The Dance of Death (25 page)

‘No, none.' I got up and raised one of Jane's limp hands to my lips. ‘I must be going, mistress. Please give my adieus to your husband and Master Lackpenny.'

She made no response. John jerked his head imperatively towards the door, while standing deferentially to one side for me to precede him from the room. I was halfway through the doorway when Jane Armiger turned her head in my direction and said clearly, ‘Yes.'

I paused, looking back at her. ‘Yes?' I queried.

She had stopped playing with her hair and was looking straight at me. ‘The answer to your question,' she said, ‘is “Yes.”'

That was all, after which she seemed to lose interest in me, hunching further into her chair, her knuckles white as she clenched its arms, looking deep into the heart of the fire that had been kindled on the hearth. I waited a moment to see if she would say anything else, but when it became obvious that she was not going to, I went out into the frosty morning and mounted, not without a great deal of misgiving, the mettlesome-looking grey that John had hired for me.

And so we set off through the Calais streets, heading for the Pale and the beginning of our journey into France.

We were a silent bunch as we put the weary miles between ourselves and Calais, first as we crossed the Pale and then as we headed south into France itself.

Philip, of course, was always silent nowadays, resisting all my efforts to draw him out or involve him in any sort of conversation, efforts that had grown more half-hearted with every passing day as he failed to respond. My exasperation had increased as my sympathy ebbed until I found myself content to ignore him and treat him like the servant he was pretending to be.

John Bradshaw also seemed wrapped in his own thoughts during that first day's ride, only raising his voice to urge us all to greater efforts and to chivvy us into moving again each time we stopped – which wasn't often – for refreshment. Paris was now his goal and he would only be happy when we got there. In a burst of confidence during one of these rests, he did repeat how glad he was to be freed from the company of the Armigers and Master Lackpenny, and even went so far as to consider the disappearance of Oliver Cook as a blessing in disguise.

‘I wouldn't wish death by drowning on any man – a nasty, protracted business, I should imagine – but I have to say that I found the fellow extremely offensive. I had known of his reputation in Baynard's Castle, although we had never actually met face to face, and his removal has meant the freedom to be ourselves for at least that part of each day when we are not in the company of fellow travellers.'

I understood this. For a man used to directing others, playing the role of a servant must have been irksome in the extreme, especially when it meant deferring to someone as new to, and as ignorant of, the spying game as myself.

Eloise's silences, answering only when I addressed her directly, and then with the minimum of words, I had no difficulty in interpreting. She was still angry about my treatment of her that morning, and was beginning to experience the frustration of playing a part most hours of the day and night. At first it had probably seemed like a game to her, a chance to goad and needle me with impunity. She had known that I didn't trust her, and with good reason, but as the days, and then a week passed, the game palled. I liked to think that she felt my attraction as I felt hers, and that being thrust into the most intimate of situations with me without being able to relieve the emotional strain was making her short-tempered. To make matters worse, she was at liberty to give full rein to her natural instincts: I was the stumbling block with my marriage and my children and my much vaunted determination to remain faithful (or at least not to stray again, as I had done with Juliette Gerrish in Gloucester – not that Eloise knew about that).

As for myself, I was preoccupied with my own stupidity in having spoken to Jane Armiger about the Dowager Duchess of York in that unguarded fashion without first thinking of the possible consequences. At least I derived some comfort from the knowledge that I would never make a good spy. I was too impetuous, too careless of orders, too unthinking for the devious, double-dealing world of Timothy Plummer and his ilk. I was glad of that.

But what exactly had that ‘Yes' of Jane Armiger's been intended to convey? Yes, her grandmother had once mentioned rumours of a love affair between Cicely Neville – as so many people, even now, still thought of her – and one of the archers of her Rouen bodyguard? Or had Jane, in her dazed and bereft state, merely been answering some question of her own poor, exhausted mind and which had nothing to do with what I had been saying to her? Yet she had looked at me as she spoke, a direct, steady gaze that seemed to indicate she had heard me and was offering a response. But how could I be certain in the state that she was in, grieving for her brother, even if no one else considered him much of a loss? And perhaps grieving even more because others appeared so indifferent to his fate.

John Bradshaw had of course been curious to know the meaning of that ‘Yes', but had accepted, without much persuasion, the explanation that Mistress Armiger was distraught and that it had been nothing more than an expression of her own distress of mind.

And so the first day passed more or less in silence, with three of us, at least – Eloise, Philip and myself – oblivious for much of the time to anything but our own glum thoughts, and saying as little as possible to one another. John Bradshaw was apparently content to have it so until we racked up for the night at some wayside inn –
auberge
, as I suppose I should call them from now on – when, as we dismounted in the yard, he snapped at us in English, and without bothering to lower his voice, that he was tired of our childish behaviour. This, of course, was meant for Eloise and me. Philip he continued to ignore except to ply him with orders about stabling the horses and making sure they were rubbed down and properly fed before he turned in for the night.

Someone came out through the doorway of the inn and gave a discreet cough. ‘Do you always allow your servants to speak to you in that insolent fashion, Master Chapman?' asked a voice that was vaguely familiar, but that I could not immediately place. It was only when its owner moved out of the shadows and into a pool of light made by a wall torch that I recognized, much to my astonishment, the Frenchman, Master Harcourt, who had made the Channel crossing with us.

‘You–you've made good time, sir,' was all I was able to stutter. I didn't dare look at John, who was no doubt cursing himself roundly for not being more careful in a public place.

It was Eloise who stepped into the breach while he and I were still gathering our wits. ‘Monsieur d'Harcourt,' she purred, offering him a hand, which he gallantly kissed. She then proceeded to burble away to him in French, which he answered in his accented but perfectly intelligible English.

‘Yes, indeed, madame. I was up before dawn and waiting at the porter's lodge of the town gate for it to open. But you, yourselves, have not been tardy. I could not have been much more than an hour or so in front of you anywhere on the road. I regret infinitely that I gave you no chance to catch up with me. I would not willingly have foregone such attractive company.'

Eloise simpered. Raoul d'Harcourt might be middle-aged, but he was a good-looking man for all that, and he had what I supposed women meant by ‘Gallic charm'. Frankly, it made me want to spit.

‘Are you staying at this inn?' I asked abruptly.

He smiled. ‘But of course. It is the only inn for some miles.' He glanced curiously between John and me, once again kissed Eloise's hand and turned to re-enter the inn. ‘I shall look forward to your company at supper,' he said.

I grunted and received an understanding smile for my pains. Eloise said something gracious in French, and John stomped off to the stables to vent his anger with himself on Philip and any unfortunate stable hand who happened to be present. I could hear him roaring away in both English and his own broad-vowelled version of the French tongue as I followed my ‘wife' indoors.

At that time of year, there were fewer travellers than usual on the roads, and, apart from Master Harcourt, Eloise and I were the only people sitting down to supper in the comfortable room at the back of the inn.

To begin with, I was too preoccupied poking around the contents of my plate in order to find out exactly what it was that I was eating to pay much heed to the conversation of the other two, even though it was conducted in English for my benefit. It was the name of Oliver Cook that finally caught and held my attention.

‘You heard about his disappearance, then?' I asked, raising my head from the contemplation of a suspect piece of something or other swimming around in my spoon.

Raoul d'Harcourt inclined his head. ‘But naturally. If you remember, I called on you to return Master Armiger's saddlebag. In any case, Calais is a veritable hotbed of gossip. Nothing happens that isn't known throughout the town in a matter of hours, and the presumed drowning of one of my fellow passengers aboard
The Sea Nymph
was of more than just a passing interest to me.'

‘“Presumed drowning”?' I asked, returning the suspect something to my bowl of broth and absentmindedly watching it sink to the bottom. I raised my head and looked our companion in the eye. ‘Why do you say “presumed”?'

‘Because,' was the answer, slowly and deliberately given, ‘I am certain Master Cook's death was no accident. I feel sure in my own mind that he was murdered.'

Fifteen

‘Why do you say that?' I asked sharply, while Eloise, forgetting to look soulful and beguiling, turned to stare at our supper companion.

Raoul d'Harcourt smiled a little and then pulled from his belt a serviceable-looking knife. ‘This was found on the deck of
The Sea Nymph
by one of the crew.'

‘And how did you come by it?' My tone was accusatory.

The smile deepened. ‘He, of course, handed it to the ship's master, who brought it to me at my inn late last night—'

‘Why did he bring it to you?' I interrupted fiercely.

Eloise made a little sign to me to calm down.

Raoul d'Harcourt saw and his grey eyes twinkled appreciatively. ‘It's all right, madame,' he said. ‘Your husband is naturally curious. The master of
The Sea Nymph
is an old friend of mine. I have crossed the Channel many times aboard his vessel. You may have noticed that he obligingly delayed the ship's departure from Dover in order that I might come aboard. So I was naturally the person he thought of when the discovery of the knife was made. The missing gentleman's brother-in-law (as I understand him to be), the other gentleman of the blue feather and your husband were all strangers to him.'

I leaned back in my chair, pushing my bowl of broth to one side. Eloise frowned at me, indicating that I should drink it up, but I ignored her and concentrated my attention, instead, on the Frenchman.

‘Why did the ship's master consider this knife of any significance?' I demanded. ‘It's an ordinary meat knife, the sort most of us carry. Was there something particular about it that excited his suspicion?'

Monsieur d'Harcourt shrugged slightly. ‘He was uneasy concerning it. That was all he could say.'

‘Why? Anyone could have dropped it. Did it have blood on it? Was that it?'

‘In that weather? With rain lashing the deck?' The tone was mocking. ‘It would have been washed clean in a moment. No. It was rather that at one point during the voyage he thought some sort of altercation was going on between Master . . . er . . . the man who has disappeared—'

‘Cook,' Eloise supplied. ‘Master Oliver Cook.'

‘Thank you, madame.' Raoul d'Harcourt bestowed a smile on her that had the unfortunate result of making her simper again. ‘Master Cook – Maître Cuisinier – I shall remember. As I was saying, my friend the ship's master thought he saw some argument going on between Master Cook and two other men, standing alongside him. At the time, he merely presumed that this pair were trying, very sensibly, to persuade their companion below deck and thought no more about it.'

‘Did he see who these men were?' I asked eagerly, but received only a shake of the head.

‘No. Unfortunately the visibility at that moment was too poor. Moreover, he knew none of the passengers sufficiently well to be able to distinguish one from the other at a distance. Master Cook, of course, he could not help but recognize because of his great size.'

‘And this incident made him suspicious when the knife was discovered . . . when?'

‘After you were all ashore and members of the crew were searching the ship for the missing man.'

‘And he thought that Oliver Cook might have been knifed and pushed overboard?'

The Frenchman pursed his lips. ‘I'm not sure that my friend had formed that conclusion. He simply felt a trifle uneasy in his mind and so came to me for my advice.'

‘And what was that?'

Here, we were interrupted by the entrance of the landlord and his assistant, bringing the main dish of two plump fowls, stewed in butter, with mushrooms and shallots. My spirits insensibly rose. This was better fare for an Englishman. I was pleased to be rid of a broth whose contents I found extremely dubious and more than a little foreign. (I noticed that Eloise had disposed of hers with relish.)

When the fowls had been carved and served, and the landlord and his assistant had withdrawn, amidst a flurry of what I took to be good wishes for the enjoyment of our meal, I returned to the subject in hand.

‘So what advice did you give your friend, monsieur?'

‘I told him to think no more about it. I offered to take the knife and restore it to its owner if that was possible. I said I was sure it had nothing to do with the missing man's disappearance.'