubbling with blood. She could not move. But, as she watched, it thrust more of its body through the gap until it lolled, a stranded frog, still staring at her, still gasping, half-free of the hole, its body hanging down upon her tapestry to reveal the round-pommelled dagger quivering in its back.
“Tallow!” cried the Countess. She recognised the one who had elected himself to guide her and the Queen through the depths.
Then the body fell, arms limp, down to the chair, which skidded across the room, crumpling the carpet, down to the floor to lie upon its back to show how the dagger’s point poked through the patched doublet, to admit further blood. Tallow tried to arch himself, to roll, but he was dying too rapidly. She ran to him and helped him sit, causing more blood to gush, like vomit, from his mouth.
“He has killed me. I resisted him.”
“Who has killed you, Tallow?”
But Tallow’s head had fallen and he no longer breathed. The flow of blood gradually slackened and then stopped, and Una, Countess of Scaith, stood upright, staring down in horror on Jephraim Tallow’s corpse, while his wounded cat mewled from the bowl in which she had placed it.
She stroked the cat. She bathed it as best she could. She dragged a sheet from her bed and threw it over Tallow. She seized the lattice panel and pushed the chair to the wall again, to replace the panel, as if she feared more corpses would come squeezing through into her room. She took another sheet and wrapped the cat in it, laying the little beast on her pillow. She dragged on a robe while Elizabeth Moffett knocked at the door. “Madam! My lady?”
“Back to your bed, Elizabeth!” The Countess would not involve that simple girl. “’Tis nothing.”
“You are safe, my lady?”
“Safe.”
There were political matters in Una’s mind. Another death, and this one even more mysterious, for the victim would not be known, and the Court would be aflame, worse than before. Sir Tancred was blamed, imprisoned. The affair was over, and everyone relieved. She drove out a thought that somehow Tallow had been sent to her, as a warning. She could not involve the Queen. She could not remind Gloriana of what lay beyond the walls, not now. And yet she must have help.
The robe buttoned, she left her room and locked it behind her. Elizabeth was no longer in the ante-chamber. She unbolted the door into the corridor. Elaborate lanterns illuminated the passage. Guards moved through the corridors, but none challenged her as she made her way swiftly to Master Wheldrake’s rooms. She tapped on oak. She heard a murmur and a yell from within. She waited.
“Who’s there?”
“Scaith.”
“Is that you, Una?” Lady Lyst was drunk.
“Admit me.”
There was hesitation. Una grew impatient. At length the keys were turned and two dishevelled figures stood there, “Wheldrake shamefaced, Lyst tipsy, hiding something behind her back. Both wore night-gowns.
“Wheldrake and I…” began Lady Lyst. Whatever she held, it now clattered down behind a table. “We…”
Master Wheldrake helped his mistress to a chair and signed for the Countess to seat herself, but Una continued to stand. “There has been a murder,” she whispered.
“Another?” Lady Lyst frowned and sipped from a nearby decanter. “Mithras!”
“Here in the palace?” squeaked Wheldrake, becoming serious. “Oh, Countess! Who is it?”
“A stranger. Happily, I suppose. I know him slightly.” She noted Lady Lyst’s expression. “I did not invite him to the palace. He-crawled here. Evidently murdered in the gardens. At any rate it seemed to me that if the palace is not to be alarmed further, we must hide the corpse.”
“You did not, you were not protecting yourself?” asked Wheldrake.
“If he were dead by my hand, sir, I should have said so.” The Countess was sharp.
“I apologise.”
“I need help in burying him, however. I thought of the disused gardens. You’re familiar with them? Near the foreign embassies.”
“Now?” Master Wheldrake looked doubtfully at the hiccupping Lady Lyst.
“It must be. You know what a shadow Lady Mary’s death cast. Suspicion, talk of revenge. Let’s have no more. If Tallow, the dead man, is buried, he’ll not be missed. And there is no way the Court can discover the murderer, I assure you.”
“He was some kind of thief, eh?” said Wheldrake. “From one of those taverns…”
The Countess knew that Wheldrake was familiar with the riverside taverns. “Aye,” she said. “He was that kind. A messenger. He brought me news sometimes. You’ll forgive me if I say no more.”
“Of course.” Wheldrake mistook her for a fellow nightbird and was glad to be discreet. “Come, Lady Lyst, let’s to the Countess’s apartments.”
Valiantly, Lady Lyst staggered upright. “Lead on.”
She required aid from them for only a few yards of the corridors and then she was steady again, almost sober, as ever.
They slipped into the Countess’s rooms and she showed them the blood-soaked sheet in which Tallow was wrapped. “We must carry him. You and I, Master Wheldrake. Lady Lyst, the lantern.”
From her pillow the cat mewed. She looked at it, studying its wound. It was not bad and would heal readily. Its concern seemed entirely for its own fate. It made no attempt to approach the body of its dead master.
“He’s light.” The small poet took the feet and Una the shoulders. They left her apartment by the outside door, carrying Tallow’s body in moonlight, while Lady Lyst led the way to the old gardens where, a few months since, Tallow himself had occupied the balcony high above and seen Oubacha Khan and Lady Yashi Akuya in conference there.
It was now that Una realised she had brought no spade. But Wheldrake indicated the broken rim of a well and poor little Tallow was pitched down into it, while the three of them rested against the stonework, panting and anxious if they had been seen. But no lights glowed from any of the nearby windows and they were able to return, whispering and tripping, as Lady Lyst lost herself twice and led them through shrubberies, until they were once more in the Countess’s room.
“I am obliged to you both,” said Una. “You understand the necessity?”
“How did he come here?” asked Lady Lyst, sitting on the bed and stroking the cat. “There seems a great deal of blood about. On you. The floor. The bed.”
“Murdered bringing a message.” Una was happy for them to think she had a city lover. “Some thief sought his purse.”
“And found it,” said Wheldrake. “For he had none upon him I could feel.” He added: “And no weapons, save the dagger in his back. Poor devil.” He became thoughtful. “You are sure the murder was not performed in the palace proper? There has been speculation that Lady Mary’s murderer still goes free amongst us. Or Sir Thomas Perrott? Was this messenger of yours the murderer? Did Sir Thomas find him?”
“It was to forestall such speculation I asked your help, Master Wheldrake,” said the Countess of Scaith.
He smiled. “Forgive me.”
Lady Lyst was breathing heavily, as if realisation came that second. “A murder!” Her voice was unusually loud and Una flinched.
“I beg you, Lady Lyst…”
Lady Lyst lowered her face. She seemed to sleep. “She is tired,” said Wheldrake.
“You were the only people I felt could be trusted.” The Countess gestured. “It was important to me to remove the corpse. I hardly thought. Perhaps I acted hastily…?”
“Wisely,” said Wheldrake. “The Court just recovers. This would make life intolerable for all. As long as you are certain that Lady Mary’s murderer was not that fellow’s murderer, too.”
“I cannot be certain.” The Countess of Scaith looked at the small black-and-white cat, which was licking its wound. “But I assure you, Master Wheldrake, I shall attempt to discover the truth and shall act upon it.”
