The Murderer Inside the Mirror, page 16
‘Or provide a lighted area for them to perform by, no one knows,’ said Timon, and he sounded pleased at her response. ‘I expect, though, that it’s only to make sure nobody comes blundering in and falls over in the dark.’
‘I’d rather think it was so that the ghosts could put on their own performance while the living weren’t around,’ said Tansy.
‘So would I … It’s a pity it’s a bit late for us to explore the Roscius properly together now, isn’t it?’ he said as they went out into the street. ‘Look here, I’ll walk back to your lodgings with you, to make sure you get there safely.’
Tansy thought there was no need to mention any of this to Jack in her next letter. The fact that she and Timon had played that brief scene on stage did not mean anything, and nor did the fact that he had walked back to the lodging house with her afterwards. That had been a considerate act from a gentleman to a younger lady in an unfamiliar city. There was nothing to be read into it, which was why she would not bother to tell Jack about it.
In any case, Jack would have more than sufficient to cope with at the moment; Gus had said there was a plan to see if the old portrait in Girdlestone Hall contained any more information, and when Tansy got back to the lodging house after her trip to the Roscius, there was a letter waiting for her, which it appeared had come by the evening post. It was nice to see Jack’s writing – it made her feel that the family were not so very far away after all.
‘I’m glad you let me have your address before you set off,’ he had written.
‘Everyone is looking forward to hearing all developments. As for what’s happening here, Byron and I are going to Girdlestone Hall in a couple of days’ time. It will have to be a midnight drainpipe job, of course,’ he said and, reading that, Tansy instantly had a picture of him swarming up a guttering as midnight chimed somewhere, and climbing through a window. He would be a dark-clad figure, blending with the night, silent and swift, and of course he would succeed, because he always did.
‘Byron thinks he can scrape away a bit of the paint that’s almost completely covering up the lute,’ went on Jack’s letter. ‘As you know, Montague taught him a fair amount and it will be a delicate task, but all the implements are still at the Notting Hill house, so Byron will bring them along. It’s a pity we can’t resurrect the two French academics and go in openly by daylight – perhaps with some story about wanting to test the age of the paint. But Gertie the Girdle would stay in the gallery with us, and she’s probably realized by now that those two gentlemen were bogus, anyway.
‘I think I had better ask you to burn this letter as soon as you’ve read it. It’s somewhat incriminating and you’re in the enemy camp, let’s not forget!
‘All love, Jack.’
Tansy smiled as she consigned the letter to the fireplace. Jack was certainly fascinated by the wicked Catherine.
EIGHTEEN
A village clock was chiming the three quarters after eleven as Jack and Byron left Girdlestone Halt and walked down the tree-lined lane towards the hall.
‘It was lucky we were able to get such a late train,’ said Byron. ‘I was worried that we might have to sit under a hedge waiting for midnight to toll its iron tongue. I’ve brought Montague’s leather wallet with the tools of the forger’s trade with me, of course. Scraping implements and little pointy instruments and blades. And a bottle of some solution for cleaning, as well. I have no idea what it is, but I’ve seen him use it, and I’m hoping it will work on that layer of paint that somebody added. And you’ve got the silk ladder, haven’t you, in case the gates are locked?’
‘I have.’
The ladder was folded inside Jack’s overcoat. It was thin and light and immensely strong – his father had designed it with help from Rudraige, who liked to tell how he had broken into more houses in his youth than the rest of them would ever know. The ladder had slender steel hooks at each end, which, judiciously flung upwards, bit into stone or brick, allowing for a cautious ascent by way of the silk rungs. He answered Byron somewhat absently, partly because he was watching and listening for anyone who might come along this remote country road and remember seeing two strangers, but mainly because his mind was filled up with Catherine – with knowing he would shortly see that disturbing blue stare again, and that air of challenge and defiance.
It was just on midnight when they reached the hall. They paused, looking at the gates, then Jack reached out to try the latch. Unexpectedly it gave way, and the gates swung quietly inwards.
‘Very hospitable of Gertie,’ he said, grinning. ‘Or is it that it wouldn’t occur to her that anyone would have the impudence to walk in uninvited.’
They went inside, closing the gates behind them to avoid attracting notice. Keeping to the thick shrubbery that fringed the drive, they went towards the house, carefully avoiding the gravel paths and the patches of moonlight that silvered the ground.
As the house came into view, Byron pointed to its right-hand corner. ‘Picture gallery,’ he said, softly. ‘Third window from the end. It’s the window you unlatched – and left unlatched in case we did decide to return, you remember.’
‘I do. But if there’s even half-decent housekeeping in there, the window will have been properly closed and latched long since.’
‘It didn’t look as if people went into that part of the house very often, though. That drainpipe looks fairly secure – plenty of leering gargoyles, as well, for you to grab hold of.’
‘Some of them look as if the stonemason used Gertie as a model,’ said Jack, studying the wall. ‘But there’s a ledge just outside the gallery window up there – d’you see it? If we can get on to that we should be able to get inside.’
He reached for the guttering, tested it, and said, ‘It seems safe enough. Wait until I’ve got in, then come up after me.’
‘If any lights come on down here, shall I give the traditional owl-hoot as warning?’
‘I don’t care if you shriek like a banshee on Hallowe’en, as long as we aren’t caught.’
Jack went up more easily than he had dared hope, finding handholds and footholds in the brackets that held the pipe in place. With every moment he expected lights to flare in windows and shouts to ring out, but the hall was quiet and dark, and he reached the ledge outside the gallery, and leaned across to the window. He had expected it to be latched, but when he grasped the edge of the frame it pulled outwards easily, almost over-balancing him. He grabbed the wooden frame, folded the window back as far as he could and inched his way across the ledge until he was able to swing one leg over the sill, and climb through. The remembered scents of the gallery closed around him – old timber and polished oak. And perhaps there were fragments of memories here, as well – long-ago hopes and fears and loves and tragedies, hoping someone would notice them …
He looked across to where the small portrait hung in its corner. The enigmatic stare looked back, and Jack stood very still. You were almost certainly never here, Catherine, he thought, but when your likeness came into this house, I think it brought something of you with it. Is that why Uncle Montague wanted to get in here? To find you – to find out more about you so that Phelan could write his play? But did Phelan write it at all?
He leaned out of the window, gesturing to Byron to come up. Watching him swarm up the drainpipe, Jack thought, not for the first time, that despite the languid demeanour Byron liked to present to the world, he was actually remarkably lithe, especially when it came to climbing into a house by night.
‘Everything all right?’ said Byron, softly, as he climbed over the sill, and brushed a few specks of brick and wood dust from his shoulders.
‘Yes. But we’ll be as quick as we can. How much light do you need?’
Byron looked about him. ‘I’d like to take the painting to the window,’ he said, ‘but if someone does come along, we’d need to dart into immediate hiding.’
‘And we’d lose precious seconds if we had to put it back on the wall,’ said Jack, understanding.
‘Yes. We’d better make do with working on it where it is. But we’ll need to use candles. Be ready to snuff them out, though.’
He produced two small candles from his pockets, both in tiny metal holders. Once lit, he set them close to the portrait, moved it slightly to examine the back, then shook his head, indicating there was nothing there.
‘I’ll stay by the door to listen for anyone approaching,’ said Jack, and Byron nodded, and unfolded the small leather pouch, taking from it a tiny stoppered bottle and cloth.
‘This stuff smells disgusting,’ he said. ‘But I’ve seen Montague use it, and it generally works.’ He spread a silk square on the floor beneath the portrait, and for some time there was no sound except for the soft scratching from the tiny silver blades.
‘The paint’s starting to flake off,’ he said, presently. ‘I’ll try to ensure no one will notice anything’s different, though.’
‘I shouldn’t think anyone looks at the painting from one year’s end to the next, anyway,’ said Jack, watching him. The candles flickered, and there was a moment when he thought Catherine’s eyes flickered too, as if she was looking across at him.
Finally, Byron stepped back, and said, softly, ‘Oh, my. Come and look.’
He lifted up one of the candles so that its light fell more directly onto the painting. And there, in the corner, brought into clear view, was almost the whole of the lute. Jack thought it would be one of hundreds of lutes that had existed in Catherine’s time, but when Byron moved the candle even closer, the light fell on to three words that had been engraved or painted – or perhaps even only scratched – into the main body of the instrument. Non Immemor Beneficii.
Byron said, ‘I’ll see if I can get a translation of that when we’re back in London. But you see what else was under that thick layer of paint?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Jack was staring at the painting. Lying next to the lute was a second object.
A music score.
It had been painted to show it as slightly curled over, with only what looked like the top quarter visible. But the musical notation was clear enough, and Jack thought anyone who could read music could probably even play the notes. Beneath the notation was writing.
‘Can you read it?’ said Jack, in an urgent whisper. ‘It’s medieval script, isn’t it? Practically unreadable now.’
‘At least it’s in English, though.’ Byron frowned at the portrait. ‘The title is “Cat’s Lament. A farewell to the Martyr of Silk”.’
‘I’ve more or less made that out,’ said Jack. ‘Give me your notebook – if you can translate, I’ll write it down.’
Byron frowned, moved one of the small candles closer, then, after a moment, said softly, ‘My God, whoever wrote this had a passion for his wench. As near as I can get, it says this:
‘“She who uprighted me with such desire –
She whose name could twist my heart/And wrench my very soul apart
I must forswear, but gladly so
For my Love is safe, she cheated Fate”.’
He paused, and for a moment the entire gallery and the shadows blurred and receded. Then he became aware of Byron saying, ‘The second verse seems to be almost a command. Listen.
‘“This charge I lay on all who come –
Veil her name, her story hide.
Speak not her name, let memory fade.
Let history not recall my Love”.’
Jack was no longer aware of the shadowy gallery. His eyes were on the painting, and the painted fragment of music. She whose name could twist my heart, the musician had written. But then he had laid that charge – as Byron said, almost a command – about not remembering her. Veil her name, her story hide … Let history not recall my Love. Catherine, thought Jack, what did you do that caused someone to write that – and for it to be set down in your portrait?
But Byron was now clearing up the traces of his work, wiping away the tiny flakes of dry paint, so Jack went to help him.
Neither of them spoke, as they snuffed the candles, and climbed silently back through the window and down to the ground.
NINETEEN
When finally they got back to London, by way of a milk train that seemed to rattle around most of the south of England for several hours, they went straight to Byron’s rooms since, as Byron said, he had all the books and reference material to hand there. Jack left him scouring the shelves that lined most of the walls, and managed to find coffee beans in the tiny scullery, from which he brewed a pot of coffee.
Byron had spread several books over the table, some open, with bookmarks slotted in. He took the coffee gratefully, and said, ‘I’m trying, first off, to find that Latin tag scratched into the lute in case it identifies the musician.’
‘Non Immemor Beneficii.’
‘Yes. It sounded like a family motto, but … Oh, this looks like it. And it is a family motto. There are one or two interpretations, but the general meaning seems to be, “Not unmindful of favours”.’
‘Is it the Ó Raifeartaigh family motto?’ Jack sat in the chair facing Byron, drinking his own coffee.
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Byron, frowning at the page. ‘I was expecting it to be, but it’s the motto of an Irish family called Fitzgerald.’
‘Who?’
‘Fitzgerald.’ Byron turned back a page, re-read it, then said, ‘They were earls of Kildare – and of various other places. Their principal home was Maynooth Castle, though – it was fairly near to Dublin, and it’s described as one of the largest and richest of the family’s dwellings. Destroyed in a siege by the British during Henry VIII’s reign.’ He frowned. ‘There was a famous Irish rebellion against the English led by a Fitzgerald, wasn’t there? It’s bound to be mentioned somewhere … Yes, here it is. The rebellion was led by one Thomas Fitzgerald, the Tenth Earl. The dates given here are 1534/35, and it says Thomas was born in 1513. He’d fit with the portrait’s date, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes. And the portrait was dated “circa 1536”,’ said Jack. ‘The date could have been added later, though – perhaps by someone who wasn’t entirely sure when it was painted.’
‘The Earl was often called Silken Thomas,’ said Byron, returning to his book. ‘I hadn’t known that, but it was something to do with his soldiers wearing helmets with silken fringes.’
‘Whoever composed the ballad calls Catherine the Martyr of Silk,’ said Jack.
‘True. Apparently, Thomas made a rousing speech in Dublin Abbey – highly treasonable from the sound of this,’ said Byron. ‘He publicly and very angrily renounced all allegiance to Henry VIII of England, and flung down the Sword of State by way of demonstrating his words. Then he led a major rebellion against Henry – you have to admit it would take a fair amount of courage to do that. It sounds as if it was partly to avenge his father, whom Henry had imprisoned in the Tower, but also to keep Ireland out of the hands of the dastardly British.’
‘Is there anything about his family?’ asked Jack. ‘Was he married?’
‘Are you wondering if Catherine was his wife? There doesn’t seem to be anything … No, here’s something. It seems he married an English lady in London when he was very young. There’s a cross-reference …’ Byron got up to take down another book, flipped the pages back and forth, then said, ‘This looks like it. The details are brief and quite vague, but there’s an entry saying his wife died of plague “before 1529”.’ He turned a few more pages, then said, ‘But there’s another reference here, attributed to a different source, that says she remained in England and distanced herself from the rebellion and Thomas himself, “for fear of the King’s wrath”.’
‘When you remember the fate meted out to traitors, you can’t blame her,’ said Jack.
‘But then there’s a footnote saying it’s believed she took the veil and was never heard of again.’ Byron leaned back in his chair. ‘Her story could be any one of those, or none of them,’ he said.
‘If she’s thought to have died before 1529, it can’t have been Catherine, anyway,’ said Jack. ‘Not if someone painted her around 1536. What happened to Thomas?’
‘According to this – and I’ll look in other sources to make sure – he fought against English rule with all the forces he could summon,’ said Byron. ‘He called out his own armies, and he pulled in local people, and employed spies. But the rebellion failed, and he was finally forced to surrender to the English. He was executed for high treason in – damn, where’s the date?’ He turned the page back, then said, ‘Here it is. He was executed in 1537 on Tower Hill.’
‘Executed,’ said Jack, almost to himself. ‘Byron, does it say how was it done? Wasn’t it sometimes hanging, drawing and quartering for treason?’ If Thomas of Kildare had indeed been the composer of Catherine’s ballad, Jack did not want him to have endured such a vicious death.
‘It doesn’t say,’ said Byron. ‘Oh, but there’s a legend that he sat beneath a tree and played his lute the night before his arrest, or possibly the night before he surrendered to the British – the accounts vary a bit. But it does say that very tree is still in Ireland. I like that story, don’t you? I’ll bet the Irish enjoy making capital out of it, as well.’
‘Thomas is the one who wrote the ballad to Catherine, isn’t he?’ said Jack, after a moment. ‘Don’t look so sceptical, Byron, it’s a reasonable assumption. And could that music in the portrait even be the music from the legend? The music Thomas played the night before he died?’
‘You think the musician and Catherine are your shadow figures behind Tomás and Catrina in the play, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do. If we’re going to accept that play as Phelan Rafferty’s work, can’t you see him uncovering the story about Catherine – his mysterious ancestress – and a connection to Thomas of Kildare?’ said Jack. ‘And being inspired to base a play on it. For heaven’s sake, Phelan even calls his main character Tomás!’
