“You know I can’t read,” Emlyn said. “You’ll have to read it out to me. Your father was the one who could read a little.”
Gwynnie remembered all too well. Her father was a learned man, who had taught Gwynnie to read and write. Now, it was a skill that might prove useful, if the intended reader could believe what was in her letter.
Gwynnie cleared her throat and flattened the letter upon the stone windowsill. “To the Master Neville Pascal,” she began. “You and your clerk are searching in the wrong place for your killer. If you wish to know who killed Master Florian Battersby, then forget the jewellery thieves. We know what happened that night, and it had nothing to do with jewels, and everything to do with a secret. If you wish to search for the truth, then look to where Master Battersby went that night. Yours etcetera, the Shadow Cutpurses.”
Gwynnie dropped the letter onto the windowsill and sat down on her bed, her sore back making her wince.
“You could tell the truth of what you saw that night, I suppose.” Emlyn chewed her lip, then shook her head. “No. That is a poor idea. If you accused Fitzroy, they would never believe you.”
“Precisely. It is better they find out the truth for themselves. They are more likely to believe it that way.”
Emlyn picked up the letter and folded it, passing it to Gwynnie. “You know what to do,” she whispered. “Though I pray you are right about this.” Her brow furrowed. “I will not stand by and watch you go to the gallows.”
Gwynnie stood, taking the letter from her mother’s hands. “It’s what I’ve been trying to protect you from all these years too.”
“I know.” Emlyn’s words were barely audible. “Now, go. Before anyone wonders why you are not at your duties.”
Gwynnie slipped the letter inside the sleeve of her gown and left the room. She headed toward the kitchens. It was not long now until the feast would be ready, and the usual clamour and uproar sounded in the kitchens. Cooks shouted at one another, Samuel’s voice booming above the others. Maids hovered by the hatches, some carrying trays of spiced wine in flagons, others great trenchers of pig cooked until the skin caramelised, and pheasants that had been tucked back into the skin.
Gwynnie stepped to the side of the maids. They were talking so loudly that not one paid attention to her.
“Do you think the thieves will strike again?” one maid whispered to another. “I do not want to die.”
“You have nothing to steal, remember?” the other maid laughed. “I’d say you are quite safe.”
Gwynnie’s stomach knotted at the idea that anyone could think she was a killer. She picked up a tray full of doucet pastries and sweetmeats, and followed the other maids toward the great hall, where the feast was being held. Shortly before they reached the great double doors, she hung back and turned down another narrow corridor. She passed through many corridors, moving around the middle court to the south wing of the palace. Passing through a gate and the tiltyard, she moved toward the curtain wall.
Master Neville Pascal and his lawyer were set up in the southern wing of the palace, not far from Cromwell’s own chambers and the other rooms in which the clerks, lawyers and privy councillors worked. Gwynnie passed down a corridor with dark tapestries on one side and mahogany panelling on the other. On this side of the palace there were no grand paintings or portraits, no royal figures adorning the walls.
Myriad doors were before her, some closed, others ajar. She crept toward the nearest open door and poked her head inside. The sun streaming through the window revealed it was empty. She stepped in, peering down at the paperwork on the nearest desk. The name referred to one of Cromwell’s officials, but not to Pascal.
Stepping back out of the room, Gwynnie chose another open door. On the desk were many letters, each one bearing the name of Neville Pascal. Lowering the tray of doucets to the desk, she pushed these letters aside, creating a bare space on which she laid her own letter. Smiling, certain that it would be seen, she picked up the tray and turned to leave.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor.
“There are no other witnesses.” It was the voice of the lawyer, Elric Tombstone. “I have combed through every testimonial of those staying in the tower that night, all except for the king and queen themselves.”
“You know we cannot talk to them.”
“Then accept my word, Pascal. No one saw anything.”
There was no way Gwynnie could escape the room without being seen. Her eyes darted around for a place to hide. There were no tapestries to tuck herself behind, no other doors to slip through. To hide under the desk would be obvious and she’d be discovered in a few seconds.
The only other space in the room was the fireplace. The grate was empty, without a burning ember inside it.
“I must be mad,” Gwynnie whispered to herself as she moved toward the fireplace.
CHAPTER 9
“Elric, give me a minute to think, I pray you.” Pascal’s words rang out as he entered the room.
Gwynnie held her body completely still, trying not to cough from all the soot in the confined space. Her feet were jammed against the stones in the wall of the chimney, her hands on either side of her, braced against the wall. The pastry tray she had been carrying now rested precariously on a ledge beside her. She watched as it teetered on the edge.
A heavy thud sounded from inside the room, suggesting that one of the men had sat down on a settle bench, making the wood creak.
“So, there are no witnesses,” Pascal sighed heavily. “No one saw anything. This is madness. How can a man be attacked in the middle of a courtyard, his throat slit, and yet there was no ruckus? No shouts of fear or anger, nothing to awaken anyone to even peer out of their window?” He paused. “Perhaps if someone did see something, they are nervous of coming forward?”
“Perhaps,” said Tombstone. “Or maybe there was no fight at all.”
“See sense, boy. The man had his throat slit. I struggle to believe he would not have put up a fight.”
“I agree. But do you not think it odd that there was glass under his boots? Where did it come from?” Tombstone’s perceptive question made Gwynnie smile. At least someone had noticed the glass.
“Why is that important?”
“There was no glass in the courtyard — I checked. Then there is the fact that most men react impulsively to damage at their throat. Their hands go to their own neck, trying to hold the wound closed. Do you not see, Pascal? His hands were free of blood.”
“Hmm. I had not thought of that.”
Gwynnie shuddered, trying not to think about the blood on Florian’s neck.
“Shall we light a fire?” Tombstone’s question made her freeze, looking down at the grate beneath her. If they lit a fire now, she’d either be smoked out of her hiding place, or she’d drop down into the flames and end up with badly burnt feet.
“Wait … what’s this? Elric, look.”
Footsteps moved away from the fireplace, and Gwynnie allowed herself a small sigh of relief.
“That is some shaky handwriting,” Tombstone murmured.
