A Murderous Affair, page 22
‘Or himself.’ A trace of anger marked Walsingham’s words, but it quickly subsided. ‘No matter, let us move on. The question, Master Lovat, is where your father’s, shall we say, fickle relationship with religion has left you and your brother? Is there to be any doubt about your allegiance to the Church of England?’
‘I‘m surprised that you question my brother’s commitment to the Protestant Church. Surely there can be no question where that is concerned?’
Walsingham gave me the full gaze of his black eyes: ‘So there can be a question in your case then, Master Lovat?’
Chapter 20
‘The public weal requires that men should betray, and lie, and massacre.’
(Michel de Montaigne)
Despite the well-stocked log fire, a sudden chill descended on the room. The air became completely still and I became aware of flecks of dust caught by the low winter sun piercing through the diamond shaped patterns of the window.
Too late I realised the trap that had been sprung. Not only that, I was on very shaky ground. To be a Catholic was one thing but there were still plenty of them about and they were largely tolerated as long as they put patriotism before faith. To believe in nothing, on the other hand, as was increasingly becoming my tendency, was another thing altogether. Atheists were the enemies of everyone and nothing was as likely to bring Catholics and Protestants together as the opportunity of roasting a non-believer over the proverbial fires of hell.
What was more, I hadn’t been to church lately to give myself cover. Attending church at least once a month was compulsory across the country, and the little church of St Magnus the Martyr at the end of the bridge was where I was expected to be of a Sunday morning along with the rest of the Bridge Within Ward. But in the last few weeks I had found one excuse after another for not attending and hadn’t missed the experience in the least. With these thoughts flashing through my mind, I was about to start defending myself when Walsingham gave me a get out route – of a fashion.
‘Faunt, please read to Master Lovat the intelligence that was divulged to us earlier, concerning his visit to a certain cottage hard by Finsbury Fields.’ I felt a sudden sinking in my stomach as Faunt pulled open a thin notebook, found a page and started to read.
‘Two evenings ago, close to the hour of ten, Master Lovat was seen leaving the house of the recusant priest known in familiar circles as the ‘Reverend’ Henry Garnet, a recruiter of Catholic sympathisers for the seminary in Rheims. Lovat was in the company of one Thomas Kyd, poet and playwright. The two parted company on exiting the house and our informer, recognising the poet but not the other gentleman, decided to follow Master Lovat, unobserved, to his lodgings on London Bridge where he was able to ascertain Master Lovat’s name from a neighbour.’
During this rather pedantic, though disconcertingly accurate statement, it had gradually dawned on me where I had seen the man with the pipe and arrogant sneer, who I had passed on arriving at the house. He was the same man who had been standing nonchalantly in the road outside Garnet’s house as Kyd and I were leaving. Had he been following me in the first place, though, or was it purely coincidence that he had been watching the house that we visited on Walsingham’s orders? Walsingham set me straight on this point immediately.
‘Garnet’s safe house for priests has been known to us for some time and is being watched. It is by fortune alone that your presence at the house was brought to my notice this morning. The only question is: what were you doing there? Given your background, your father’s attitude to religion and your own base birth, there is every reason that one might suppose you to be a disillusioned young man who seeks solace in rebelling against the true faith and laws of his country. Or was there some other purpose to your visit?’
‘Some other purpose.’ I said, with a mixture of meekness and stubbornness.
‘Well then let’s have it.’
‘It was an adventure.’ Here we go, I thought, do or die time.
‘An adventure?’
‘Suggested by Mr Kyd but instigated by myself.’
‘And what was the purpose of this … adventure.’
‘Research, sir, for Mr Kyd’s new play.’ It was a barefaced lie, of course, but the last thing I wanted to do was put Walsingham and his ‘informers’ on to Buck and Greville. It was bad enough that I had been seen.
Walsingham’s black eyes bore in to me silently and I felt a need to embellish my explanation. ‘I have recently embarked upon a career in the theatre – to supplement the income my brother affords me. I made the acquaintance of Mr Kyd and during discussions about his new play, we decided to go to Mr Garnet’s house to gather information.’
‘And what is the subject of Mr Kyd’s new play?’ I secretly thanked Kyd under my breath, as I recounted what he had told me of his play.
‘It is about the war between the Christians and the Turks in Rhodes. The ‘Reverend’ was said to be an expert on such matters.’
‘A most suitable theme for our theatres. Did your visit prove fruitful for the poet?’ Walsingham was struggling to hide the scepticism in his voice.
‘Not really. Henry Garnet was not forthcoming on such matters. We only spent a matter of minutes with him.’
Walsingham glanced at Faunt as if for validation of this statement and received a short nod in return. I was grateful that we hadn’t lingered at the cottage. ‘Whatever your reasons for visiting Garnet, I am sure that I hardly need to stress the seriousness of your position. Consorting with known Catholic troublemakers is an offence punishable by the most extreme measures.’ I felt beads of sweat break out on my brow. Was this to be the shortest-lived career in the service of Elizabeth’s spymaster? My heart felt heavy, as if it was being weighed down by Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. ‘For the time being, I will accept the view that you are not a Catholic sympathiser or recusant but I want you to be sure exactly how I view the Catholic threat.’ Walsingham sat back in his chair and fixed me with his black eyes.
‘Sixteen years ago, when you were only a small boy running around carefree on your father’s estate, I was the English ambassador to Paris. One August at Midnight, a bell rang out across the city signalling the start of bloody genocide. For seven consecutive days I was barricaded into the embassy house, along with my wife and four year old daughter, as well as other English men and women seeking refuge, while organised bloodshed and mayhem continued unabated outside. Some who were unable to reach the embassy in time were not so lucky – at least three Englishmen were killed on that first night alone, alongside thousands of Huguenots.
‘A baying mob spent the week outside the house calling for our blood. When, after a week of confinement, I was able to emerge under armed protection I could see for myself the congealing blood on the streets and smell the fires of burning bodies across the city, all the while being continually abused and insulted by Catholic gangs, not yet satiated in their desire for Protestant blood. That experience has haunted me ever since and has taught me one very valuable lesson, Master Lovat, that I want you to remember well – that we can never trust any member of that bloody and treacherous religion. In the future, I will be taking a keen interest in the behaviour of yourself and Mr Kyd, and the company you keep. Now to this other business.’
The matter seemed closed and I breathed a huge sigh of relief, although Walsingham’s words had had the desired effect on me. I knew that I was going to have to be very careful in the future.
‘When Don Alphonse wrote to me earlier this year, he talked of a traitor at the highest level of our government – someone who had access to the Queen herself. There are only two men mentioned in this affair who could vaguely fit that description. One is Sir Christopher Hardwick and the other, as you no doubt realise, is your brother, Sir Robert Rokesby. Faunt here has been undertaking some investigations along those lines. Perhaps you would lay before us the case as you see it?’
‘Certainly your Lordship.’ Faunt once again referred to his notebook, a habit that could easily get on my nerves. ‘On the face of it, the case against Rokesby would appear difficult to make. He has been a member of her Majesty’s privy council for nigh on two years. In that time, he has proved to be an able minister and has offered most valuable advice and support to her Majesty, particularly during the time of our most recent crisis. Your Lordship already alluded to the black marks against Rokesby’s father, but these seem not to have hindered Lord Robert’s career in any way, no doubt in large part to his staunch support of the Church of England. If he is involved in some plot then it has been most carefully concealed.’
Faunt paused for breath and Walsingham took over the narrative. He cleared his throat with a short barking cough and then proceeded.
‘Your brother’s implication in the death of de Sousa, on the other hand, is much easier to surmise. According to what you have told us, Lovat, De Sousa was known to have dined with your brother, Rokesby, and certain other gentlemen on the night of the murder. There were reports of a disagreement in the garden just before Don Alphonse was seen leaving in the company of two members of Rokesby’s household, the poet Marmaduke Drummond and the adventurer Simon Turney, as well as a fourth man, who you surmise may have been Nicholas Ingram, formerly in the service of the Earl of Leicester, and whom it is believed is hoping for a place in your brother’s household. It would seem mostly likely, therefore, that the man disagreeing with Don Alphonse was your brother himself, as hinted at by Turney, and that the subject of the dispute was your sister-in-law, Anne. Correct so far?’
‘The only fact I would dispute is the argument. There is no proof that it was my brother arguing with Don Alphonse. Turney could have insinuated this to put me off the scent.’
‘Perhaps, but let me continue. At this point, the trail on the night in question goes cold but, on the evidence we have, these were the last people seen with Don Alphonse whilst he was alive. Added to that the fact that Don Alphonse was strangled with a chain, which was a gift given to him by your brother, and that your brother was so keen to point to Cassangoe’s guilt, then there is no doubt that a circumstantial case can be made for Sir Robert’s involvement at the very least. There is of course one other thing.’ Here he paused, eyeing me with a somewhat embarrassed expression. ‘Go on, Faunt.’
Faunt cleared his throat administratively and took up the narrative.
‘Well, there is also the matter that Ingram was later seen removing Don Alphonse’s goods from his warehouse, as attested to by Master Lovat, and witnessed removing them to the wharf where Rokesby has a warehouse, as attested to by a, um, third-party.’ Seeing me start, he glanced at me but said nothing. Walsingham filled the void.
‘It was noble of you to try and protect your brother in this matter but you will start to realise that very little escapes my notice. Munday, the man who saw you at Garnet’s cottage and was here earlier, has taken an interest in the case and wished to bring that detail to my notice.’
The waters around me were appearing to get murkier and murkier. I had noticed on our first meeting that Walsingham had been very reserved towards Robert and now it appeared that he had been looking to make a case against him all of the time. But it wasn’t a strong case. I had listened patiently to both of them but now felt it was time to speak out.
‘Robert may be worried about something but I don’t believe he ordered Don Alphonse’s death. There is no evidence of a motive and no evidence of a plot. I believe that if there was an argument between Don Alphonse and Robert, which is not confirmed, then it took place in the heat of the moment. Robert had no time to subsequently arrange Don Alphonse’s death. It doesn’t make sense. Besides Turney was adamant that all of them, including the fourth man, disembarked on the south bank, leaving Don Alphonse alone in the boat. The only man who can dispute this is the lighterman and finding him is proving difficult.’ I realised that I had been raising my voice impassionedly and decided to rein myself in a bit.
‘No, it seems to me that Robert is simply worried that Don Alphonse’s death is being laid at his door – it is the rumours and insinuations in court that he most fears. And then there is the matter of the Lady Merrydance. That is where Robert’s guilt lies, if anywhere at all.’
‘Yes, this mysterious ship that sailed from Deptford. We have yet to discuss that in detail. What do you believe it portends?’
I thought carefully before answering. ‘Truthfully I don’t know. There is something strange about the voyage. I have heard conflicting accounts about its destination.’ I thought of Würtembatter’s belief that it was bound for the Baltic and Kibber’s assertion that only ships bound for domestic ports had embarked from Deptford. ‘But Robert’s secrecy in the matter suggests that he at least believes he is guilty of something.’
‘Well then,’ Walsingham demanded, issuing me a challenge, ‘if not Robert, can you make a better case for Sir Christopher Hardwick? He’s the only other senior figure implicated in this business.’
‘There may be little evidence linking Hardwick to the actual murder but there is another link between Don Alphonse and Hardwick, and I think I can make a stab at suggesting a motive.’
‘Go on then.’
‘From the ship’s log I found, we know that Hardwick was directly responsible for the death of Don Alphonse’s father and that Don Alphonse had vowed to be avenged. I think that this revenge is something that he has been dwelling on, nurturing in his breast, and plotting with great devotion and fidelity for the past twenty years. Now, I can’t prove it as yet, but I believe the man he wanted to betray to you, when he wrote to you before the Armada, was Hardwick.’ I thought about what Hercules Smyth had told me as well as the connection that Davy Bennett had made.
‘One thing I discovered is that Don Alphonse was overheard discussing a place called Stavening with Cassangoe, and Stavening is the country estate of Sir Christopher Hardwick.’ I glanced up, noticing that I now had their full attention. This was the nugget of information that Davy Bennett had given to me. ‘Suppose that, after twenty years of patiently waiting, an opportunity for revenge finally presents itself. Perhaps Hardwick has been compromised through some of his trading connections and Don Alphonse wants to use it to implicate him in a plot against the Queen. It is pure conjecture at this stage but something like that is not beyond the bounds of possibility.’ I began warming to my theme.
‘We have evidence that Don Alphonse’s neighbour at Lion’s Quay overheard talk of a plot and revenge – there is no doubt that he and Cassangoe were cooking something up – and the evidence of the ship’s log, as well as the fact that Stavening is mentioned, makes it very likely that Hardwick was the target. What better way to get revenge than by discrediting him in the eyes of the state with every possibility that he might be executed, his family left in disgrace, his estates confiscated? Don Alphonse comes to you with a story. He doesn’t name Hardwick but says that there is talk of treason. Someone at the highest level is implicated. Possibly at this stage, he thinks he can get Hardwick without you knowing the full facts. However, rather than listening to gossip, you demand evidence and Don Alphonse leaves. He goes away to make his own enquiries.’
‘Then why is it Don Alphonse who ends up in the river?’ Faunt interjected ‘None of this explains why he was killed.’ He spread his hands out by way of demonstrating to Walsingham that he wasn’t buying it. Nevertheless I ploughed on.
‘Maybe Hardwick discovered Don Alphonse’s intentions? He certainly strikes me as a man who would act quickly to wipe out a perceived threat.’
‘I congratulate you on your logic and clarity, Master Lovat, but do you have any evidence to support your theory?’ Walsingham sounded less sceptical than earlier, but nor did he sound convinced. ‘And can you explain why the circumstantial evidence points so strongly towards your brother?’
‘I don’t know. I have an idea about that but …’
‘You don’t wish to say before you have had a chance to make further enquiries?’
‘I would be grateful for that opportunity, sire.’
‘Well, Master Lovat, I am going to give you that opportunity. There may be something in your story and I feel it is only fair to let you try to prove it.’ Walsingham paused for a moment. ‘You have never met Sir Christopher Hardwick, have you?’
‘No, your Lordship.’
‘Good. Then he won’t recognise you. Because I want you to infiltrate his household.’
Chapter 21
‘Goodness is beauty in the best estate.’
(Christopher Marlowe)
Darkness was beginning to fall when I rode between the stone gates of Walsingham’s country park and headed swiftly back towards the restless chaos of the city. There were equally restless thoughts going round my mind, as I kicked George into a gallop and guided him down the darkening lanes and hedgerows.
Once I had seen George safely home to a deserved feed in a warm stable at the Half Moon, I hustled my way hastily to the Chancel House. Robert wasn’t at home but in a downstairs chamber I found the odious Marmaduke Drummond, composing one of his obsequious hack jobs, his portly frame enveloping the writing desk. He put down his quill as I entered and gave me his usual condescending look.
‘Look what the c-cat dragged in. A rat running onto a sinking ship. How original.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Don’t you know little J-Jack? Not being k-kept up-to-date? Of course, I forget that you’re a few steps below the hired help. Her majesty’s a little tired of her favourite,’ he said, twirling one of his perfumed fingers in a circle to indicate Robert’s property, ‘rumour has it that he’s finished. Don’t want to tempt fate and all that, but my c-c-c-current composition could be his final ode.’ He chuckled unpleasantly and went back to his scroll.
Not for the first time, I wondered why my brother had allowed this ridiculous fop to darken his corridors. I felt a strong urge to evict him there and then but thought better of it – unbelievably, writers of doggerel like Drummond had plenty more rights in society than bastards did. Instead, I decided to channel my anger into interrogating him.
