Queen of Ambition (18 page)

“Quite, quite. Just as you should.” That fussy voice belonged to an usher I knew slightly, having met him at court. He had a most unsuitable surname, for Sir Walter Large was no more than five feet four inches tall. He was also a great one for asking questions about fine detail. “This all seems quite satisfactory. The room is smaller than I expected but there is no time to alter that now. What’s through there?”

I heard the rings of the privy curtain rattle and then a grunt as Sir Walter observed the arrangements it concealed. The curtain rings rattled back again. Rob was inquiring the names of those he had the honor of addressing, and I heard Woodforde explaining who he was and that he had been given the task of showing the ushers around the chapel, and introducing his companions by name. “Sir Walter Large … Lord Dunwood … Sir William Mallow … Roger Brockley you know, of course. He formerly served you, I believe.”

No wonder Brockley hadn’t met me by the river. He was giving Woodforde status by attending him. The ushers themselves, more sure of their dignity, had left their servants behind.

I lay still, breathing slowly and softly, relieved that there really had been some thorough sweeping under the bed. There was no dust to cause coughs or sneezes.
I heard the door of the press being opened and shut and the lid of the settle being lifted.

Then I heard Rob remark: “Master Woodforde, I wonder if you could spare me a moment. There is something I particularly wish to ask you, about this lady who is to present the flowers to the queen when first she arrives. I had heard that she is to represent the women of Cambridge but I now understand that she actually comes from outside Cambridge. Now how does this come about? Indeed, just who is she? Between one thing and another and my illness, I haven’t been able to pursue this matter.”

Clever Rob. As smooth and easy an entrance into our inquiry as anyone could have devised. He ought to be a success as an agent.

“Ah. Now this is a point I too wish to raise.” That was Large. “The vice chancellor assures us that she is a suitable person but it is our duty to examine everything and everyone concerned in Her Majesty’s visit.”

“Oh, Mistress Smithson is ideal, I promise you,” said Woodforde. “She is Cambridge-born although she is at present in the household of Mistress Catherine Grantley of Brent Hay, just outside the city. When the idea was first mooted of having a Cambridge lady to present the flowers, a proclamation was issued asking for nominations, and Mistress Grantley put forward the name of her companion. Mistress Grantley is a woman of some wealth and she has been most generous in making gifts to the university. I think the authorities felt that to accept her choice would be a graceful return compliment.”

It was nerve-racking, under that bed. At any
moment, someone might take it into his head to lift up the coverlet and peer in. Even so, despite my thudding heart, I grinned. Cambridge, supposedly a seat of learning, of intellectual growth and avant-garde ideas, was as venal a place as any. Money talked in Cambridge just as it did everywhere else.

“But,” Large was saying protestingly, “surely someone went to see the lady? Have you met her yourself?”

“The vice chancellor has visited her,” Woodforde was saying. “I can assure you that she wasn’t accepted without being interviewed. No one unsuitable would ever be permitted to perform such a task, sir. No doubt the vice chancellor can tell you more, if you apply to him.”

The subject of Mistress Smithson seemed to die out with my question unanswered. One of the ushers remarked in authoritative tones that they would now inspect the stage, and that he was wondering whether voices would carry clearly from it to the queen’s chair. “I would like to try it out. The chair can be moved forward if necessary, I fancy.”

“I was thinking the same thing, my lord.” That wasn’t Large’s voice. It was presumably Mallow’s, since he used the words
my lord
and so must be replying to Lord Dunwood.

“Perhaps you would attend us, Master Henderson,” said Dunwood. “Your opinion would be of value, I feel sure.”

“After you, sirs,” said Woodforde.

Rob had no alternative but to go as bidden, leaving me where I was. Feet moved toward the door and started down the stairs. I could still hear someone in
the room, though, and peering from under the coverlet, I saw a pair of feet in buckled shoes and another pair in boots, following the others toward the door. They halted, however, just as Brockley’s voice, pitched for harmlessness and ingenuousness, a fraction slower and an iota more countrified than usual, remarked: “If I may make so bold, sir, I’ve heard tell that this lady, Mistress Smithson, is some relation to you. Would that be right?”

My splendid Brockley had grasped Rob’s intentions and picked them up where Rob left off. In view of Woodforde’s habit of assaulting his servants, I felt that Brockley was showing not only initiative but a good deal of courage. To my surprise, however, Woodforde answered him quite calmly. “So you’ve heard that, have you? Well, well. How gossip gets about. A man’s business, and his family, ought to be his own. I learned only today that there’s been talk among the students that I’ve some secret scheme in hand, and I’m using their playlet to further it! Had you heard that too?”

Under the bed, I stiffened. Brockley, his voice still even and harmless, said: “Really, sir? No, I hadn’t heard anything like that.”

“Well, I’ll tell you something, fellow. Not that I want you talking about my private business to anyone and certainly not to Master Henderson …”

“Like I said to you, sir, I was glad to leave his employment. He’s the last one I’d go chattering to,” said Brockley. I had never heard him sound so surly. I had once told Roger Brockley that he would have made a good strolling player and he greeted the idea with horror, but it was perfectly true.

“Just as I thought. But you may say, if you hear such talk from other quarters, that you know for a fact that there’s no harm intended to any through the playlet. As it happens, I do have a secret scheme, but it’s as innocent and happy as a child’s lullaby, you can be sure of that.”

“Indeed, sir?” said Brockley, on a questioning note.

“It’s perfectly simple,” said Woodforde, somewhat irritably. “Maybe if there is talk going about, I had better tell you. Then you’ll know what’s going on and you’ll know better how to answer—provided you don’t let out to anyone what the plan really is. It’s true enough that the lady’s a connection of mine though I didn’t know that until after she’d been chosen to present the flowers to the queen. She’s my sister-in-law. Her real name is Jester, but she is calling herself Mistress Smithson just now. Due to a sad family misunderstanding, she is estranged from her husband although I must hasten to say that the matter is not one of scandal. She’s been living decently enough in good service, with Mistress Grantley. It was quite by chance that I learned who she is. I was calling on an old acquaintance of mine, a retired tutor called Dr. Edward Barley, who is one of Mistress Grantley’s tenants. That reminds me, when we leave here, we must go to my brother’s shop and break the news that Dr. Barley is dead. I have just heard. My niece was fond of him—he used to be her tutor. In fact, I recommended him. Well, to continue, as I approached his house on the day of my visit, I was most surprised to see my sister-in-law coming out of his gate. She didn’t see me and I didn’t call to her. I didn’t like to, in view of the estrangement.

“She turned up the road toward Brent Hay and I went on to pay my call. I wondered where she was living, though, and in casual fashion, I asked Dr. Barley who was the lady I had seen. He said she was Mistress Smithson, who had come with a message from Brent Hay.

“And I confess,” said Woodforde confidingly, “that when all this business of the students and their mad scheme to kidnap the lady sprang up, it occurred to me that I might now engineer a means of bringing my brother and his estranged wife together. It could be a most happy outcome of the royal visit, and I admit that I like the notion of doing it through a little playlet—it will add a touch of drama, a pretty conceit.”

“I see,” said Brockley, sounding blank. “Or rather, I don’t see. I mean, sir, how exactly … ?”

“The playlet will proceed, the lady will be whisked away into her husband’s very shop where he will be waiting for her—and what happens when they meet will be for them to decide. I wish for your discretion now, because it is possible that if the court harbingers knew of the plan, they might dislike it and spoil it, though I am sure that if, later on, the queen were to hear that she had been part of a joyful scheme to reunite two loving people, parted by a foolish muddle, she would be delighted. What do you think, Brockley?”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir.”

“I am looking forward very much to seeing the queen here in Cambridge,” said Woodforde. “I much admire such great ladies. I was once in the employ of Lady Lennox, you know.”

“Were you, sir? I have heard of the lady, of course, though I have never seen her.”

“She treated me ill, I’m sorry to say,” said Woodforde with a sigh. “Yet still,” he added, “I have the greatest regard for her. She …”

“Where have you got to, Woodforde?” Rob had come back into the retiring room. “Your ushers are waiting for you. I would like to sit down here and make notes at that toilet table—I have seen one or two minor things that need attention, which have escaped even the ushers. Did I hear you talking about Lady Lennox as I came up the stairs?”

“You did. A great lady, and an excellent wife and mother; an example to all women. She lives for her sons.”

“And for the furthering of their ambitions, I believe,” Rob agreed.

“Is that not a sign of a devoted mother?”

“When one of the sons aspires to the hand of the Scottish queen,” Rob said, “it could also be the sign of an ambitious mother. I prefer Queen Elizabeth to Lady Lennox, any day.”

“Oh, but I assure you!” Woodforde sounded flurried. “I meant no disrespect to Her Majesty …”

“Oh, go and catch your Gentlemen Ushers up. I must finish here.”

Peering from under the bed, I saw Woodforde’s buckled shoes and Brockley’s boots go out the door. I lay still as they receded down the stairs. Then Rob said softly: “Ursula?” and I crept out from under the bed.

“We got away with that,” he said with a sigh of relief.

“We did more,” I told him. “He had a fascinating
conversation with Brockley after you’d gone. Brockley was superb. Listen …”

“Yes. I can imagine it,” Rob said when I had done. “Some men are indiscreet with their servants. Woodforde is one of them, it seems. He wouldn’t tell anyone in authority about his shoddy little scheme. He’d know they wouldn’t take kindly to being used. But given half an excuse, he’ll boast to his servant. I’ve met the type before. Well, so now we know.”

“Know what?”

“What’s behind all this playlet business, of course. The mystery’s solved.”

I stared at him. “Solved? What about Thomas Shawe? Who would murder him just to stop a reunion between Master and Mistress Jester? Anyway, if Woodforde really just wants to bring them together again, he only has to tell Jester where his wife is! Why play games over it?”

“The inquest on Thomas Shawe duly took place, you know,” said Rob patiently. “And the verdict was death by misadventure. Accident, in other words.”

“Well, we expected that. And I still don’t believe it.”

“Well, I do. Especially after what you told me just now. See here, Ursula, why don’t you ask yourself, really ask yourself, how anyone but you and young Shawe could have known about your plan to meet? From what you’ve told me, both of you wanted to keep it a secret. You haven’t inquired yet but as it happens, I did speak with some of the students before I fell ill …”

“I kept meaning to ask about that and then being distracted. What did they say?”

“Even you lose the thread sometimes, don’t you, Ursula? Well, I’m glad to know you’re human and even womanly on occasion. They said little to the point. As far as I can ascertain, young Shawe never said a word to any of them about any assignation on the afternoon of the day he died. He
did
mention to Francis Morland and some of the others that he had some unspecified worry or other about the playlet but he never told them what it was, or hinted that he meant to tell anyone else. I’m quite certain in my own mind, however, that we now know all about it, and for the love of heaven, how
could
Shawe’s death be murder? His fellow students obviously didn’t know he was meeting you and you said on Friday that Roland Jester isn’t likely to have overheard the two of you arranging your assignation. So how could anyone have found out?”

“I don’t
know
. But …”

“But what?” said Rob impatiently. “Are you suggesting that there are
two
schemes behind the playlet?”

“Yes … do you know, I think I am. Because it does make a sort of sense. You’ve just said that Thomas admitted to Morland that he was worried, and Woodforde himself said that today—just today—he learned that there were whispers among the students. I heard him say so. What if Woodforde took fright and decided to let something out to Brockley as soon as a chance arose, by way of laying a false scent? Yes, there is a hidden scheme, but it’s only a matter of ending a family estrangement … when all the time, something else, much more serious, is being plotted.”

“Oh really, Ursula! This is all so far-fetched.”

I was still pursuing my own line of thought. “He talked about an estrangement due to a misunderstanding,” I said angrily. “Bruises and a black eye, according to Ambrosia. Not too easy to misunderstand, in my opinion! And all because her father didn’t leave his wealth to her and Roland but tied it up so that Roland couldn’t get at it! But the point is, if anything else—untoward—happens during the playlet, Woodforde now has a witness who can assure people that he knew beforehand what Woodforde’s plan really was and it had nothing to do with—whatever the untoward event may be. Woodforde will exclaim in horror that he has been made use of by some miscreant! That will be his story if he needs one. Clever!”

“I find this very difficult to swallow, Ursula,” said Rob tiredly. “It seems to me that you are just tilting at shadows.”