“The father of her unborn child?”
Catherine closed her eyes and held her hands to her face, like a girl at the bear-baiting who has to avert her eyes from the sight of blood. “I think so,” she answered quietly. “I don’t know. I did not know she was expecting a baby until I heard the news of her death. Please do not ask me more. I cannot name him.”
“What sort of man was he? Was he a stranger to these shores? Was he a friend of yours, another Papist?”
“Please, Mr. Shakespeare.”
“But you want to find her killer. I cannot work in the shadows. Shed some light on this dark affair for me, Mistress Marvell. I must tell you that there could be a great deal more to this tragedy than meets the eye. I have reason to believe that her killer was sent by Spain and is conspiring against the realm. Perhaps she found out more than she should have and became a threat to this killer. You say you are a loyal subject of the Crown; now is the time to prove it. If the man who killed Lady Blanche is the same man who brought her with child, then it is your duty as an Englishwoman to tell me his name. Also-and I have no desire for this to sound like a threat-you must know the danger to yourself and this household if you hold back important evidence.”
She shook her head vehemently. “The man Blanche loved would not hurt a mouse. He is a gentle soul. It was a sadness that they could never have married.”
“Then you know him?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, I know him. But I will not reveal his name to you.”
“How do you know he did not kill her? Only God can see into the heart.”
“Mr. Shakespeare, I am not a gull. I am trusting you as far as I may, so please trust me on this: the man she loved did not kill her.”
“Do you know who did?”
Outside, a bird drifted lazily across the sky; a crow, perhaps, or a kite, looking for carrion. There were jarring sounds out there: the hammering of carpenters driving nails into rafters and joists, the slow beat of funeral drums somewhere to the west. She was silent. She had her suspicions, but no proof. And she could not speak her fears, for that would be a betrayal of those she loved. “No,” she said softly. “No, I do not know who killed her.”
“But you have an idea, don’t you?”
“If I have any suspicions, they are without any evidence and so must be considered unfounded. It would be pointless to tell you.”
“Will you let me be the judge of that?”
“I cannot.”
Shakespeare gritted his teeth. He was beside himself with frustration. With any other witness he would, by now, have brought her into custody for hard questioning. Why was this woman so different from Walstan Glebe, presently languishing in Newgate’s dungeon, threatened with mutilation and years of hard labor? Perhaps Topcliffe was right; perhaps he was too soft for this work. He scowled at her. “All right, Mistress Marvell, we will come back to that. But for the present, let us move on to other matters. What of the printing? What connection did Lady Blanche Howard have with the printing of seditious tracts? Are you and Mr. Woode involved in this?”
“Mr. Shakespeare, I know nothing of printing. And I have no knowledge whether Blanche was involved in anything like that either.”
“But Mr. Woode knows something. Of that I am sure. I saw his reaction when I questioned him; he recognized the paper or the printing or both.”
“That is something you will have to ask Mr. Woode himself. I cannot answer for him.”
“What then of the house in Hog Lane, where Lady Blanche’s body was found?”
Catherine shook her head vigorously. “Again, nothing. I have never been to a house in Hog Lane. I had not even heard of the place and certainly could not tell you where it is.”
“Is there anything you do wish to tell me, Mistress Marvell? Any information that may help us find this foul murderer?”
“Mr. Shakespeare, please believe me: if I knew the name of the killer I would tell you his-or her-name without a moment’s hesitation. I want the perpetrator of this wicked crime brought to justice so that he will never do such a thing again.” Catherine leaned forward and spoke with a firm voice, yet even as she said the words she felt a chill inside. For though she was careful not to lie, she was horribly aware that she was not quite truthful either.
Chapter 24
Rose Downie reached up to the cheese cratch in the buttery and brought down the Parmesan and the Cheshire and a small sheep’s cheese and a soft pungent cheese of Rouen. She also found a piece of spermyse, a creamy, herby cheese, but it had gone moldy and so she set it aside for feeding to the pig. Tonight, she had been told, was an important dinner, and the countess was expecting a fine spread of food.
She laid out the cheeses on a big wooden trencher, then set to cutting some cold meats to go alongside the cheese. Like the other two maidservants in this huge and rambling old house in the ward of Farringdon, Rose was curious who her mistress, Anne, the Lady Tanahill, might be entertaining this evening. Such an event was a rarity these days; since the Countess’s lord, Philip, had been consigned to the Tower two years ago, she and her small child had lived an isolated, sad life. Though tall with fair hair and a skin that glowed like a girl half her thirty years, she was shy and thin. And yet she had a grace that Rose had immediately loved and admired.
The house was pleasant, if old and in need of attention. It had been the town house of bishops and other men of distinction before passing into the hands of the Earls of Tanahill some forty years earlier. It had a long and broad garden leading down to the Thames, where it had its own landing stage. It stood brazenly close to the grand mansion of the Earl of Leicester and to the Queen’s palace, Somerset House, which was not a comfortable position for a family that clung to the old faith, when so many of those around were steeped in the new.
Usually the maids, the manservant, and their mistress took to their beds as soon as dusk fell. But tonight there was candlelight throughout Tanahill House. Amy Spynke, the housekeeper, had organized the cooking of two fowls and a rump of beef. There was a broth, too, and winter vegetables and sweetmeats.
At seven, the guests came. First the Vaux family, then the Brownes, followed by the Treshams and Mr. Swithin Wells, gray and stooped. Mr. Wells was the Countess’s most regular visitor these days. Rose knew them all well and knew them to be Papists every one, but that had never concerned her. They were all kind to her and treated her with respect. She had no interest in religious mutterings and utterings; she went to the Anglican parish church each Sunday because failure to do so would cost her a fine under the recusancy laws, and that was all.
The last two guests were not known to Rose, but they were introduced to her as Mr. Cotton and Mr. Woode. She curtsied to them, for both men were dressed in the fine clothes of the gentry. As the three maids-Rose, Mistress Spynke, and the girl Beatrice Fallow, who was only eleven years of age-retired from the dining hall back down to the buttery, the baby started to wail from upstairs in Rose’s room. Rose froze in mid-step. Oh please, not again, she said beneath her breath. She would have to go to him, though she knew that no amount of cradling would bring an end to his unearthly cries. The only thing that might bring relief from the catlike wailing was her milk and, eventually, sleep. But he had slept these past two hours and would not now be likely to go to sleep again this evening until well after midnight.
“I’ll have to go to him, Amy. Tonight of all nights.”
Amy nodded. “All right, Rose love. Get back when you can. Beatrice and I will manage.”
In her small room at the top of the house, Rose stood over the baby’s basket. For a minute she just looked at its round face with its low ears. Its curious froglike black eyes, so widely spaced, gazed back at her uncomprehendingly. The child’s mouth was fixed wide open in a scream. Rose thought it monstrous, like some animal she had never encountered. With the cushion from her bed, she could snuff out its life like a candle right now. There were times that she wondered whether she had been visited at night by an incubus that had put this thing in her womb, but then she remembered that it was not hers and that it had never been in her belly, that her baby was called William Edmund and he was beautiful. Who had taken her son and replaced him with this… thing?
She loosened her blouse and brought the baby from the cot up to her breast once more. Its screaming mouth, open and demanding like a newborn sparrow in the nest, took her teat and sucked ferociously. It occurred to her
