The Devlin Diary (42 page)

“You think that Clifford arranged a secret source of funding for the king?”

“He was always in need of money, wasn’t he?”

Andrew looked thoughtful, then his eyes shone with comprehension. “A secret source of funding in
France
. That’s why the English contingent went on to Paris after Dover.”

With a renewed determination, they searched the remaining boxes: more tax records, a few wills, innumerable ledgers and letters of little interest.

“For goodness’ sake, why don’t people save the important things?” Claire grumbled. She was freezing and starting to feel a bit peckish. “Does the world really need another Bible?” She lifted a large, surprisingly lightweight King James edition from the bottom of the final box, and halfheartedly flipped open the cover. Perhaps this one, too, would list the Clifford family’s births and deaths. She and Andrew both gaped at what they saw.

The pages of the Bible had been artfully hollowed out. Nestled within this hidden cavity was a cache of folded papers.

“After you,” Andrew offered politely.

Claire carefully removed the topmost paper and unfolded it. The two-page document had only one word at the top:
Articles
. Following were eleven numbered paragraphs in English, and the same again in French. It was dated May 20,1670.

“The Treaty of Dover,” Andrew said, recognizing it instantly. “But unsigned, and in Clifford’s handwriting.”

“It looks like an early draft. See how some of the clauses have been amended.”

Andrew nodded. “It makes sense that Clifford would draft it. He was known to be closely involved in the negotiations.” He removed a second folded paper from the Bible. “Look here, a copy of the final treaty. It’s been signed by Clifford and Arlington for England, Colbert de Croissy on behalf of France.”

“There’s one more,” Claire said. She extracted a third paper, one thick sheet of ivory-colored vellum. Like the others, it was written in Thomas Clifford’s small, crabbed hand.

“‘The Secret Article,’” Claire read from the top of the page. “‘The king of England will make a public profession of the Catholic faith, and will receive the sum of two millions of crowns, to aid him in this project, from the Most Christian King, in the course of the next six months.’” While Andrew listened in amazement, Claire continued reading. “‘The date of this declaration is left absolutely to his own pleasure. The King of France will also provide an annual pension of two hundred thousand pounds a year and the services of six thousand French troops for the suppression of an uprising that may follow such a declaration.’”

Andrew leaned back against the table, speechless. This secret article was also signed by the treaty’s witnesses—Arlington, Clifford, and Colbert de Croissy—and was stamped with the king of England’s seal, followed by his large, looping signature: Charles R.

“Here it is,” Claire said triumphantly, handing it to him. “The secret source of revenue from France. All Charles had to do was change his religion.”

Andrew shook his head, astonished by what they had found. “According to this, Charles was ready and willing to become a Catholic. The implications of this are huge.”

“Did he ever become a Catholic?”

“No, of course not. Not until he was on his deathbed, anyway, when he asked for a priest. But I always thought that had more to do with the queen’s desire that he confess than his own.” Andrew looked with wonder at the three-hundred-and-forty-year-old document in his hand. “Charles may have signed this, but he never followed through on
his part of the deal. Two of his mistresses were Catholic, his wife was Catholic, two of his ministers were Catholic, and even James, his brother and successor, was Catholic, but Charles knew it would have been suicide for him to publicly embrace Catholicism. The country would have been plunged into civil war again, with Charles very likely facing the same dreadful fate as his father—or, at the very least, he would have been deposed and run out of the country, as James was in 1688.”

Claire slowly read over the secret article again. “My question is, did he sign this knowing that he would never keep his promise, or did he actually want England to become a Catholic state?”

“Unlike many of his contemporaries, I’m inclined to think that Charles was wily, not foolish. The more I think about it, the more this secret article feels like a concession to Henriette-Anne’s desire to bring Charles and Louis closer together. I suspect Charles knew better than to ever imagine that he might be a Catholic and the ruler of England at the same time. I think he signed it for the money, and then later realized it was a ticking time bomb.”

“And if he made an issue over Henriette-Anne’s death—”

“He inadvertently gave Louis the leverage to keep him in line.” Andrew folded the document up again. “At least his faithful minister Clifford kept this a secret—even after he left office, little good though it did him.”

“What do we do with a discovery that’s going to change the way history is written?” Claire asked.

Andrew shook his head. “I’m not sure I know the answer to that. For now, I say we put it back where we found it, and I’ll discuss it with Mr. Pilford tomorrow.”

After returning the box to the shelf, they silently and thoughtfully walked back to the archive door. “Oh, God, tomorrow,” Andrew said, as if suddenly remembering. “I’m supposed to give Derek Goodman’s eulogy at his service in the chapel.”

“Why you?”

“Everyone else refused to do it. The master wasn’t even all that keen on having the service, not after all we’ve discovered about Derek
Goodman since his death. But Derek’s brother is arriving tomorrow especially for this, and we don’t want to disappoint him.”

“Disappoint him?”

“Well, you know, make him think that we didn’t care about Derek.”

“You’re not going to tell him the truth, are you?”

“Good God, of course not.”

“Why not? Maybe he should know what kind of person his brother was.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But I’m certainly not going to be the one to tell him.” Andrew jiggled the lock of the ancient, apparently very stubborn, door.

“What’s wrong?” Claire asked.

“Key’s stuck.” He worked on it some more, jiggling the key and twisting the handle with all his might. “Christ!” he finally exclaimed. “It’s stuck. The door won’t open.” He sighed. “Bloody hell.”

“Is there another way out?”

“No.” Andrew took his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open, scowled at it. “No service down here,” he said. A mournful tone crept into his voice. “What about yours?”

“I didn’t bring my phone.”

“Christ,” he said again, rather passionately. He looked at Claire and attempted a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to lose my temper. But I’m afraid we might be stuck here.”

“There’s really no other exit?”

“The only way out is through this door.”

“Any chance we could break it down?” Claire asked hopefully.

“This door has been here for more than three hundred years,” Andrew scoffed. “Frankly, I don’t think that our combined strength is going to make so much as a dent in it.”

The scope of their dilemma was beginning to sink in: they were locked in a stone basement. Claire was chilled to the bone, a bit tired, and very hungry, now that she thought about it. Unless someone just happened to pop down to the archive—not a likely prospect at this time of night—they would be there until morning.

“This is a fine mess I’ve got us into,” Andrew said, sighing. “Guess
what news will spread like wildfire tomorrow: ‘Drs. Kent and Donovan were freed from the archive this morning after spending the entire night together. Inquiring minds want to know: did they have it off?’”

“Have it off?” Claire asked, confused.

“In American vernacular, I believe the phrase is ‘get it on.’”

“Ah. Don’t people here have anything better to do than gossip?”

“Of course they do, but as far as I can tell that’s never been an impediment anywhere. I can practically hear the tongues wagging already.”

“Why do you care so much about what people say?”

“After witnessing so much bad behavior since you came to Trinity, you may think that no one here cares about honesty, trust, and honor, but most people at this college value those things very highly, as I do. It’s impossible to stop people from talking, but you can live your life in a way that doesn’t give them anything to talk about.”

“You’re planning to spend your entire life basing your decisions on whether people will talk about you or not? That’s a ridiculous way to live.”

“Is it?” Andrew harrumphed. “Would you like to know exactly how many people knew that you’d snogged Derek Goodman less than a day after it happened?”

“Not particularly, no. You’re still angry about that, aren’t you?”

“Not angry, but it did seem a bit odd. I mean, you were hardly here two weeks, and I find you kissing Derek Goodman, of all people—”

“You
are
angry.”

“Not angry, but I did wonder what you could possibly see in him—”

“Admit it, you’re angry.”

“Okay, maybe I am a little bit angry.”

“I’d love to know what makes you think you have the right to be.” Claire felt her pulse rising. “Maybe I wouldn’t have kissed Derek Goodman if you’d deigned to acknowledge my existence. I’d been here two weeks and you’d hardly spoken two words to me. You could have done something to make me feel welcome, at least offered to show me around. Instead, you acted like you were sorry I was here.”

“Oh, dear,” Andrew said. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve really mucked things up, haven’t I?” He shook his head, sighing, then looked up at Claire dejectedly. “Everything, from the beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted everything to be just right for you. Maybe I wanted it a bit too much. Before you arrived, I made sure you’d have all the privileges of a fellow even though you’re not actually a fellow, technically speaking. I made sure you’d get an F key, and could dine at High Table, and reserved that nice set of rooms for you. I didn’t realize just how resentful some people would feel about all that. Some started questioning my reasons for hiring you, even implied that my motives were personal, even though your credentials and your dissertation speak for themselves. By the time you got here, I felt that the best thing I could do for you was to avoid you.”

“You might have at least told me why you were avoiding me.”

“I didn’t really know what to say. ‘Everyone thinks I fancy you’ might have seemed a bit unprofessional, under the circumstances.”

“So why did you hire me?”

“Because I thought you would be a great asset to the school.” He paused and looked down at the floor, as though he was unsure whether to continue on. Finally he looked up and gazed steadily at Claire. “Also because I was afraid that if I didn’t hire you, I might not see you again.”

“Oh.” It took her a moment to realize exactly what he was saying. So Andrew Kent did fancy her after all. It was a confession she’d been waiting to hear for weeks now. She felt a faint but very pleasurable flush rising in her cheeks. “Really?” she asked.

“Really,” he replied with a wry smile that she found completely charming.

“What about Gabriella?”

“We broke up a couple of months ago. She has her life, I have mine, and it turns out that they don’t work so well together.”

“But Carolyn Sutcliffe—”

“Carolyn Sutcliffe is the biggest gossip in all of Cambridge. I make a point of never telling her anything about my personal life. And I would suggest that you do the same, unless you enjoy hearing your deeply personal secrets parroted back to you by total strangers. I have no idea why Gabriella didn’t tell her about our breakup—I suppose she has reasons of her own. Suffice it to say that it’s prudent to be especially cautious around Carolyn. Unfortunately she happens to be the wife of one of my oldest friends, and it’s difficult for me to avoid her, especially at school functions. Simply begging off her company would have had consequences enough, but sitting next to you would have started an avalanche of rumor. That’s why I didn’t sit with you at the fellowship dinner, as I would have liked to.”

“And all this time I thought you were avoiding me because you disliked me.”

“Not the case.”

“So what do we do now?” Claire asked softly.

Andrew shook his head again, this time in apology. “The rules are pretty clear on this point. I don’t think there’s anything we can do, except stay away from each other. Not as colleagues, of course, but in any other way. Understand, it’s not just myself I’m concerned about, it’s you.” He suddenly lifted his head and cocked an ear to the door. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Footsteps.”

A second later, the door handle turned and the door was slowly pulled open. Mr. Pilford stood in the doorway.

“My, my,” he clucked. “What are you two doing down here so late?”

S
HE WAS RUNNING
late for the service. Claire hurried across the Great Court as the chapel bells tolled. Up ahead, a group of four men stood beneath the arch of the Clock Tower. Even at a distance, she could see there was something odd about them: the men did not appear to be speaking. As she got closer, she recognized the master, the dean, and Andrew. They stood absolutely still, as if bound by some invisible force, staring at a man whose back was turned to her. When she was only a few feet away, Andrew noticed her and looked away, and the man, following his gaze, turned around.

Claire gasped; her step faltered; her heart skipped a beat: for the man was none other than Derek Goodman. Looking tanned and trimmer than she remembered, sporting a well-groomed mustache and wearing a well-tailored suit. Unmistakably Derek, yet slightly different, as though he had just come back from a vacation in Capri. How was this possible? She’d been on the Backs the morning when the police had carted his body away. But here he was, standing in the Great Court under a typically gloomy November sky while the chapel bells chimed for his very own funeral.

Her arrival seemed to break the spell that had rendered them
speechless. “Dr. Donovan,” Andrew said quickly, as if to preempt anything untoward Claire might say, “may I introduce Mr. David Goodman, Dr. Goodman’s brother.” He paused. “His identical twin brother. From Los Angeles.”

“Nice to meet you,” David Goodman said.

“Likewise,” Claire replied, still not quite believing what she saw. Mr. Goodman must have only just arrived, as the two older members of the college were still tongue-tied. In the master’s eyes she saw unmitigated horror; clearly he believed that Beelzebub had sprung fully formed back into their midst. And she’d been in England long enough to interpret the tight expression that the dean wore: it was rather, well,
unseemly
for two brothers to look so much alike, wasn’t it? She could almost hear him say it:
It’s just not on!

Despite the distinctly uncomfortable undercurrents, David Goodman appeared very chipper, especially for someone about to attend his brother’s memorial service. “What’s a nice American girl like you doing in a place like this?” he quipped. “Har!”

“Mr. Goodman,” the master finally said, flinching slightly as he looked their guest of honor in the eye, “please allow me to extend our condolences on the tragic death of your brother.”

David Goodman let loose with a deep chuckle. “You must be joking.” He looked at them incredulously. “You mean you’re all actually sorry that he’s gone?”

“Of course we are.”

“Well, Lord Liverton, I can’t say the same. I haven’t spoken to my brother in over fourteen years. Not since he stole my car and my fiancée, drove one into a ditch and the other to drink, and then asked to borrow money.” He guffawed again, as if he was having the time of his life. “I’m only here to make sure the bastard’s truly dead.”

The master and the dean gulped simultaneously. “Shall we all go inside?” Andrew said.

The chapel was filled to capacity: senior fellows in the front rows, junior fellows farther back, students ringing the walls. Claire scanned over the faces that were now familiar to her: Carolyn Sutcliffe, Mr.
Pilford, Elizabeth Bennet, Robbie Macintosh, Ashley Templeton, Rosamond Mercy, Nora Giles. Even Fiona Flannigan was there. Perhaps, Claire mused, like David Goodman, she just wanted to make sure that Derek Goodman was dead. Portia Hastings was also in attendance, standing in the back with a dark-haired man about her own age who looked like he might be another representative of C.I.D. Claire soon spotted Hoddy, and they found two empty seats at the rear of the chapel.

“Good Lord,” Hoddy said softly as he watched David Goodman make his way down the center aisle to the front row.

“It’s his brother,” Claire whispered.

“It’s like he’s come back from the dead.”

“Eerie, I know.”

They weren’t the only ones who thought so. The wave of shocked whispers in David Goodman’s wake rose to a crescendo that didn’t die down until well after he took his seat. It didn’t seem to bother him at all; he smiled blithely as he sat alone in the front pew. Apparently he was Derek Goodman’s only surviving family. Or the only one who cared enough to be there.

The master uttered a few platitudes and introduced the dean; the dean led everyone in a prayer and introduced Andrew. He stepped up to the podium with a few index cards clutched in his hands, looking rather grim, Claire thought. He adjusted the microphone, took a deep breath, and cleared his throat.

“What can one say about Derek Goodman?” he finally began, looking out across the chapel as if he was hoping for an answer. “First and foremost, as most of you know, he was an extraordinary scholar. He completed his PhD at twenty-five and, to no one’s surprise, soon proved himself a brilliant historian with his books
Reform and Revolution: The Roots of British Democracy
and
Heads Will Roll: Capital Punishment in the Reign of the Tudor and Stuart Kings
. Both were published to wide acclaim and helped establish Dr. Goodman as one of the leading experts on English history.” Andrew paused and checked his notes. “He was a frequent contributor to influential journals such as
Past and Present
and the
English Historical Review…
”

Andrew fell silent. He checked his notes some more, cleared his throat again, and grimaced a bit, yet he didn’t speak. Everyone in the room could feel him faltering. Perhaps, Claire thought, Andrew was wondering just how many of those articles Derek Goodman had actually written himself. Or even if he’d written his books himself. “Dr. Goodman was…,” he said, only to pause again. “Derek Goodman…” He tried once more, then stopped and simply stood there, blinking at the crowd.

“I don’t think I can do this.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “No, the truth is, I don’t want to do this. I’ve spent years cleaning up after Derek Goodman’s messes, and frankly, I’m tired of it. Derek would have a good laugh knowing I was up here singing his praises when all he ever did was try to make my life a misery. My life and everyone else’s here.” He paused and looked at David Goodman in the front row. “I sincerely hope that I’m not offending you, Mr. Goodman, when I say that, in all honesty, your brother was an absolute ass.”

“Not at all!” David Goodman practically beamed with joy.

“I’m afraid that the rest of the eulogy will be rather more in this vein,” Andrew warned.

“Do go on,” David Goodman urged happily.

“I see Derek Goodman didn’t rate the sit-down supper,” Hoddy remarked as he and Claire stood in the hall, where the reception was being held. People gathered together in groups, talking, laughing, and lining up for the buffet tables. The remainder of Andrew’s eulogy had gone over exceptionally well. There had been a spirit of lightness in the air not usually found at a funeral. It seemed that everyone had had their own Derek Goodman story, and they’d been eager to add it to his legacy. After the service, a few had approached Claire and told her that they, too, had wanted to punch Derek Goodman in the face, and they’d thanked her.

Claire glanced over at Andrew, who was standing near the High Table talking to Portia Hastings.

“Don’t worry,” Hoddy said once he noticed where Claire’s attention had wandered. “She’s here with her husband.”

Claire looked at Hoddy sharply. “What makes you think I’m worried?”

“I heard that
someone
was working very late with
someone
in the archive last night.”

“For God’s sake, isn’t anything a secret around here?”

He arched a brow. “I tried to warn you.”

“Keep it to yourself, all right?”

“I’ll try,” he said as he snagged a glass of white wine from a passing waiter.

Claire looked around the hall. Mr. Pilford stood talking with the master; by the smile on Mr. Pilford’s face, she knew that the master was reassuring him that all the books Derek Goodman had taken from the library would soon be returned. Robbie Macintosh sat in the student’s section with one of his two girlfriends. Carolyn Sutcliffe was sneaking an extra portion of pudding onto her plate: diet be damned. Nora Giles and Ashley Templeton were engrossed in what looked to be a chummy and very private conference. Elizabeth Bennet helped an elderly gentleman to a seat at High Table. Claire recognized him as the same man she’d seen at dinner only two nights ago. “Who’s that with Dr. Bennet?” she asked Hoddy.

“Her father, Professor Rutherford. Bennet’s her married name,” Hoddy explained, “though she and her husband divorced about ten years ago, I think. The professor used to teach ancient history here. He’s retired now, spends most of his time at the family pile in Bedfordshire.”

“The family pile?”

“Giant country house. One of those National Trust behemoths. He’s the eleventh—no, twelfth—Duke of Kendal.”

Claire craned her neck a bit. She’d never seen a duke before. At least not one who was alive and not a figure in a painting.

“Descended directly from James the Second,” Hoddy went on.

“Really? Does Dr. Bennet become a duchess when he dies?”

“No, the title passes on to the male heir. Her son, Brendan. A nice lad, though a bit rebellious—he’s going to school at Oxford,” he said with a horrified shudder.

It was easy to see that father and daughter were related: the same
lofty forehead and pronounced cheekbones. She wondered if they looked anything like James II. If they stood next to a portrait of the king, would the resemblance be noticeable? What did it feel like, being descended from a king? Did they feel different from other people? Have a different outlook on life? Or did it just feel oppressive? After all, James’s reign had ended disastrously. In 1688, he was deposed and run out of the country, and spent the rest of his life in exile in France.

And then it hit her.

“Hoddy!” she exclaimed, grabbing his arm. “James the Second was the Duke of York.”

“And?” He peered down his nose at her. She’d nearly upset his wineglass.

“Before he was king, he was James, Duke of York. You said the Duke of Kendal was descended from him. Who was the mother? The queen?”

“I don’t think so. I think their ancestor came from the wrong side of the blanket, as they say.”

“He was the child of one of James’s mistresses?”

“Yes.”

“Jane Constable.”

“What?”

“Jane Constable, Hoddy. The note that was in Derek Goodman’s pocket. It wasn’t a bet. It was blackmail.”

With red-rimmed eyes, Elizabeth Bennet looked around at the others in the Combination Room. “I didn’t mean to do it,” she said, sniffling and dabbing at her nose with a tissue. “I actually loved him—as a friend, I mean. He could behave abominably at times, usually when he was drinking. But he could also be wonderful. Derek was like a little brother to me. A bratty little brother.”

“Can you tell me what happened between you, from the beginning?” Portia Hastings asked. She sat across from Elizabeth Bennet in one of the wingback chairs. Andrew, Claire, and Hoddy looked on silently.

“A few weeks ago, Derek told me he’d discovered proof that my family wasn’t descended from James the Second, or so he said. He
showed me that diary page. According to the author, Jane Constable was pregnant by someone other than the Duke of York. We argued—I said it wasn’t proof—and regardless, the dukedom wouldn’t be taken away from us, not this long after the fact. But Derek wouldn’t let it go. He was horrid about it, said we were descended from a whore, not a king. He threatened to write a paper on it. For myself I didn’t care, but I didn’t want my father or my son to be held up to ridicule.”

“How did you happen to be on the Backs so late at night?”

“Derek came to my set about one o’clock in the morning. He was drunk and loud and making a big fuss. I told him I would talk to him outside, and he said he’d meet me at the Trinity Bridge.

“He was out of his mind, really—drunk or high or both. He just kept saying that if I didn’t give him money he would write this odious paper about how the dukedom should be taken away from my family. He said that Jane Constable was a whore who with the help of Lord Arlington had put one over on the Duke of York. Derek could be the most charming person at times but also the most vicious. One never knew with him; his mood changed more frequently than the weather. We had had some terrible arguments in the past, but he had never done anything like this before. Needless to say, I was very upset. I slapped him, and then we fought. Just a tussle, really, but I pushed him down.” She sniffed and brushed at her eyes. “It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t get up again.”

“He fell into the stream off the Cam?”

“It was dark, I couldn’t tell.”

“Did you hold his head down after he fell?”

Elizabeth Bennet looked horrified. “No, of course not.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran off. I went back to my set.”

“So, to the best of your knowledge, Derek Goodman was still alive when you left the scene?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Claire tried to visualize it: Dr. Bennet pushes Derek Goodman, he falls, struggles to get up, crawls forward a few feet…then collapses again in the water as the drugs kick in and he loses consciousness.

The drugs. What had the toxicology report said? Marijuana, cocaine, Vicodin—and something else.

“Detective Hastings,” Claire piped up, “you told us that Dr. Goodman tested positive for a number of drugs—”

“Yes, he did.”

“You said he had prescriptions for some of them. Do you remember which ones?”

“Vicodin, which is a painkiller, and a couple of antidepressants. The other drugs were street drugs—marijuana and cocaine.”

“But there was one other, wasn’t there?”

“Alprazolam—or Xanax, as it’s usually called.”

“He didn’t have a prescription for that?”

“Not that I recall.”

“But that isn’t the kind of drug someone uses at a party, is it?”

“I wouldn’t think so. It’s an antianxiety medication.”

Andrew looked at Claire skeptically. “Where are you going with this?”